Chapter 31
As Neighborhood Watch Captain, it's my job to make sure nothing is happening on my street besides trick-or-treating, though I occasionally turn a blind eye if certain members of the HOA board get their trees toilet-papered.
Carter stands beside me on my porch in jeans and a black T-shirt that says BOO! in block letters. That’s it. That’s the whole look.
"That’s your costume?"
"Yes."
"That’s not a costume."
"It says boo."
"You look like you stopped trying halfway through a thought."
"I look comfortable."
I glance down at my boots, open shirt, sash, sword, and hat, the full dramatic production. The breeze lifts the edge of my coat, and I feel ridiculous and spectacular in equal measure.
"You could have coordinated with me."
"Not on your life."
I sigh. "This is a betrayal of the aesthetic. I worked very hard to be the moment, and you’ve undermined that."
He rolls his eyes, but there’s affection in it. "You’re dressed like a romance novel fever dream."
"Correct. And you’re dressed like a man who plans to sit."
"That is also correct."
We settle into our chairs, candy bowls between us, the street already alive with children, glowing porch lights, and the hum of inflatable decor motors.
This is the part I love, the anticipation, the way the whole neighborhood feels momentarily softer, brighter, as if it’s letting itself believe in small magic.
Carter leans toward my bowl, peering inside.
"Are those full-size candy bars?"
"Yes."
"That’s excessive."
"That’s strategic."
"You’re bribing children."
"I’m building long-term loyalty."
He snorts, glancing into his own bowl at the carefully curated mix of minis and sensible options. I spot the Tootsie Rolls immediately.
"No," I say firmly. "Not on my porch."
"They’re classic."
"They’re trash."
"You’re dramatic."
"I’m correct."
The first wave of trick-or-treaters arrives, and for a while everything blurs into motion, costumes and laughter, and tiny hands clutching buckets.
I hand out full-size chocolate as though I’m distributing rare artifacts.
Carter gives out his mix, offering patient smiles and the occasional earnest compliment about costumes.
Within minutes, word spreads. Kids begin drifting toward me, whispering loudly about "the pirate house" and "the big candy."
Carter sighs. "This is unfair competition."
"You’re just jealous that I have better candy."
He opens his mouth to argue, and I add under my breath, "And a better costume."
He hears me anyway. His mouth twitches. "You look ridiculous."
"Last time I wore this, you ate my ass for twenty minutes. I think you’re lying."
Despite himself, he laughs easily, and a quiet, grounding warmth settles in my chest. As the night goes on, the competition escalates in subtle ways.
Carter upgrades his offerings to glow sticks, sour gummies, and eventually, full-size bars of his own.
It becomes an arms race, and I am deeply invested.
At one point, a tiny witch stops between us, looks back and forth, and whispers, "This is intense."
"Choose wisely," I tell her solemnly.
She takes candy from both of us and runs.
Carter tracks her retreat with narrow eyes. "Traitor."
By the time the sidewalks finally empty, we’re both slumped in our chairs, candy buckets ravaged, and the candles in our pumpkins have burned down to nothing. For a moment, we just sit there, shoulder to shoulder, letting the stillness settle.
Until Carter breaks it. "You know, this used to be my least favorite night of the year."
"And now?"
He glances sideways at me. "Now it’s… good."
The simplicity of it hits harder than anything dramatic could.
"Careful," I say gently. "That’s how they get you."
His mouth curves into a small smile. "You already did."
"Come on, Reed. Let’s go inside. You’ve been dying to get me out of this costume all night."
Carter stands and stretches, working the kinks from his back. "Not for the reasons you think."
"We’ll see about that."
Carter mentions Thanksgiving the way he mentions the weather. Casually. Offhandedly. As if it’s not a looming social minefield with a side of pie.
"My brother and parents are coming over for Thanksgiving," he says, scrolling through his phone. "They’ll be here Thursday afternoon."
"Oh," I reply, far too quickly. "Fun."
