Chapter 30
Morningwood greets us the same way it always does. With nonsense.
"Home sweet aggressively regulated home," I mutter as Carter passes through the gated entrance. Turning onto Cockburn Street, he parks in his driveway and kills the engine with a sigh.
I’m halfway out of the car, stretching after the long drive, when Carter freezes beside me, phone in hand, face tightening into that specific expression that means the HOA has struck again.
"Oh no. What fresh hell is this?"
"Eunice is back," he mutters.
"How can you tell?"
"Tone. Font choice. Excessive capitalization. This isn’t the work of the mysterious Morningwood Monthly creator; this is her."
I crane my neck to read over his shoulder.
SUBJECT: IMPORTANT COMMUNITY UPDATES — PLEASE READ IN FULL
Locktober has apparently evolved into a quarterly event. Something about rotating locks to discourage temptation and promote safety. There’s a spreadsheet.
No-Nut November now includes an illustration of pinecones wearing reflective vests.
"She’s added clip art," I gasp in horror.
"She’s included a flowchart."
"Carter," I say gravely. "She is weaponizing Microsoft Word."
We stand in the driveway reading the email, shoulder to shoulder, and then I start laughing. The kind that takes my knees out.
"She thinks No-Nut November is about yard debris," I wheeze. "I cannot live like this."
"You do live like this."
"Not anymore. Now I have you."
Oh God, why did I say that? All it takes is a handful of extraordinary orgasms, and I’m gooier than overcooked mozzarella sticks! Thankfully, Carter doesn’t seem to notice. He’s already scrolling, muttering commentary under his breath.
"Why are there acorn mascots wearing safety vests?"
"I don’t know."
"Why is there a padlock with a smiley face?"
"I don’t know."
He finally looks up. "Why does Eunice think temptation lives in our doorknobs?"
"I really don’t know."
We move inside together without discussing it. The motion is natural. Easy. He sets his bag down by the stairs. I pick up the mail. He flips on the light. I kick off my shoes. He nudges them into alignment without comment.
It happens without thinking. It’s automatic Domestic. Dangerous.
Inside jokes start to bloom immediately. We riff on the email as if we’re co-hosting a deeply unhinged podcast.
"She’s added a reminder about the cider tasting," Carter says, scrolling. He winces. "She wrote, ‘Take it to the mouth.’"
"She did not."
"She absolutely did."
We joke back and forth, building increasingly elaborate theories about how Eunice learned these terms, until Carter is laughing so hard, he has to brace himself against the counter. And something about that—about being the one who gets to see him like this—makes my chest do a weird, fluttery thing.
Just as we’re about to discuss lunch, there’s a flurry of voices outside. The girls descend like a flock of extremely well-dressed, invasive birds the second they spot Carter’s car back in the driveway.
Candice knocks as if she’s serving a warrant.
Malia brings pastries.
Kiki carries a pitcher of margaritas.
Shania brings questions.
We barely make it to the dining table before they start.
"So," Candice says sweetly. "How was the convention?"
"Magical," I reply. "Traumatizing. Educational. I now own three crocheted penises and a pair of glitter boots."
"Show us the boots," Shania demands.
"Later."
Kiki’s eyes slide to Carter. Slowly. Assessing. "You survived?"
"I thrived," Carter says dryly.
The girls exchange looks.
"Oh," Malia murmurs. "He’s changed."
"I knew it," Candice says. "He’s glowing."
"I am not glowing."
"You’re sitting closer than usual," Kiki points out.
I glance down. Our thighs are touching. Fully. Intentionally. I do not move.
"So," Shania says, leaning forward. "Are we addressing the elephant in the room, or do we pretend we don’t all know exactly what happened?"
Carter chokes on his margarita.
"Ladies," I warn. "This is Carter’s first brunch. Go easy on him."
"Benji," Candice says gently. "We love you. We deserve details."
"You’ll get vibes and gratitude. That’s it."
"That’s all I need, really. My imagination can fill in the blanks."
