Chapter 4
The first thing I hear the next morning isn’t birdsong. It’s laughter.
Not normal laughter either. It’s high-pitched, caffeinated, and carries across the street like an incoming air raid siren.
I drag myself out of bed, open the blinds, and freeze.
There are flamingos.
A flamboyance of plastic flamingos—twenty at least—stand at attention in perfect rows, facing my window as if awaiting orders.
Someone’s even zip-tied tiny sunglasses to a few of them.
The one closest to my mailbox has a little sign that says, "Welcome to Morningwood, neighbor! " written in glitter pen.
Across the street, Benji is ‘watering’ his flowerbeds again, which means he’s shirtless and misting himself like a houseplant. When he notices me looking, he waves the hose like it’s a baton and shouts, "Rise and shine, Carter! Morningwood welcomes you!"
I can’t hear him, but I can read his lips.
I consider walking outside. Then I consider a root canal.
Instead, I put on coffee and stare out the window as though I’m watching a crime scene unfold.
My phone starts buzzing.
Morningwood Minute
Shania: The flamingos!!!
Candace: Benji, I swear, you didn’t.
Benji: Consider it a symbolic gesture of suburban unity.
Malia: Carter, you better wave or it’s bad luck!
Kiki: There’s one with a tiny hat!
I scroll through the photos. They’ve already made memes.
One of them has my name photoshopped over a flamingo with the caption "He moved in single, but not for long."
Fantastic. I’ve been here less than twenty-four hours, and my sex life is neighborhood discourse.
I click on Benji’s profile and text him directly.
What the hell is this?
He replies instantly, as if he’s been waiting for it.
Benji: A warm welcome!
My yard looks like a Vegas retirement home.
Benji: Exactly. Isn’t it festive?
It’s horrifying.
Benji: That’s hurtful. The flamingos worked hard.
I close my phone before I say something I’ll regret.
Truth is, I moved here for peace and quiet. For anonymity. For the kind of neighborhood where nobody knows or cares who you are. I didn’t sign up for HOA-approved performance art.
When I step outside to start removing them, Benji calls, "You’re supposed to leave them for twenty-four hours! It’s tradition!"
I squint at him. "I don’t do traditions."
He grins, undeterred. "That’s okay. I do enough for both of us!"
Of course he does. He’s loud, relentless, and way too pretty not to get away with this much chaos.
I yank up the first flamingo. "Welcome to hell, Carter."
Benji waves his hose again like a scepter. "Don’t worry, neighbor! You’ll fit right in once you loosen up!"
I stare at him, drenched in sunshine and smugness, and think, Over my dead, minimalist body.
Later that afternoon, I’m hauling another box out of the SUV, the last from the storage garage, when I spot Benji across the street—holding court. At least he’s wearing a shirt this time.
He’s surrounded by a group of women from the neighborhood, all standing close, all holding insulated tumblers that definitely aren’t just water, if I had to guess.
He’s talking and gesturing, clearly mid-story.
They’re listening, laughing, and encouraging him.
He’s animated in a way I don’t have the energy to unpack.
Big hand movements, easy smiles, and a laugh that carries across the street.
It’s a theatrical release laugh. The kind that comes with jazz hands you can hear.
They like him. A lot. Treat him like he’s the Gay Pope of Morningwood.
I refuse to give him that kind of attention. Not because I’m jealous. I’m not. I just don’t enjoy noise, or spectacle, or people who treat every moment as if an audience is required. Benji does.
I don’t know anything real about him, but I recognize the type. The human equivalent of a confetti cannon. He leans into it without hesitation. Loud. Visible. Decorative. The flamingos suddenly make sense.
I angle myself toward the house, hoping to pass without being noticed. It doesn’t work. The women spot me almost immediately and turn as one, attention shifting in my direction.
"Carter! Come meet Benji officially!" The one in cowgirl boots waves me over as if she’s wrangling cattle.