Fun, yes. Families. Holidays. Expectations. A buffet of deeply avoidable discomfort. Very fun. I immediately spiral.
Not externally. Externally, I am the picture of breezy indifference. Internally, I am staging a full theatrical production titled Why Am I Like This?
Because I want him to invite me.
And I also absolutely do not.
Because meeting someone’s parents is a thing. A big thing. A capital-T Thing. Especially when you’re not sure what you are yet, except very much something.
And Carter Reed’s parents feel like they would notice things.
So I spend the rest of the afternoon acting completely normal, which unfortunately for me looks like reorganizing my spice drawer and alphabetizing my tea collection.
Carter notices.
"Why are you alphabetizing cinnamon?"
"It was out of order."
"There are two jars."
"That’s too many for chaos."
He studies me for a moment. "What’s wrong?"
"Nothing."
"You reorganized the junk drawer."
"I like knowing where the batteries live."
"You’re vibrating."
"Am not. I haven’t worn my vibrating plug since—" I look up to see mild surprise color his cheeks, and bite off the rest of the sentence. "Oh," I sigh. "Forget I said that."
His eyeroll says that’s unlikely.
"Fine," I admit. "You mentioned Thanksgiving, and now my brain is doing that thing where it catastrophizes, and I can’t decide whether I want you to invite me or not invite me, and it’s deeply inconvenient."
His brow creases. "Why wouldn’t I invite you?"
"Because it’s family. And pressure. And expectations. What if your mom hates me? What if your dad thinks I’m too much? What if your brother clocks me as drama incarnate and stages an intervention?"
He stares at me for a beat. Then laughs, warm, genuine, and fond.
"Benji," he says, reaching for my hand. "Of course you’re invited."
Something in my chest loosens.
"You don’t even have to think about it," he adds. "You’re coming. End of discussion."
I swallow. "Okay."
He tilts his head. "What about your parents?"
"Oh," I say lightly. "They’re Jewish."
"So? I believe Jewish people also celebrate Thanksgiving."
"They do. But my parents aren’t traditional people."
"What does that mean?"
"It means my mother makes reservations," I say. "Not turkey."
He laughs. "Of course she does."
Thanksgiving morning begins with me standing in front of my closet, paralyzed. This is unprecedented.
Normally, I wake up and throw on something fabulous with the confidence of a man who knows his thighs are a public service. Today, however, I have tried on six outfits, rejected all of them, and am now spiraling in sock limbo.
I call Malia.
She answers on the second ring. "If this is about outfits, I swear—"
"It’s about outfits."
"Of course it is. What’s the situation?"
"Carter’s parents. Thanksgiving. First impressions. High stakes. I need to look hot but not threatening."
She hums thoughtfully. "Go slutty."
"No."
"Go bold."
"No."
"Go sequins."
"I am meeting his mother."
"So? Impress her."
"I want her to trust me, not fear me."
Malia snorts. "Coward."
I hang up and try a deep V-neck sweater.
Too much chest. I try a fitted button-down.
Too corporate. I try a cozy cardigan. Too librarian.
Finally, in a moment of uncharacteristic self-betrayal, I choose something simple: dark jeans, soft gray sweater, clean sneakers, and an understated watch.
Comfortable. Neutral. Warm. Very… Carter-coded.
I stare at myself in the mirror. Who is she?
But when I imagine his quiet approval, the way his eyes soften when I look like I belong in his world, my chest does that stupid flutter again.
"Traitor," I mutter to my reflection. Still, I keep the outfit.
Grabbing the basket of homemade corn muffins and yeast rolls, I head across the street and knock on the door of Carter’s atrocious neon lemon-taffy house, which should be illegal under both HOA guidelines and basic aesthetic decency.
The door opens almost immediately.
Carter’s there in a soft flannel and dark jeans, sleeves rolled up, hair still a little damp as though he rushed. He smells like coffee and soap and something warm from the kitchen—sage, maybe. Or butter. Or financial stability. Totally hot.
