Chapter 14
Ididn’t need to leave the pool right away. What I actually needed was distance—from the sun, the noise, and the very specific way Benji looked at me as if he already knew the answer to a question I was still pretending not to ask.
My kitchen feels too quiet, which doesn’t help the thoughts running through my mind. I set my keys down, open the fridge out of habit, and lean against the counter, replaying the moment at the cooler—his hand, the pause, and the fact that he didn’t push.
It was nothing. A normal interaction. But my chest still feels tight, and the word nothing doesn’t sit right anymore.
I shut the fridge without taking anything and stand there longer than necessary, staring at my faint reflection in the stainless steel. The shades are still on my head. My hair smells of smoke and chlorine. And my heart is doing something it hasn’t been invited to do in a long time.
It would be easier if Benji had pushed. If he’d teased or flirted or made a joke so loud I could hide behind irritation. That’s what I’d prepared for. That’s what I know how to manage.
Instead, he’d been… decent. Calm. Even worse, he’d been kind.
I replay it again. The way he said, ‘You’re allowed to keep it,’ as if he meant it. As if rejection wasn’t a personal insult and I wasn’t a failure for needing more time. It lands too close to something tender, so I push the thought away and grab a glass of water I don’t drink.
This is exactly why I don't get involved. Because one quiet moment turns into five, and five turns into a spiral, and suddenly I'm standing in my kitchen thinking about another man's hands and the line of his mouth like it's a problem I'm supposed to solve.
Benji should be easy to dismiss. He's loud where I'm quiet. Impulsive where I'm cautious. He collects people the way other people collect hobbies.
Instead, he's somehow lodged himself in my head.
I don't know when that happened.
I only know that his hand brushed mine for half a second, and I've spent the last hour thinking about it. And that's becoming difficult to explain away.
I move through the house, picking up towels I dropped earlier, straightening things that don’t need straightening.
The bedroom door is still open. I pause there.
The bed is made up with neutral colors. Boring.
Untouched. Not the bed/love nest of a man who wants to screw his neighbor in it six ways from Sunday.
A smile tugs at my lips, knowing that’s what Benji would say.
I sit on the edge of the mattress and let the quiet settle. The BBQ laughter still echoes faintly in my ears. His voice slips in with it—soft, kind, and nothing like the version I’d decided he was.
I run a hand through my hair and exhale. This was supposed to be simple. Annoying neighbor. Temporary distraction. Something to endure until the novelty wore off. But novelty doesn't become the thing you miss before it's even gone.
And it doesn't usually leave you wishing you’d asked for more.
I lie back on the bed, stare at the ceiling, and admit the part I’ve been circling since the pool: Benji doesn’t unsettle me because he wants attention. He unsettles me because he doesn’t need mine. And for reasons I don’t yet understand, that’s the thing that rattles me the most.
The next few days are quiet. I answer texts with the minimum, nod through conversations without really listening, and show up for HOA nonsense and for community obligations, but my usual energy feels muted, filtered.
At work, I bury myself in spreadsheets, quarterly projections, and anything that will drown out the image of Benji at the pool.
The way his hand grazed mine in the cooler, the tilt of his sunglasses, the way he watched me without watching.
I keep telling myself it’s temporary, a phase of "focus," but focus doesn't usually have you looking up every time someone laughs, hoping it's him.
I avoid the obvious triggers such as the HOA group chat, any early-morning jogs that might coincide with his gardening, and the tinkle of his stupid windchimes.
And yet, somehow, I always notice. A flash of red shorts on a passing runner.
The faint scent of something citrusy carried on the wind.
Anything remotely Benji-adjacent makes me flinch, groan, or retreat deeper into my carefully constructed obliviousness.
I keep telling myself this is rational. That I'm creating space. Getting perspective. Because whatever this is, it's starting to feel bigger than a crush, and that seems wildly unfair considering we've barely touched.
But every time I close my eyes, there’s Benji. Smirking. Shirtless in my bedroom. Somehow infuriating and magnetic all at once. And I have no argument left for why I shouldn’t be thinking about him.
By the end of the week, I’m exhausted. Not physically, but mentally. Emotionally. The quiet stretches too long, and even the spreadsheets start to blur. I know I can’t keep pretending I’m not orbiting Benji. I just don't know what happens if I stop.
By Saturday, I’m a certified wreck. Not one of those cute, flustered, "Oh I had too much coffee" kind of wrecks. No, I’m a total disaster—eyelids heavy from staring at columns of numbers too long, jaw tight from grinding my teeth, and brain buzzing from hosting a conference for all the thoughts I refuse to admit out loud.
I can’t concentrate. Not at work, not at home, not anywhere. Every little thing reminds me of what I’m not supposed to be thinking of. My routine, my carefully calibrated defenses, all feel broken.
And yet, I can’t stop checking the street. I can’t stop imagining what he’s doing, wearing, or what ridiculous thing he might be plotting next. I try to convince myself it’s harmless curiosity, but it’s not. It’s anticipation, plain and simple.
And the worst part? I think I’m starting to enjoy the wait.
Since when do I spend this much energy thinking about anyone?
"Focus, Reed. Just focus." But my brain only whispers one name: Benji.
I need to get off the block. Literally and mentally. Staying in Morningwood—or staring out my window at that ridiculous man and his overwatered marigolds—is making me lose what little composure I’ve got left.
So, I leave. I drive. I don’t even care where, just somewhere not here.
I find myself at a little café two towns over, with uneven tile floors, espresso that tastes like actual espresso, and chairs that squeak when you sit down.
No HOA gossip. No flamingo-infested lawns. No one telling me I have to volunteer.
I get a window seat, because yes, I like to watch people—neutral people. Ordinary humans doing ordinary things. A barista struggles to balance a tray of scones. A kid drops a muffin. No one is weaponizing kitsch or turning a salad spinner into a sex joke.
I order a cappuccino and let it cool while I stare out the window at the quiet street. For five glorious minutes, I hear nothing but the rhythm of cars passing, a dog barking too loudly down the street, and the occasional bell above the café door.
I should feel better. I want to feel better. But even here, my mind keeps drifting. To accounts I should be working on. To community projects I should be ignoring. To Benji. The way he moves. The way he laughs. The way he makes every quiet moment feel like foreplay.
Even off the block, even surrounded by boring everyday life, I can’t clear my head, and I realize I’m not running from Morningwood. I'm running from the fact that I drove twenty miles to get away from Benji and brought him with me anyway.
And the most irritating part is that Benji isn't chasing me.
If anything, I'm the one following him.