Chapter 12
The girls show up on a Tuesday evening with enough donation boxes to outfit a small theater troupe. I’m elbows deep in boiling pasta when the doorbell rings, and suddenly my living room smells like perfume, gossip, and Chardonnay.
Each is holding a box full of what appears to be discarded wardrobes from every decade since the seventies.
"Clothing drive!" Candace announces, already brushing past me like this is a scheduled drop-off. "Benji said you’d help organize."
Of course he did.
Apparently, this is what "community involvement" looks like.
My pasta bubbles over behind me, and steam fogs the window over the sink, the perfect metaphor for my evening unraveling.
I turn off the burner. "You know, the HOA didn’t say anything about this being a group project."
Shania waves a sequined scarf. "We thought you might like the company, sweetheart."
Malia shrugs. "Besides, sorting clothes alone is depressing."
We start off well enough with sensible piles for Keep, Donate, and Burn Immediately. But two glasses of wine later, it’s descended into a chaotic fashion montage.
Music plays as the women try on prom dresses over yoga pants and skinny jeans, and my floor has become a fashion battlefield.
Malia tries on a rhinestone jacket that could blind a small child, which Shania promptly throws into the keep box. Candace finds a pair of leather pants she swears will "breathe once they stretch." Kiki keeps draping brightly colored scarves over the pear-shaped lamp I never should’ve bought.
And I’m just trying to remember how to breathe in a room full of people who talk in exclamation points.
It’s ridiculous. Loud. Unnecessary. And, somehow, kind of nice.
They insist I try something on, but I plead a chronic case of dignity. Doesn’t matter, they’re having too much fun to notice. For the first time in a long time, my house feels… alive. Not efficient, not quiet. Alive.
I head to the sink to rinse a glass, still smiling when movement outside catches my eye.
Benji’s blinds snap open and shut. Once. Twice. A blinking eye in the dark of night. As if he’s sending Morse code—or playing peekaboo with my sanity.
Is he watching us?
No. That’s paranoid. He’s probably just—adjusting them. Or dusting them. Or being an overgrown toddler in designer sweatpants.
Is he curious? Nah, absolutely not. He’s just nosy as fuck.
The blinds pause halfway, and for a second, I see him. Bare shoulders. Loose tank top. Hair in disarray.
Is he jealous that he wasn’t invited? Most definitely.
Then I have the insane urge to pick up the phone and call him, or wave him over, but I squash it. Though I grip the counter a little tighter to keep from reaching for the phone.
"Carter!" Kiki yells from the living room. "Come help us decide if this vest is fashion-forward or felony-worthy!"
Like I would know.
I turn off the faucet, forcing a smile. I laugh, I comment, I snap pics of the worst outfits, but the whole time, I’m fighting the voice in my head that keeps asking me, "What would Benji say about this?"
Never in a million years would I believe I’d actually miss that atrocious laugh of his.
Score one for Carter. Because at least I’m honest enough to admit when I’m losing at my own game.
By the time the second bottle opens, I’m starting to care a little less.
Kiki models a vintage coat that smells like mothballs.
Malia finds a pair of bell-bottoms and declares them "spiritual armor.
" I get shoved into a Hawaiian shirt that looks as if it crawled out of a Jimmy Buffett concert and died in my hands.
The pounding at the door barely registers over the volume in my living room. There’s music, laughter, and at least one woman trying to sell another on the merits of shoulder pads. For a brief, delusional second, I think maybe the noise complaint fairy has come to smite me for my hypocrisy.
Then I open the door, and naturally, it’s him.
Benji stands there, leaning one shoulder against the frame, mouth curved in that easy grin that makes him look like he’s about to ask for sugar he doesn’t need.
"I was just, you know, making sure the HOA-approved volume level was being respected," he says.
I stare at him. "You’ve got some nerve."
He shrugs. "I’ve got time."
I sigh, caught somewhere between amusement and irritation. "Come in or don’t, but you can’t stand there and eavesdrop."
He comes in. Of course he does.