He looks at me—and pauses.
"Hey," he says.
"Hey."
I hold up the basket like a peace offering. "Carb tribute."
He takes it automatically, then seems to realize he’s still staring.
"You look…" He searches for the word. "Nice."
Not hot. Not bold. Not theatrical. Nice. And somehow, that hits harder.
"Don’t sound so surprised," I tease lightly.
"I’m not surprised. I’m just… appreciating."
That’s worse. In a good way. In a dangerous way.
As soon as I step inside, the warmth of the house wraps around me. Voices in the background, kitchen noise, and the low hum of family energy. It smells of roasting turkey and spices and comfort.
"Everyone’s here?"
"My brother’s terrorizing the TV. My mom’s reorganizing the counter. And my dad’s pretending he doesn’t notice."
I smile because they sound a lot like my parents. "Classic."
Damn, I should have come earlier instead of spiraling over my wardrobe so that we could have greeted them as a couple.
As we walk toward the kitchen, his hand brushes mine. Neither of us moves away. And suddenly, I’m not thinking about outfits, or parents, or expectations. I’m thinking about how strange it is that a man I once considered my arch-rival now feels like the safest place in the room.
And how quietly, steadily, that happened. As though it didn’t crash into my life. It just… moved in.
The kitchen is already a controlled disaster.
Carter’s mother is at the counter, sleeves rolled up, commanding the space like a benevolent general.
His father stands nearby, pretending to supervise while covertly sneaking bites of stuffing.
His brother has claimed the living room, where a football game blares at a volume that suggests unresolved feelings about sports.
"This must be Benji," his mom says the second she spots me, her face lighting up.
"Yes, ma’am," I say, bracing myself.
She immediately pulls me into a hug. Not a polite one. A full, warm, maternal squeeze.
"Oh, you’re adorable." She steps back, holding my shoulders. "Carter’s told us so much about you."
I blink, feeling a little stunned. "He has?"
Carter clears his throat. "Some."
"Enough," his brother calls from the couch. "We know he smiles at his phone now. That’s already suspicious."
"Mark," Carter warns.
"What? I’m supportive," he calls again.
His dad shakes my hand, firm and kind. "It’s good to finally meet you. Anyone who can make our son loosen up is welcome in this house."
Something in my chest unclenches at that. "Thank you."
Dinner is loud and layered and wonderfully messy.
There’s overlapping conversation, gentle ribbing, and shared stories.
Carter’s mom asks about my work and listens as though she genuinely cares.
His dad wants to know how the HOA functions, which sends us down a rabbit hole of rules and regulations, newsletters, and Eunice Dobbins’ dangerous relationship with clip art.
At one point, Mark squints at me thoughtfully. "So… how serious is this?"
"Is what?" I ask.
He gestures vaguely between Carter and me. "Whatever this is."
Carter sighs. "Can you not interrogate my boyfriend at the dinner table?"
The table goes still. I freeze.
Mark’s grin spreads slow and delightedly. "Oh, so we’re using the B-word now?"
Carter’s ears go red. "I meant—"
"I like the B-word," I say quietly, though my heartbeat is anything but.
His mom presses a hand to her chest. "Oh, that’s lovely."
His dad nods. "Took you long enough."
Carter looks between all of them, baffled. "You’re all on his side?"
"Obviously," Mark says. "He brought baked goods."
After dinner, while plates are being cleared and pie is sliced, Mark wanders toward the front window. He stops and stares, then bursts out laughing.
"Oh my God," he calls. "The flamingos."
I follow his gaze. In my yard, my beloved flamingo pair stand proudly in the fading light, both sporting tiny pilgrim hats and miniature black felt buckles.
Mark wipes his eyes. "He’s perfect for you, man."
Carter glances at me, soft and a little shy. "Yeah?"
"Yeah," his brother says easily. "Just what you need."
Something settles firmly into place inside me. A truth I didn’t know I was waiting to hear.