Page 128 of The Gaybor War

"I like knowing where the batteries live."

"You’re vibrating."

"Am not. I haven’t worn my vibrating plug since—" I look up to see mild surprise color his cheeks, and bite off the rest of the sentence. "Oh," I sigh. "Forget I said that."

His eyeroll says that’s unlikely.

"Fine," I admit. "You mentioned Thanksgiving, and now my brain is doing that thing where it catastrophizes, and I can’t decide whether I want you to invite me or not invite me, and it’s deeply inconvenient."

His brow creases. "Why wouldn’t I invite you?"

"Because it’s family. And pressure. And expectations. What if your mom hates me? What if your dad thinks I’m too much? What if your brother clocks me as drama incarnate and stages an intervention?"

He stares at me for a beat. Then laughs, warm, genuine, and fond.

"Benji," he says, reaching for my hand. "Of course you’re invited."

Something in my chest loosens.

"You don’t even have to think about it," he adds. "You’re coming. End of discussion."

I swallow. "Okay."

He tilts his head. "What about your parents?"

"Oh," I say lightly. "They’re Jewish."

"So? I believe Jewish people also celebrate Thanksgiving."

"They do. But my parents aren’t traditional people."

"What does that mean?"

"It means my mother makes reservations," I say. "Not turkey."

He laughs. "Of course she does."

Thanksgiving morning begins with me standing in front of my closet, paralyzed. This is unprecedented.

Normally, I wake up and throw on something fabulous with the confidence of a man who knows his thighs are a public service. Today, however, I have tried on six outfits, rejected all of them, and am now spiraling in sock limbo.

I call Malia.

She answers on the second ring. "If this is about outfits, I swear⁠—"

"It’s about outfits."

"Of course it is. What’s the situation?"

"Carter’s parents. Thanksgiving. First impressions. High stakes. I need to look hot but not threatening."

She hums thoughtfully. "Go slutty."

"No."

"Go bold."

"No."