The girls notice immediately. Kiki lets out a theatrical gasp. Candace whispers, "Two SAGs," which strangely makes his face pinch. Within thirty seconds, he’s holding a half-full glass of wine, complimenting someone’s earrings, and acting as if he’d been invited all along.
It’s infuriating how easily he fits in.
And worse—how everyone loves him for it.
"Benji!" Kiki crows. "Try this on!" She tosses him a feathered hat from the donations pile.
He actually puts it on. Tilts it just so. Strikes a pose. The room erupts in laughter, and before I can stop myself, I’m smiling too.
"Oh, come on, Carter," Shania calls. "Say something nice about your neighbor!"
"I don’t do flattery."
"You don’t do fun," Kiki counters.
Benji smirks. "He’s trying. You should’ve seen what we did to his closet the other day."
The room freezes. Then the girls lose it.
"You were in Carter’s bedroom?!" Malia squeals, nearly tipping over a box of sequined tops.
"I thought you were both, you know… out of the closet," Candace says, eyebrows shooting up.
I feel my face betray me before I can even think. Heat blooms across my chest, crawling up to my ears. Every eye is on me, and I can practically hear the collective gasp of judgment—or delight.
But Benji? He just stands there, that ridiculous smirk still in place, looking far too pleased with himself.
The unspoken implication hangs in the air: that two gay men alone in a bedroom can only mean one thing. I resent it. It’s absolute bullshit. Except…
I had wanted to do that very thing.
Still want to.
My hands tighten around a feathered boa someone’s tossed near me. I should say something witty, deflect, defuse. Instead, all I can do is watch Benji laugh, watch the way he tilts his head like he knows exactly how much power he has over me.
I hate this. I hate that it’s true.
I hate that it makes me want to smile.
And somehow, that’s exactly what I do.
The room keeps spinning around us—voices, clinking glasses, the faint music from someone’s phone—but it all fades to background noise. Because Benji’s leaning against the arm of my couch, watching me roll my sleeves past my elbows as with the focus of a judge at an Olympic sport.
And I keep catching him at it.
Every time I look up, he’s already looking back. Amused. Knowing. As if he’s figured something out about me I haven’t admitted yet.
Then someone calls me "handsome," and I can feel the smirk deepen across the room.
I tell myself the warmth crawling up my neck is from the wine. But I know better.
It’s him. It’s always him.
When the last of the wine-fueled melee departs, my house smells like perfume, fabric softener, and a hint of repressed sexual energy. Boxes are strewn across the floor, and scarves and feather boas hang off chairs like casualties of battle.
And Benji? Of course, he lingers.
"I’ll just… help clean up," he says smoothly, but the way he moves is deliberate. Close. Too close.
I sigh, dragging a pile of tie-dye toward the donation box, trying not to notice the curve of his smile, or the way the lamplight turns the slight tan on his arms a deep bronze when he bends over to pick up a sock.
He straightens, holding a shirt he found on the floor. In a low, teasing voice he says, "You looked like you were having fun, Mr. Lemon Taffy. Should I be worried you’re replacing me as your favorite neighborhood nuisance?"
I scoff, but the sound is softer than intended. "Don’t flatter yourself."
Benji grins. "Flattery implies I’m exaggerating."
There’s a pause that hums between us like static electricity. I want to say something smart, witty, or crushingly ironic, but my brain short-circuits.
Finally, I manage, "You should go."
He tilts his head, eyes twinkling, a slow smile stretching his lips. He doesn’t move immediately. And I realize with a sinking thrill that for the first time… I didn’t mean it.
When he finally leaves, the house feels colder, and I’m left alone and wanting. I sink onto the edge of the bed, rubbing my temples, trying to will my pulse back to normal.
It hits me, sharp and unrelenting, that he might have taken my words as rejection.
And when it comes to Benji? Rejection is never the end of the story.
It only leads to one thing…
Revenge.
I groan, burying my face in the pillow. He’s ridiculous, infuriating, and impossibly… captivating.
And somehow, I’m already bracing for the next round.