Page 13 of The Gaybor War

Great. Just great. Now, randos are commenting on my demise.

Ruth from Woodpecker Lane: Anyone have extra folding chairs for the block party?

Nancy C: Mr. Pickles is home! Found him in someone’s garage. Smelled like mimosas.

Kiki: Oh, he was def in Benji’s house again.

Benji: He's a cat of culture and refined taste.

I toss the phone onto the couch and flop down beside it, glancing out the window toward Carter’s place. His blinds are shut, as if he’s so interesting he must keep his life under wraps. As if! He probably folds his T-shirts with a ruler and keeps his spices alphabetized. The man looks as if he irons his dish towels.

And yet… There was that moment, just one, when he almost smiled. Before I said something too clever for my own good. A moment where my stomach clenched in fiery anticipation.

I groan and pull a pillow over my face. "He’s immune," I mumble into the cotton. "He’s a gay man who doesn’t like me. That’s unnatural."

Still, a spark zips through me—annoyance, curiosity, and maybe a little too much intrigue.

I peek from under the pillow and catch the faintest flicker of light from his window.

Maybe he’s unpacking. Maybe he’s looking this way. Maybe⁠—

"Whatever," I say again, just to shut myself up. "Boxer-briefs guy has no idea who he’s dealing with."

Fine. He’s unflappable. I can be unbothered. I’ve survived exes with Spotify playlists named "Benji’s Poor Decisions." I can handle one stoic neighbor with a stick up his⁠—

Nope. Positive energy. Manifestation.

I march to the mirror, adjust my shirt, and tell my reflection, "You are not desperate for validation from some beige man with commitment issues and the emotional range of an unsalted cracker."

The reflection looks skeptical.

Rude.

My phone buzzes again—probably the group thread still dissecting my humiliation—but no. It’s a notification from the neighborhood app:

Carter R. posted on the "Morningwood Marketplace"

Free: Plastic flamingos, slightly damp.

I nearly choke on my own dignity.

The sun’s just peeking over the rooftops, spilling golden light across lawns that are way too perfect. And me? I’m running. Well… jogging with purpose. Sexy, casual, and mostly effortless.

I’ve got my bold patterned shorts on—cheerful without being obnoxious—and a loose T-shirt that flutters just enough to suggest abs exist somewhere beneath it. I glance at Carter’s house from a safe distance—just in case. Not that I’m trying to impress him. I’m totally not.

Halfway down the street, I pull out my water bottle for some ‘refreshing spritz action’ because hydration is sexy and also because I need an excuse to pause and flex subtly.

I squeeze too hard. A fine spray arcs over my head… and lands directly in my mouth.

I choke, cough, gag, and spray water everywhere, down my shirt and onto the sidewalk. Probably straight into someone’s flowerbed.

Perfect.

I sputter, waving my arms in distress. Apparently, I can’t run and drink at the same time.

Carter’s blinds are open. Of course, they are. Of course.

I force myself to take a deep breath, trying to look nonchalant, which looks exactly like a man mid-choke doing interpretive dance. I wipe my soaked shirt with my hand, hoping nobody notices.