They turn their collective attention to Carter.
Malia tightens her ponytail. "And you? What are your thoughts?"
He hesitates. Just a beat. Then says, "He’s… remarkable."
I blink. The table goes quiet.
Shania softens first. "Oh."
Candice smiles slowly. "Well."
Kiki clasps her hands. "I love this for you both."
I clear my throat. "Okay, enough vulnerability before noon."
But something warm settles in my chest.
Later, when I finally get them to leave, Carter leans against the counter beside me.
"They love you."
"I know. It’s a burden."
He smiles fondly. And standing there in his kitchen, surrounded by half-drunk margaritas, HOA emails, and the lingering echo of laughter, I feel my life expanding, reshaping, and making room for him. And the fact that it scares me a little? Only proves how much I already care.
We step outside into the crisp afternoon, arms full of my luggage and leftover muffins, and immediately freeze. Eunice is standing at my mailbox, holding a ring of paint swatches in one hand and a clipboard in the other, squinting at the box as if she’s assessing structural integrity.
Carter blinks. "Why is Eunice hovering over your mailbox with color swatches?"
I groan. "Last week she sent me a letter stating her suspicions that my paint color isn’t the HOA-approved shade of beige."
Carter looks from my mailbox to his. Then back again. "But it looks exactly like mine. And the rest of the street."
"Exactly. Enigmatic Ecru."
He snorts.
"That is an oxymoron," I inform him. "Ecru is not enigmatic. It’s plain, boring, and lifeless. Also, the builder painted it before I bought this house. So, whatever shade she determines it is doesn’t matter because I’m grandfathered in."
"Rules evolve, Benjamin," Eunice says without turning around. "The spirit of regulation transcends time."
Carter presses his lips together. I can practically see the laugh trying to escape.
"Did the spirit of regulation tell you to bring swatches?" he asks.
She finally turns. "If I’m going to cite a violation, I prefer to do so with visual evidence."
I clutch my chest. "You wound me."
She steps closer, holding a strip of beiges against my mailbox. "This is Oat Whisper."
"Sounds like a digestive disorder," I mock.
Eunice holds up another swatch. "Or perhaps Sand Dignity."
"Absolutely not."
Carter loses it, ducking his head, shoulders shaking.
"If she touches my mailbox," I mutter, "I will repaint hers hot pink."
Eunice gasps. "You would not."
"I absolutely would."
"Benjamin—"
"Try me."
Carter slips his arm around my waist, gentle and grounding. "Let’s not start a paint war."
I glance up at him. "Have you met me? I was born for a paint war."
The cider tasting unfolds exactly how you’d expect, which is to say: disastrously.
Eunice Dobbins has transformed the clubhouse into what I can only describe as autumnal foreplay.
Hay bales scattered around the perimeter hold pumpkins of all sizes.
Strategically draped fairy lights glow from the ceiling.
And taped to the wall is a banner that reads: TAKE IT TO THE MOUTH — MORNINGWOOD CIDER SOCIAL
Carter stops dead in the doorway.
"I will never recover from this," he mutters.
I, on the other hand, am thriving in my navy shorts, ivory button-down, loafers, and canvas belt dotted with red and green apples.
"I told you," I say, grabbing his hand. "She’s a menace with Canva."
Inside, residents mill around clutching tiny paper sample cups while Eunice presides over a folding table lined with bottles labeled with handwritten tasting notes.
There are flavors like Crisp Apple Delight, Spiced Orchard Fantasy, and Harder Cider for Harder Times. I refuse to speculate.
"Benjamin!" Eunice cries, spotting me. "You made it!"
She zeroes in on Carter. "And you brought… a guest."
Carter clears his throat. "I live here."
"Yes, but now you’re with him." She waves a hand vaguely between us.
I grin. Carter stiffens.
"That’s not—" he starts.
"Oh, hush," she says. "Everyone knows."
Yes, everyone who scoped out our matching empty driveways all weekend, and who were staring out their windows when we pulled up together with luggage.
