Chapter 33
Ithought we were on the same team.
That is the exact thought running through my head as I step onto my porch the next morning, travel mug in hand, messenger bag slung over my shoulder, and brain still foggy with sleep.
I make it three steps before I stop, blink once, twice, and then just stand there, staring at my front yard as if I’ve stumbled into an alternate reality curated by a drunk mall Santa. Because standing proudly in the middle of my meticulously landscaped lawn are two inflatable reindeer.
The thing is, they’re not grazing or prancing or pulling Santa’s sleigh like reindeer do.
No.
They are humping.
Full pelvic alignment. Strategic positioning. One reindeer mounted atop the other in a way that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination. Their vacant eyes stare into the distance as if daring God himself—or Eunice—to intervene.
My jaw drops.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me."
Across the street, Benji’s front door opens. He steps out onto his porch in fuzzy pajama pants, an oversized hoodie, and zero shame, coffee mug in hand. He takes one look at my yard and beams like a proud parent at a preschool talent show.
"Good morning, neighbor!"
"You vandalized my lawn."
"I enhanced your lawn."
"With fornicating livestock."
"They’re in love."
"They’re inflatable sex offenders. How could you?"
Benji lifts his mug in a lazy toast. "All bets are off, Carter. You started this when you out-shined my flamingo nativity scene."
"I thought we were on the same team!"
His grin is slow and wicked. "Every man for himself. There can only be one winner."
I drag a hand down my face, fighting a laugh and a homicidal urge in equal measure.
"You realize this means war."
"Already ahead of you."
I glance past him at the Sunset Sorbet disco ball.
His house is glowing. Not lit. Glowing. There are at least four additional plastic flamingos now wearing Santa hats, candy-cane striped scarves, and what appears to be a tiny tinsel harness pulling a glitter-drenched sleigh.
Rainbow lights cascade from his gutters in aggressive waves.
A colorful LED orb spins slowly from his porch ceiling where the bug zapper used to hang, scattering fractured color across the snow.
And dead center, planted like a challenge, is a new sign:
STEAL CHRISTMAS — I DARE YOU.
I turn back to him. "You’re a menace."
He blows me a kiss. "And you’re obsessed with me. Get in your bird-poop-mobile and go make spreadsheets about it."
I glance at my SUV, still covered in avian judgment, and step off my porch, pointing my finger in his direction.
"This isn’t over, Stewart."
Benji straightens and lifts his mug in a crisp little salute. "I certainly hope not. It’s like festive foreplay."
I climb into my car, muttering threats involving synchronized light displays, twelve-foot nutcrackers, and possibly a mechanical snowman. In the rearview mirror, I catch him still standing there, watching me go, grin crooked, eyes sparkling.
And despite the inflatable reindeer pornography, the glitter war, and the bird crap, I can’t stop smiling. Because this war is the most fun I’ve had in years. Even though I have a sneaking suspicion I’m going to lose.
The war escalates fast.
By Thursday, Benji has installed so many lights that his house is visible from space. By Friday, I’ve synchronized mine to music. By Saturday, the HOA hotline is receiving anonymous complaints every twelve minutes, and Eunice is one misplaced extension cord away from open revolt.
Even the ladies are opting to stay out of it, claiming they are neutral bystanders.
I’m standing on my porch adjusting a strand of lights when I hear it.
The creak of his rusty ladder hinges followed by a sharp intake of breath.
Then, "Shit—!"
I look up to see Benji is at the very top of a ladder leaning precariously against his gutter, wrestling with a tangled knot of rainbow icicle lights and a plastic flamingo wearing a Santa hat and what appears to be lingerie.
"Benji," I call. "You’re going to die."
"Worth it," he pants, yanking the cord free. "I almost have the flamingo choir line symmetrical—"
The ladder shifts just slightly, but enough to triple the threat of danger.
My stomach drops. "Benji." I start off across the lawn, intending to deliver a stern warning while holding the ladder steady.
He reaches again but freezes when the ladder wobbles. Slowly, he looks down at the icy ground.
"Oh," he says faintly. "That’s… not ideal."
Then gravity decides to participate. The ladder kicks out. Benji yelps, arms flailing, flamingo flying.
I don’t think. I just move, crossing the street at a sprint, barely registering the honk of Mr. Abrams’s Pontiac. I catch Benji mid-fall, momentum slamming into me as we stagger backward. My foot slips on icy pavement, and we go down in a tangle of limbs and breath and startled noise.
I hit the ground first. Benji lands squarely on top of me. For a second, all I can hear is our breathing—his sharp and fast, mine ragged from adrenaline. His hands are braced on my chest, his face inches from mine, eyes blown wide.
"Well," he murmurs. "That’s one way to get you on your back."
"Are you hurt?" I ask, ignoring him completely.
He shakes his head, then hesitates but doesn’t immediately move.
"I’m okay, I just—" He swallows. "I hate heights. I’m good at pretending I don’t."
The admission lands harder than the fall.
"You don’t have to pretend with me."
His gaze flicks to mine, something raw and unguarded slipping through the usual sparkle.
"Yeah," he murmurs. "I think I know that."
Snow flurries drift down lazily around us. Christmas lights blink overhead. From across the street, one of my synchronized speakers begins playing a tinny version of All I Want for Christmas Is You.
Our breathing slows. The moment stretches. His thumb brushes the collar of my coat, and I wish we weren’t lying on the hard, icy ground surrounded by prying eyes, but in a warm, cozy bed with fewer layers between us.
