Page 88 of The Gaybor War

The response comes immediately.

Benji: THANK YOU.

I exhale, a sound somewhere between a laugh and surrender.

We’re not aligned on much. We never have been. But standing here, coffee gone cold, HOA nonsense in hand, I realize something unsettling. For the first time since I moved here, I don’t feel like I’m the only sane person in Morningwood.

And that might be worse than wanting him. Because it means I understand him.

And understanding Benji Stewart is how perfectly reasonable men lose control—slowly, quietly, and one inflatable at a time.

I stare at the message for far too long until it dings again.

Benji: For the record, I’m not participating in either Locktober or No Nut November, and I’m also finished with work for the evening…

The winking emoji is unnecessary. Aggressive, even. I stare at it for a full ten seconds. Then another ten. Because apparently I now spend portions of my day evaluating Benji's emoji choices as if they’re coded.

This is not a productive use of my MBA.

That’s probably wise. Participation in either sounds medically inadvisable.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Benji: Concerned for my well-being already? How domestic of you.

I roll my eyes. He's impossible. The irritating part is that he's getting harder to argue with.

I’m concerned for the neighborhood. Eunice Dobbins should not be allowed near terminology she doesn’t understand.

Benji: Tragic. She seemed so excited about it too.

I picture him saying it, leaning back, pleased with himself, glasses probably off by now because he said he’s finished with work. It’s telling how easily my brain can summon a delicious image of him.

Benji: Also, analyzing the newsletter means you're settling into Morningwood disturbingly well.

I know everyone's names. This place is infecting me.

Benji: Admit it. You love us.

I snort.

Let's not say things we can't take back.

Benji: Wow. Straight to emotional intimacy.

Good night, Benji.

The phone remains quiet long enough that my chest tightens for reasons I refuse to unpack. Stupidly, I carry it around in my hand until he responds.

Benji: Night, Carter. Sweet dreams. Try not to think about inflatables.

I turn the phone face down as if that will stop my brain. It doesn’t.

I think about inflatables.

I think about innuendo-packed newsletters.

I think about a man across the street who has somehow become the only other sane person in Morningwood.