She shoves two tiny cups into our hands. "Drink. Mingle. Take it to the mouth."
We make a circuit of the room, stopping to talk to our neighbors. For every cup Carter samples, I sample two.
Shania’s husband is six samples in and swaying like a decorative garden flag in a stiff breeze. He’s laughing too loudly, gesturing too broadly, and—unless my eyes are deceiving me—making unmistakable bedroom eyes at Carter over the rim of his tiny paper cup.
I lean in, tilting my head toward his. "You see that, right?"
Carter murmurs, "Please tell me you’re not about to say what I think you are."
"Oh, I absolutely am. Shania’s husband is flirting with you."
"He is not."
"He complimented your shoulders for a full minute."
"He said I had good posture."
"That was foreplay."
Carter sighs. "This neighborhood is exhausting."
"You’d think a place called Morningwood Estates would have more stamina."
He chokes on his cider.
We’re mid-debate over whether Spiced Orchard Fantasy tastes more like apples or regret when a blur of motion barrels through the clubhouse.
Kiki’s kids. Of course.
They clip the edge of the tasting table, and suddenly an entire tray of sample cups tips, launching cider across the floor in a sticky, fragrant splash.
Everyone freezes. Then Kiki shouts, "NO—" Too late.
One kid slides in it, arms pinwheeling, while the other shrieks with delighted laughter.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Who brings children to a drinking event?"
Kiki shoots me a look. "You don’t have kids."
"Obviously. Nobody’s knocked me up yet."
Carter is already grabbing napkins. I’m laughing too hard to be useful. And Kiki’s husband makes a beeline for the bathroom.
Malia corners the recent divorcee from—God help us—Knob Lick Court. She’s leaned in too close, twirling a strand of her hair, nodding far too encouragingly.
"Is she flirting?" Carter whispers.
"Actively."
"With the man who cried at last month’s HOA meeting because his begonias died?"
"Yes."
"Why?"
"Because he’s emotionally available and owns a boat."
"But she’s married."
"Obviously not for long."
I steer him towards another tasting table where we try Harder Cider for Harder Times.
Carter winces. "This tastes like poor decisions."
I take another sip. "I feel judged."
His throat slides as he swallows, drawing my eyes. I’d like to bob on his Adam’s apple.
Carter lowers his cup. "That one has notes of oak and recklessness."
"Honestly, same."
He hands me Crisp Apple Delight.
I take a sip and consider. "That’s aggressively wholesome."
"That’s because Eunice picked it."
"Of course she did. She wants us to behave."
We both stare across the room at Shania’s husband, who is now telling a story with interpretive gestures.
"We are not behaving," Carter agrees.
At some point, Eunice corners us with a clipboard.
"I’ve been meaning to ask," she says brightly, "what do you boys think about adding a holiday couples gingerbread house decorating contest?"
Carter stiffens, already sensing disaster.
I beam. "Only if we get matching aprons."
She claps. "Oh, I knew you two would be fun."
When she leaves, Carter exhales. "I don’t understand how you survive this place."
"I thrive. There’s a difference."
He shakes his head, lips twitching. "You’re impossible."
I bump my shoulder into his. "Yes, but you keep coming back for more."
He glances at me with something warm and appreciative in his eyes. "Yeah. I do."
As we stand there sipping cider, watching the neighborhood unravel in slow motion, and laughing under our breath like we share a private frequency, I think—not for the first time—that chaos makes a lot more sense when you’re facing it with someone else.
Carter shakes his head as he watches Kiki drag her youngest out the door, the kid’s shoes stickily squelching against the linoleum with every whiny step.
"FYI: We’re skipping the pumpkin roll. We can read all about the highlights in the Morningwood Minute."
Wrapping my arm around his waist, I steer him toward the door.
"Deal. You can take me out to dinner instead."
As we’re walking home, hand in hand, my phone dings with a notification.
"Oh great, they’ve already posted our official couple’s picture in the Morningwood Minute."
Carter laughs. "Do yourself a favor and silence the comments."