Page 4 of The Gaybor War

On my walk home, past sprinklers misting in perfect sync, I wave to three more neighbors. Across the street, Mrs. Dobbins is already out watering her hydrangeas in a visor the size of a satellite dish. She waves.

I wave back, because I’m not a monster.

I’m hyperaware of everything in the neighborhood because working from home leaves me with a lot of time on my hands. Mr. Tilson overwaters his azaleas every Tuesday. Mrs. Marks carries plastic bags with her when she walks her cocker spaniel, Missy, but never actually picks up her dog’s poop from her neighbor’s yards. And the Neighborhood Watch sign is crooked, which I’m tempted to fix just to assert dominance.

Everything is meticulous, pastel, and absurdly calm. And I’m the one who notices the ridiculousness. Which is why reading The Morningwood Monthly is both entertainment and torture.

By the time I reach my driveway, the air smells like fresh-cut grass, jasmine, and impending disaster.

I’m not looking. I refuse to look. I absolutely look. A black Audi SUV pulls up across the street.

"Well," I mutter, grabbing a handful of bills and advertising flyers from my mailbox. "Here we go."

The driver’s door opens. Out steps—Of course he’s hot. Gray T-shirt. Jeans that look like they were engineered by sin. The kind of shoulders that make you reconsider your entire personality.

I fan myself with a discount brochure for delivery pizza. "Rude."

At least I don’t look completely tragic. Today’s ensemble is a yellow short-sleeve button-up dotted with martini glasses, fitting for the occasion, and khaki shorts the same color as the olives in the drinks, and yes, they’re on the short side. If you’ve got decent thighs and a crippling need for validation, you flaunt them.

He grabs a box and hauls it toward the house—no help, no hesitation, just pure competence. I narrow my eyes.

"I don’t like him already."

He disappears inside. I linger. Because I’m not a stalker. I’m observant. There’s a difference. He comes back out, jaw tight, clearly in a committed relationship with irritation. Boxes start stacking up in the driveway like a Jenga tower built on testosterone.

He lifts his shirt to wipe his face.

"Okay," I wheeze. "So, he’s hot and capable. Disgusting."

He drags an oversized ottoman out next. Alone. Obviously. Because asking for help would be too easy. It gets stuck in the doorway.

A small, satisfied smile tugs at my lips. Petty? Absolutely.

"Oh, this is going to go badly."

He shoves. It doesn’t move.

I cover my smirk with an appointment reminder card from my dentist, fully invested now.

"Should I help?" I whisper. No. Absolutely not. That’s how this starts. That’s how I end up in a relationship because I assisted with furniture. Also, I hate to sweat if it doesn’t directly benefit me in some way—i.e., tanning, exercise, and sex.

He steps back, frustrated, muttering something I can’t hear but absolutely understand.

I laugh. A full, unfiltered snort. And of course, that’s when he looks up. Our eyes meet.

"Shit."

I turn so fast I nearly trip over a sprinkler head. Mail scatters everywhere. My phone buzzes immediately.

Shania: HE’S THERE, ISN’T HE

Malia: Go say hi!!!

Candace: Bring something!

Kiki: Make it cute!!

I stare at the messages. Then, across the street. Then back at the messages.