I pause, box still in my hands. This was not on my schedule. I set it down and walk over, mostly because pretending not to hear would be worse. There are rules here—unwritten ones—and I can already tell this would count as a violation.
Benji turns when he sees me, smiling as if we’ve known each other longer than five minutes.
"Carter," he says cheerily. "We were just talking about the community yard sale and how you’re definitely joining the committee."
I look at him. Then at the women. "I am?"
"You are," they say together, pleased with themselves.
I exhale slowly.
"Shania," the one in the boots with big hair says, sticking out a manicured hand. "Born and raised ten minutes from here, and yes, I will judge your lawn if you let me."
"Malia," says the woman in workout clothes, giving a quick wave. "I run the morning spin class. Or I would if anyone ever showed up on time."
The one with the braid lifts her tumbler in a lazy salute. "Candace. These are house sweats, not errand sweats. There’s a difference." She pauses, eyes flicking over me. "You’ll learn."
"And I’m Kiki," the last woman says, smiling apologetically while glancing down the street like she’s tracking small, feral creatures. "I’ve got three kids, two minivans, and no idea where my coffee went. Welcome to Morningwood."
Shania nudges Benji. "Tell him what you do for work."
Benji brightens, already waiting for applause. "Oh! I work from home."
Of course he does. I glance him up and down, taking in his purple shirt with a plunging V-neck, matching short-shorts, flip-flops that look like they lost a fight with a belt sander, and the situation happening to his toenails.
"Let me guess," I say. "OnlyFans or TikTok Shop?"
The women gasp like I just slapped a baby koala.
Benji clutches his chest. "Excuse you. I have a real job."
I glance pointedly at his feet—toes painted once upon a time, now chipped like a tragic urban decay ad. "It sure isn’t selling feet pics," I say under my breath.
Benji looks personally attacked. "The lady who does my nails is on her honeymoon!"
"For your sake," I reply, "I hope she returns real soon."
The ladies giggle. Benji narrows his eyes as if I’ve declared war.
I’m not sure whether I’ve won something or just unleashed hell. Probably both.
Cowgirl boots huffs. "Benji doesn’t do OnlyFans! He’s a graphic designer."
I raise an eyebrow. "Oh. So… unemployed, but with fonts. That’s a big title for someone with a Canva Premium subscription."
Benji narrows his eyes. "I design romance novel covers."
That shuts me up for a beat. Then I blink. "Like—the shirtless vampire ones?"
He lifts his chin. "Sometimes vampires. Sometimes cowboys. Occasionally a pirate with commitment issues. I bring fantasies to life, Carter."
"Uh-huh." I shift my gaze to three toddlers snacking on mulch. "And you do this… full-time?"
He nods, all confidence and thirst trap-shirted pride. "Freelance, baby. I’m the Michelangelo of pecs, and yearning gazes."
Candace fans herself. "You should see his work! He did Cowboy in My Heart. The one with the lasso—"
Benji beams. "And the strategically placed shadow."
I can’t help it; I snort. "Wow. The Renaissance we didn’t know we needed."
Benji puts a hand on his hip. "Jealous?"
"Of what? The pecs you borrowed from Shutterstock?"
The women collectively ooooh, as if we’re at a middle school dance battle.
Benji leans closer, voice honeyed but sharp. "Careful, Carter. You’ll end up on one of my covers as the brooding, emotionally unavailable neighbor."
The woman with the messy bun and mustard stain on her shirt swats her kids away from my flowerbed and practically squeals. "Oh my God, I’d read that."
Benji turns back to his audience, basking again, sunlight catching the ridiculous caramel highlights in his brown hair, and I turn to leave before this becomes the cover story of the next HOA newsletter.
Benji calls after me, "Don’t worry, neighbor! Some people take time to warm up to my… presence!"
I don’t look back. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
He’s loud. He’s too charming for his own good. And he’s absolutely going to ruin this street for me.