[Perspective: Aryan Spencer]

  The drive back to the house was a quiet affair, mostly because the backseat was occupied by the ghost of my bachelorhood, suffocated under ten bags of high end cotton and wool.

  I pulled the car into the detached garage, killing the engine.

  "Okay," I said, looking at the mountain of shopping bags in the rearview mirror. "We have a logistical situation. I have two hands. You have two hands. We have approximately forty hands' worth of merchandise."

  Wanda unbuckled her seatbelt, looking remarkably pleased with herself. "We will manage, Aryan. Think of it as... weight training. For the new you."

  "The new me is already tired," I grumbled, getting out.

  We hauled the bags into the living room. It took two trips. By the time the last bag (containing the charcoal suit) was safely draped over the armchair, I was ready to collapse.

  "Lunch," I declared, looking at the kitchen. "We need fuel. Fashion is exhausting."

  "I will help," Wanda said, rolling up the sleeves of her cream sweater. "What is on the menu?"

  "Something simple," I decided. "Pasta. Aglio e Olio. Garlic, oil, chili flakes and parsley. It's the pajama pants of food. Comfortable and impossible to mess up."

  We moved into the kitchen. I grabbed the pot; she grabbed the garlic. I set the water to boil; she started chopping the parsley.

  "So," I said, leaning against the counter as the water heated up. "Now that you've successfully rebranded me, what's next on the agenda? Are we repainting the house? changing my legal name to 'Fabio'?"

  Wanda laughed, the sound bright against the hum of the refrigerator. "No. The house is fine. The name is fine. I just... I wanted you to have options."

  "I have options," I countered. "I have 'Grey Hoodie' and 'Blue Hoodie'."

  "Those are not options," she said, sliding the sliced garlic into the cold oil. "Those are cries for help."

  The smell of toasting garlic filled the air. We ate at the island again, slurping spaghetti and dodging chili flakes.

  "Okay," I admitted, wiping my mouth with a napkin. "That hit the spot."

  "It is good," Wanda agreed.

  We migrated to the living room sofa. The "Post Pasta Paralysis," as I had coined it, set in immediately. I sprawled on my side. Wanda curled up on hers, hugging the textured pillow.

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  Ding dong.

  Ding dong.

  The sound shattered the peace like a brick through a window.

  I groaned, throwing my head back against the cushion. "Why? Who? It's the middle of the day. People should be at work. Or napping."

  Wanda sat up, smoothing her hair. "It might be a package."

  "I didn't order anything," I grumbled, standing up. "Unless my past self sent me a time capsule filled with patience."

  "I will come with you," Wanda said, standing up too.

  We walked to the front door. I opened it.

  Standing on the porch was a woman. She had dark hair teased into a voluminous style, a floral print dress that was aggressively cheerful and a basket in her hands that looked like it contained muffins or poison. Or both.

  Agnes. Or, as the universe knew her, Agatha Harkness.

  Look at her, I whispered to the invisible camera, keeping my face perfectly polite. Agatha Harkness. The nosy neighbor from hell. She's trying so hard to blend in she looks like a caricature of a 'suburban mom.'

  "Hi!" she practically shouted, her voice pitched to an operatic high. "I'm Agnes! Your neighbor to the right! The one with the prize winning azaleas… don't look at them today, they're having a mood swing."

  She looked past me, her eyes locking onto Wanda. Her smile widened, showing a lot of teeth.

  "And you must be the lady of the house! Oh, look at you two! You look like you stepped right out of a catalog for 'Beautiful People Weekly'!"

  Wanda blinked, taken aback by the sheer wall of energy. "Hello. I am Wanda."

  "Wanda! Exotic! I love it!" Agnes stepped forward, essentially forcing us to step back or be trampled. "And this must be the hubby! Ralph (my husband), he says, 'Agnes, don't disturb the new folks,' but I said, 'Ralph, they have a porch that screams "come say hi,"' so here I am!"

  She thrust the basket at me.

  "Scones!" she announced. "Orange and cranberry. Ralph hates them, says they taste like potpourri, but what does he know? He eats cereal with water."

  "Thank you," I said, taking the basket. "I'm Aryan. Aryan Spencer."

  "Aryan and Wanda!" Agnes clapped her hands. "It rhymes! Well, not really, but it has a rhythm! So, how long have you two been hitched? Are we talking newlyweds? Because I see a glow. Definitely a glow."

  She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

  I felt Wanda stiffen beside me.

  Wanda looked at me. Then she looked at Agnes. She didn't correct the assumption immediately. A faint blush dusted her cheeks.

  "We are not... married," Wanda said softly.

  "Oh!" Agnes's eyes widened, feigning scandal but clearly delighted. "Living in sin! Even better! More spicy! I love it. Westview needs a little spice. Everyone here is so... beige. You know?"

  She leaned in, lowering her voice to a conspiratorial whisper.

  "So, is this a 'testing the waters' situation? Or a 'we don't believe in labels' thing? Because let me tell you, labels are overrated. Ralph has a label for everything. 'Expiry date,' 'Tax return,' 'Do not touch my bowling ball.' It's exhausting."

  I chuckled, shifting the basket to my other hip. "We're just... figuring it out, Agnes. Taking it day by day."

  "Smart!" She poked my arm. "Keep the mystery alive! Once you put a ring on it, the mystery dies and is replaced by arguments about the thermostat. Trust me."

  She looked around the hallway, her eyes darting like a hawk.

  "So, no little ones running around yet? No pitter patter?"

  "Just us," Wanda said, stepping slightly closer to me. "And the plants."

  "Plants! Good practice!" Agnes laughed. "If you can keep a fern alive, you can keep a baby alive. Mostly. Babies are louder."

  She checked her watch.

  "Oh, look at the time! I have to run. Ralph is trying to fix the garbage disposal and I'm 90% sure he's going to flood the kitchen."

  She started backing down the porch steps.

  "You two are adorable! Seriously!," she winked at me.