Page 89 of The Gaybor War

And I think—quietly, irritably—that agreeing with Benji Stewart is starting to feel dangerously easy.

I don’t text Benji back. That way lies madness. Instead, I text my brother.

Hypothetically, where would one acquire a pirate costume?

The reply is immediate.

Mark: For Halloween?

I stare at the screen, jaw tight.

Not necessarily, no.

Mark: Okay. For what, then?

I pinch the bridge of my nose.

Reasons.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.

Mark: Party store? Online? Why does this feel like a trap?

It has to be a sexy pirate costume.

I hate myself for typing it. The word sexy sits there like a confession, followed by a full thirty-five seconds of silence.

Mark: Oh my God. This has Benji written all over it.

I close my eyes and exhale loudly.

Do not say his name like that.

Mark: You’re going to a themed party with the loud neighbor, aren’t you?

I am not going to a party. I am accompanying someone to a professional event with… supplemental festivities.

Mark: Those words don’t make sense when grouped together.

Mark: You’re buying a sexy pirate costume for a man you allegedly dislike.

I don’t answer.

Mark: Spill.

My phone starts ringing almost immediately.

Mark. Of course.

I stare at it for a full three seconds, debating whether ignoring family counts as self-care. Then I answer. "What?"

Mark laughs. "Wow. Hostile. I was going to say hello, but apparently we’re skipping pleasantries."

"What do you want?"

"I believe my exact text was spill."

I lean against the counter and drag a hand down my face.