Page 48 of The Gaybor War

"They absolutely did," Candace wheezes. "This is a cry for help."

"This neighborhood is one poorly placed ellipsis away from an HR violation," I say. "I don’t know whether to call the city or volunteer to help out."

Malia wipes at her eyes, now brimming with unshed tears of hilarity. "Do you think they know? Like—do you think Eunice knows what she’s doing?"

I stare down at the newsletter, then back at them. "Eunice knows exactly what she’s doing. Eunice has lived a life. Eunice is bored."

Shania finishes off her drink. "Then she shouldn’t miss the car wash. I bet she’d enjoy watching her neighbors handle their hoses."

I flip the page with the careful finesse of a man disarming a bomb. "And finally—oh good. Friendly reminders." I squint. "Pick up after your pets. No one wants a surprise in the flower beds."

Malia groans. "Stop."

"I can’t," I say. "It’s a public service."

I finish the page and let it drop to my lap, exhaling. "Well. That’s it. That’s the newsletter. A community bulletin that reads as if it should come with a parental advisory."

Candace lifts her glass. "To Morningwood."

"To Morningwood," they echo.

I’m halfway through alphabetizing the food truck roster—because I thrive in self-appointed authority—when Carter shows up.

Which is strange, because he’s not on this committee. Not on any committee, as far as I know. Carter Reed treats HOA involvement like a communicable disease.

He doesn’t announce himself. Doesn’t hover. He just appears in the clubhouse doorway like a breath of fresh air.

My shoulders straighten on instinct, as though my body knows something important is happening and would like to be presentable.

"Hey," he says.

I glance up, pen paused mid-name, striving for casual and unaffected. "Can I help you?"

He hesitates. Just enough to tell on himself.

"I was… driving by," he says. Then, as if that sounds ridiculous even to him, he adds, "And saw the lights on."

I bet my brand new purple Adidas slides that’s a lie. "Were you lost?" I ask pleasantly.

His mouth twitches. "I might be."

Oh, that’s new. Carter doesn’t do self-deprecating humor.

I nod, gesturing to the folding chair across from me. "Food Truck Rodeo sign-ups are a bloodbath. You’re lucky you missed the kettle corn incident."

Carter pushes his sleeves up his forearms and sits. "You’ve got the updated list?"

I slide the clipboard toward him. Our fingers almost touch. Almost. He notices. I notice him noticing. We both pretend it didn’t happen.

"I figured you would," he adds.

There it is. The assumption. The small, unguarded truth: I knew you’d be here.

I try not to let my smile reach all the way to my ears. "You didn’t have to sabotage your entire evening. You could’ve just texted."

Carter stills. Just for a fraction of a second—but I see it. His jaw tightens as he swallows his next thought.

"I didn’t think you’d want that," he says cautiously.