Page 10 of The Gaybor War

Fantastic. I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours, and my sex life is neighborhood discourse.

I click on Benji’s profile and text him directly.

What the hell is this?

He replies instantly, as if he’s been waiting for it.

Benji: A warm welcome!

My yard looks like a Vegas retirement home.

Benji: Exactly. Isn’t it festive?

It’s horrifying.

Benji: That’s hurtful. The flamingos worked hard.

I close my phone before I say something I’ll regret.

Truth is, I moved here for peace and quiet. For anonymity. For the kind of neighborhood where nobody knows or cares who you are. I didn’t sign up for HOA-approved performance art.

When I step outside to start removing them, Benji calls, "You’re supposed to leave them for twenty-four hours! It’s tradition!"

I squint at him. "I don’t do traditions."

He grins, undeterred. "That’s okay. I do enough for both of us!"

Of course he does. He’s loud, relentless, and way too pretty not to get away with this much chaos.

I yank up the first flamingo. "Welcome to hell, Carter."

Benji waves his hose again like a scepter. "Don’t worry, neighbor! You’ll fit right in once you loosen up!"

I stare at him, drenched in sunshine and smugness, and think, Over my dead, minimalist body.

Later that afternoon, I’m hauling another box out of the SUV, the last from the storage garage, when I spot Benji across the street—holding court. At least he’s wearing a shirt this time.

He’s surrounded by a group of women from the neighborhood, all standing close, all holding insulated tumblers that definitely aren’t just water, if I had to guess. He’s talking and gesturing, clearly mid-story. They’re listening, laughing, and encouraging him. He’s animated in a way I don’t have the energy to unpack. Big hand movements, easy smiles, and a laugh that carries across the street. It’s a theatrical release laugh. The kind that comes with jazz hands you can hear.

They like him. A lot. Treat him like he’s the Gay Pope of Morningwood.

I refuse to give him that kind of attention. Not because I’m jealous. I’m not. I just don’t enjoy noise, or spectacle, or people who treat every moment as if an audience is required. Benji does.

I don’t know anything real about him, but I recognize the type. The human equivalent of a confetti cannon. He leans into it without hesitation. Loud. Visible. Decorative. The flamingos suddenly make sense.

I angle myself toward the house, hoping to pass without being noticed. It doesn’t work. The women spot me almost immediately and turn as one, attention shifting in my direction.

"Carter! Come meet Benji officially!" The one in cowgirl boots waves me over as if she’s wrangling cattle.

I pause, box still in my hands. This was not on my schedule. I set it down and walk over, mostly because pretending not to hear would be worse. There are rules here—unwritten ones—and I can already tell this would count as a violation.

Benji turns when he sees me, smiling as if we’ve known each other longer than five minutes.

"Carter," he says cheerily. "We were just talking about the community yard sale and how you’re definitely joining the committee."

I look at him. Then at the women. "I am?"

"You are," they say together, pleased with themselves.