Page 6 of The Gaybor War

Then he turns and walks back toward his driveway, leaving a trail of dripping water and my dignity in his wake.

Instant mutual judgment. Immediate intrigue.

I sit there, drenched in secondhand embarrassment, staring across the street at the Lemon Taffy house like a guilty toddler caught with a mud pie. My marigolds are dripping, my hair is plastered to my forehead, and somewhere in the distance, I can hear my neighbors judging me as they spy through curtained windows.

Of course, I didn’t just spray him. That would’ve been semi-normal. I also managed to hit myself in the ribs with the hose when I tried to correct it. So now I’m both wet and bruised.

"Well, Benji," I mutter, swiping wet hair from my eyes, "you did it. You’ve successfully met your new neighbor and possibly initiated a feud-slash-love story depending on how forgiving he is."

My phone buzzes with a Morningwood Minute notification. The ladies are blowing up our personal group thread.

Shania: Did you meet him yet???

Candace: From our window it looked… wet.

Kiki: Tell me you didn’t spray him with the hose.

Malia: Please tell me you did.

My sigh can be heard in the next county.

I prefer to call it an unplanned neighborhood christening.

Shania: Hahaha. That’s adorable. He’ll think you’re hilarious!

Candace: Or terrifying. Definitely terrifying.

Malia: I hope you took a pic. For… science.

Kiki: Benji. Please.

I lay the phone face down in the wet grass and shake my head. Science, my ass. I need a drink. Maybe a shower first. Or a full tactical retreat.

Meanwhile, across the street, the soaked stranger disappears inside. His T-shirt clings like a stalker. I can’t stop staring.

I whisper to the marigolds, "Don’t judge me, okay? This isn’t my fault."

The phone buzzes again.

Shania: You have to wave at him next time. A friendly gesture. A S.A.G. duty.

Candace: Maybe bring cookies? Or brownies. Everybody loves brownies.

Malia: Or a little welcome sign! Flamingos, obviously.

Kiki: Just… don’t drown him with more water, Benji.

I groan. I can’t possibly handle all this. But of course, I peek across the street. He’s back outside, now carrying something that looks like a floor lamp, if a floor lamp were shaped like an octopus. Why does he have everything this together, and I… can’t even hold a hose?

Why does every minor disaster in this community need to be broadcast like the Super Bowl?

Maybe tomorrow I’ll apologize. Or maybe I’ll plant a flamingo on my lawn, pointed directly at his house—a gesture that could be interpreted as reconciliation or escalation. Depends on how close I am to making my next bad decision.

Because now, with wet socks, flowers swimming, and drowning in the absurdity of Morningwood, I realize something terrifying: I’m already invested.

And I haven’t even met him properly yet.

Chapter 3