Page 144 of The Gaybor War

I glance past him at the Sunset Sorbet disco ball. His house is glowing. Not lit. Glowing. There are at least four additional plastic flamingos now wearing Santa hats, candy-cane striped scarves, and what appears to be a tiny tinsel harness pulling a glitter-drenched sleigh. Rainbow lights cascade from his gutters in aggressive waves. A colorful LED orb spins slowly from his porch ceiling where the bug zapper used to hang, scattering fractured color across the snow.

And dead center, planted like a challenge, is a new sign:

STEAL CHRISTMAS — I DARE YOU.

I turn back to him. "You’re a menace."

He blows me a kiss. "And you’re obsessed with me. Get in your bird-poop-mobile and go make spreadsheets about it."

I glance at my SUV, still covered in avian judgment, and step off my porch, pointing my finger in his direction.

"This isn’t over, Stewart."

Benji straightens and lifts his mug in a crisp little salute. "I certainly hope not. It’s like festive foreplay."

I climb into my car, muttering threats involving synchronized light displays, twelve-foot nutcrackers, and possibly a mechanical snowman. In the rearview mirror, I catch him still standing there, watching me go, grin crooked, eyes sparkling.

And despite the inflatable reindeer pornography, the glitter war, and the bird crap, I can’t stop smiling. Because this war is the most fun I’ve had in years. Even though I have a sneaking suspicion I’m going to lose.

The war escalates fast.

By Thursday, Benji has installed so many lights that his house is visible from space. By Friday, I’ve synchronized mine to music. By Saturday, the HOA hotline is receiving anonymous complaints every twelve minutes, and Eunice is one misplaced extension cord away from open revolt.

Even the ladies are opting to stay out of it, claiming they are neutral bystanders.

I’m standing on my porch adjusting a strand of lights when I hear it.

The creak of his rusty ladder hinges followed by a sharp intake of breath.

Then, "Shit⁠—!"

I look up to see Benji is at the very top of a ladder leaning precariously against his gutter, wrestling with a tangled knot of rainbow icicle lights and a plastic flamingo wearing a Santa hat and what appears to be lingerie.

"Benji," I call. "You’re going to die."

"Worth it," he pants, yanking the cord free. "I almost have the flamingo choir line symmetrical⁠—"

The ladder shifts just slightly, but enough to triple the threat of danger.

My stomach drops. "Benji." I start off across the lawn, intending to deliver a stern warning while holding the ladder steady.

He reaches again but freezes when the ladder wobbles. Slowly, he looks down at the icy ground.

"Oh," he says faintly. "That’s… not ideal."

Then gravity decides to participate. The ladder kicks out. Benji yelps, arms flailing, flamingo flying.

I don’t think. I just move, crossing the street at a sprint, barely registering the honk of Mr. Abrams’s Pontiac. I catch Benji mid-fall, momentum slamming into me as we stagger backward. My foot slips on icy pavement, and we go down in a tangle of limbs and breath and startled noise.

I hit the ground first. Benji lands squarely on top of me. For a second, all I can hear is our breathing—his sharp and fast, mine ragged from adrenaline. His hands are braced on my chest, his face inches from mine, eyes blown wide.

"Well," he murmurs. "That’s one way to get you on your back."

"Are you hurt?" I ask, ignoring him completely.

He shakes his head, then hesitates but doesn’t immediately move.

"I’m okay, I just—" He swallows. "I hate heights. I’m good at pretending I don’t."