I’m too embarrassed to tell Wes that during all the times I creeped on my grandparents, searching for some sign that they wanted me to trudge up their driveway and knock on their door, I never even caught sight of them. Just once, I hoped we’d show up and they’d be mowing the lawn or greeting my aunts and uncles for a visit. All I’ve learned from staring at the outside of their house is that they love pink flamingos and wind chimes and have no qualms about painting their house an unfortunate shade of seafoam green. Now they’ve added a WEAR A MASK sign on their lawn, which doesn’t necessarily feel on brand for two people who kicked their teenage daughter out of the house for being a lesbian.

“What if I went up to the door and knocked? Pretended like I was selling magazine subscriptions? I can come back and tell you everything I find out about them.”

I shake my head. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t think I like the idea of my boyfriend talking to my grandparents before I do.”

Wes raises an eyebrow. “Boyfriend. Say it again.”

“Boyfriend, boyfriend, boyfriend,” I reply, deadpan. And then we both start to laugh because we know that we’re ridiculous and if anyone bore witness to our honeymoon period, they would likely vomit all over us.

“We should probably drive back, in case my moms get home early.”

I didn’t plan for this car ride to happen today. It was not premeditated, and neither of us feels proud that we’re breaking quarantine rules. Sitting in Wes’s Mini Cooper is not technically a safe distance, but we are wearing masks, and we did make sure to roll all the windows down on our drive. We were both feeling restless on my staircase, and when I told him it had been a few months since I’d been able to check on my grandparents, he offered to drive me over. In our defense, we are dating, and we haven’t even kissed yet. I think we deserve a lot of credit for sticking to that nearly impossible boundary.

“We haven’t seen them yet,” Wes says. “You want to give it five more minutes?”

I shake my head. “I just kind of wanted to make sure they still live here. They do. We’re good.”

But the minute Wes hits the START button on the ignition, a cherry-red Mazda drives past, and an older couple, faces obscured by masks and sunglasses, turn their heads toward us. I have seen the same car parked in front of my abuelos’ house, with the Jesus fish on the bumper (much more on brand). I can’t help it. I dig my nails into Wes’s arms.

“Don’t go,” I tell him.