"You didn’t hesitate," he says.
"I didn’t think."
"Same thing."
Something tight loosens in his expression. "Guess we really are on the same team."
"I don’t want to lose—" I start.
He looks at me, and I stop. Silence thickens. We’re too close. Breathing the same air. The space between us heating. Slowly, inevitably, he tilts his head. His warm breath puffs across my numb lips, making them tingle. Then—
"Oh my GOD, are you two okay?"
We jerk apart as Eunice Dobbins barrels across her lawn in slippers and a quilted housecoat. Behind her, half the street peers from their windows, apparently thrilled to witness what will absolutely become a Morningwood legend.
Benji groans. "Well. There goes the moment."
"Probably for the best," I mutter, sitting up.
Eunice skids to a stop in front of us, squinting. "Are either of you injured?"
"No," Benji says. "But my pride is devastated."
She narrows her eyes. "Why were you lying on top of him?"
"Team-building exercise," Benji replies smoothly.
I bite my lip.
Eunice sniffs. "Disgraceful," she mutters, already composing the newsletter update in her head.
As she stomps away, Benji looks back at me, eyes sparkling with mischief, mouth curved.
"Temporary truce?" he asks again.
"Temporary," I agree.
But the way we’re looking at each other? The heat, the tension? Neither of us believes it.
The Morningwood Carolers assemble by the front gate in matching scarves and uneven rows, clutching lyric sheets and battery-powered candles, looking as though they’re about to reenact a very low-budget nativity scene.
Benji watches them with the focused intensity of a man judging an Olympic event.
"Okay." He takes a sip of his spiced cider, contemplating. "Strong enthusiasm. Questionable pitch. It’s a bold choreography choice for people who do not know choreography."
"They’re retirees, Benji."
"And yet they insist on jazz hands."
The first note cuts through the frigid air. It wobbles, recovers, and wobbles again.
Benji winces. "That soprano is fighting for her life."
I nudge him. "Be nice."
"I am being nice. I haven’t suggested auto-tune. Out loud."
Despite the uneven harmonies, the crowd hums with warmth. Neighbors gather in winter coats, kids dart between legs, and cocoa steams in paper cups. The streetlights overhead glow a soft gold, reflecting off tinsel and snow and the inevitable glitter that seems to follow Benji wherever he goes.
When the carol ends, applause breaks out, loud and earnest. The singers take a proud bow. Then the ornament ceremony begins. One by one, residents step forward to hang something meaningful.
Shania hangs a tiny wooden train for her father.
Candace adds a glittering heart signed with the names of her closest friends and neighbors.
Kiki’s kids solemnly place a crooked paper angel made of popsicle sticks and hope, stepping back carefully as if they’ve just entrusted the universe with something fragile.
And then it’s our turn.
I crane my head to look up at the community tree. Thirteen feet of pine, freshly erected in all its municipal glory, strung with white lights and guarded by a folding table full of HOA-approved ornaments: snowflakes, mittens, wooden stars, and approximately eight hundred variations of rustic.
Benji stares at it, unimpressed.
Christ, I know that look. "You look like you’re planning a felony."
"I am," he says brightly, pulling something from his tote bag.
It takes me a second to process what I’m seeing. It’s one of his leather Daddy Santa ornaments with a cropped jacket, suspenders, and black boots hot-glued to one of my tasteful glass snowmen in a position that is… unquestionably suggestive.
Santa is definitely not checking the snowman for structural integrity.
"Benji."
"What?" He bats his lashes. "It’s mixed media. A statement piece."
"You glued my snowman to your bondage Santa."
"Correction. I united them. In passion."
I rub a hand over my face. "The HOA is going to burn you alive."
"Worth it."
We step up to the tree together, hands brushing as we reach for a branch. I lace my fingers through his without thinking, and he squeezes back before lifting our joined hands to hang the ornament. It catches the light perfectly. A tiny, obscene beacon of festive rebellion.
"Beautiful," Benji whispers.
"You’re impossible."
He leans in close and smiles up at me with soft twinkling eyes. "But, you love me despite that."
I do. The realization lands softly, completely. Without thinking it through clearly, I kiss him. A simple, public kiss under twinkling lights and falling snow, his free hand curling into my coat. The soft smile on his lips when he pulls back warms me from the inside out.
"Daddy!" Kiki’s youngest shrieks, pointing. "What’s Santa doing to the snowman?"
Every adult within a thirty-foot radius freezes.
Kiki turns slowly toward us, her glare lethal.
Benji clears his throat. "Ah, yes. Well. You see—"
I brace myself.
"Santa is giving the snowman a very enthusiastic hug," Benji says solemnly. "Because winter is hard and the snowman looks like he’s had a rough year."
The silence is deafening. Kiki blinks. Once. Twice. "Move the ornament, Benji."
"Wow," he says bitterly, carefully unhooking it. "Cancel culture is alive and well in Morningwood."
He relocates the scandalous creation to the back of the tree, hidden behind three layers of pine, two candy canes, and a ceramic cardinal.
I squeeze his hand. "You’re lucky I adore you."
"I know," he says lightly, but his eyes soften, and his thumb strokes my knuckle as if the words mean something.
The lights flicker brighter. The crowd applauds.
Somewhere behind us, Eunice clears her throat suspiciously.
And standing there in the cold, fingers entwined, surrounded by judgmental neighbors and inappropriate ornaments, I realize something simple and extraordinary: This is it.
This ridiculous, sparkling, obscene little life was my end goal all along. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.