Page 38 of The Gaybor War

It’s ridiculous. Loud. Unnecessary. And, somehow, kind of nice.

They insist I try something on, but I plead a chronic case of dignity. Doesn’t matter, they’re having too much fun to notice. For the first time in a long time, my house feels… alive. Not efficient, not quiet. Alive.

I head to the sink to rinse a glass, still smiling when movement outside catches my eye.

Benji’s blinds snap open and shut. Once. Twice. A blinking eye in the dark of night. As if he’s sending Morse code—or playing peekaboo with my sanity.

Is he watching us?

No. That’s paranoid. He’s probably just—adjusting them. Or dusting them. Or being an overgrown toddler in designer sweatpants.

Is he curious? Nah, absolutely not. He’s just nosy as fuck.

The blinds pause halfway, and for a second, I see him. Bare shoulders. Loose tank top. Hair in disarray.

Is he jealous that he wasn’t invited? Most definitely.

Then I have the insane urge to pick up the phone and call him, or wave him over, but I squash it. Though I grip the counter a little tighter to keep from reaching for the phone.

"Carter!" Kiki yells from the living room. "Come help us decide if this vest is fashion-forward or felony-worthy!"

Like I would know.

I turn off the faucet, forcing a smile. I laugh, I comment, I snap pics of the worst outfits, but the whole time, I’m fighting the voice in my head that keeps asking me, "What would Benji say about this?"

Never in a million years would I believe I’d actually miss that atrocious laugh of his.

Score one for Carter. Because at least I’m honest enough to admit when I’m losing at my own game.

By the time the second bottle opens, I’m starting to care a little less. Kiki models a vintage coat that smells like mothballs. Malia finds a pair of bell-bottoms and declares them "spiritual armor." I get shoved into a Hawaiian shirt that looks as if it crawled out of a Jimmy Buffett concert and died in my hands.

The pounding at the door barely registers over the volume in my living room. There’s music, laughter, and at least one woman trying to sell another on the merits of shoulder pads. For a brief, delusional second, I think maybe the noise complaint fairy has come to smite me for my hypocrisy.

Then I open the door, and naturally, it’s him.

Benji stands there, leaning one shoulder against the frame, mouth curved in that easy grin that makes him look like he’s about to ask for sugar he doesn’t need.

"I was just, you know, making sure the HOA-approved volume level was being respected," he says.

I stare at him. "You’ve got some nerve."

He shrugs. "I’ve got time."

I sigh, caught somewhere between amusement and irritation. "Come in or don’t, but you can’t stand there and eavesdrop."

He comes in. Of course he does.

The girls notice immediately. Kiki lets out a theatrical gasp. Candace whispers, "Two SAGs," which strangely makes his face pinch. Within thirty seconds, he’s holding a half-full glass of wine, complimenting someone’s earrings, and acting as if he’d been invited all along.

It’s infuriating how easily he fits in.

And worse—how everyone loves him for it.

"Benji!" Kiki crows. "Try this on!" She tosses him a feathered hat from the donations pile.

He actually puts it on. Tilts it just so. Strikes a pose. The room erupts in laughter, and before I can stop myself, I’m smiling too.

"Oh, come on, Carter," Shania calls. "Say something nice about your neighbor!"