Chapter 22
The Morningwood Monthly sits on my kitchen counter, folded with unnecessary precision.
I didn’t mean to read it again. I meant to skim. I meant to confirm dates and move on. But fifteen minutes later, I’m standing here with coffee going cold, rereading lines as if they’re evidence.
Locktober. Turn in your keys for shiny new ones.
I close my eyes and inhale slowly.
I don’t want to know where Eunice Dobbins learned the word Locktober, and I resent the way my brain insists on filling in the blanks anyway. The phrase shiny new is doing too much work here.
Moving on.
No-Nut November. Clear pinecones and acorns so lawnmowers don’t throw them into cars and windows.
I stare at the page, hoping when I unblink, the words will warp into something sensible.
That is not what No-Nut November means. I am certain of this because I was once stupid enough to participate. And now I’m stuck imagining Eunice, somewhere on the internet, misinterpreting things at alarming speed.
I take a long sip of coffee and keep reading.
Pumpkin Roll.
Friendsgiving.
Safety reminders.
Cider Tasting Night. Explore body, balance, and—yes—the length of finish.
I choke on my coffee and read it again. Length of finish.
I don’t want to know who wrote this line. I want to know who approved it. I want to know how many people read it, nodded solemnly, and said this seems appropriate for a community newsletter.
This community is a liability, and it only downgrades from there.
No more than six inflatable decorations per yard. Excessive inflation is a violation.
I freeze and read it again. Then again once more, slower. And then—quietly, treacherously—I snort.
The sound surprises me. I don’t quite laugh out loud, but something about the sentence lands just right, absurd and smug and perfectly HOA-serious in a way that feels… intentional.
Across the street, Benji’s porch light clicks on, as if he’s summoned by my irritation. Or my amusement. Or whatever dangerous middle ground this is.
I try to shake it off. I really do. I tell myself agreeing with him, even internally, means nothing. But the truth settles anyway.
Limiting inflatables is meaningless.
Locktober is ridiculous.
Length of finish is blatant.
And No-Nut November should never, under any circumstances, be explained by Eunice Dobbins, who likely abstains year-round and not just in November.
I pick up my phone before I can talk myself out of it. I type. Pause. Delete. Rewrite. And send.
Six inflatables feels arbitrary.
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.
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.
"There’s nothing to spill."
"Carter."
There’s enough older-brother skepticism packed into one word to make my eye twitch.
I exhale sharply. "It’s for a professional event."
"You're shopping for a sexy pirate costume."
"Research is not commitment."
"Carter."
"I like to be prepared."
Mark laughs so hard he snorts. "Oh my God, you're serious."
"I am always serious."
"That's not the defense you think it is."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "He's impossible."
"Uh-huh."
"Everything is a joke."
"Mm-hmm."
"He flirts compulsively. With everyone. It’s pathological."
Mark hums thoughtfully. "I bet he’s a great kisser."
Heat burns my face.
Oblivious to my internal volcano, Mark continues. "That mouth is—"
"Don’t you dare finish that sentence!"
He dissolves into louder laughter. "Oh my God," he wheezes. "You've got it bad."
I close my eyes. "That's a very dramatic conclusion."
"You’re blushing, aren’t you?"
"That is both impossible for you to verify and wildly irrelevant."
"You’re absolutely blushing."
I pinch the bridge of my nose hard enough to leave fingerprints.
"This conversation has lost all professional integrity."
"Carter, you’re buying a sexy pirate costume because your hot neighbor asked you to. We crossed that line ten minutes ago."
I hate how reasonable that sounds.
Mark’s voice softens, amusement giving way to something more familiar. More brother than tormentor. "Look, man. Buy the damn costume and loosen up. Who knows?" he adds. "You might actually have fun."
Fun. The word lands strangely. Like something I used to understand and haven’t practiced in years.
"And if I don’t?"
Mark snorts. "Please. You’re already gone."
"I’m not gone."
"Carter, you just spent five minutes listing reasons he's annoying and somehow made him sound adorable."
"I did not."
"You absolutely did."
I hate that he's right. I open my mouth to argue but nothing comes out.
Mark laughs softly. "Buy the costume."
Then he hangs up before I can defend myself.
I stare at my phone for a long moment before opening the links he sent.
The first option is offensively tight and appears to involve decorative buckles that serve no structural purpose whatsoever.
Naturally, it’s exactly the kind of thing Benji would approve of.
I set the phone face down on the counter and glare at it.
I don’t know when my life veered into pirate territory. Somewhere between HOA newsletters and Benji’s relentless winking emojis, I apparently lost the ability to say no because this stopped being about whether I like Benji Stewart weeks ago.
The answer to that question is obvious.
The problem is that every day I seem to like him a little more.