The Gaybor War

Chapter 1

I’ve never made it past the first line of The Morningwood Monthly without losing faith in humanity.

"Rise and Shine, Morningwood!" it says—again, as if that’s a normal way to greet two hundred property-tax-paying adults. There’s a sun emoji this month. Bold choice. I picture Mrs. Dobbins at her desktop computer, clicking Insert Symbol like she’s dropping a bomb.

I can’t tell if she’s blissfully na?ve or an undercover comedian.

Around the table, the ladies of Morningwood Estates sip mimosas as if this is completely normal behavior and not a cry for help from suburbia.

"A tidy Morningwood is a happy Morningwood!" I continue.

Shania chokes on her drink and fans herself with three-inch-long acrylic nails bedazzled with rhinestones.

"I mean," I add, lowering the page, "she’s not wrong. No one likes an untidy Morningwood. Someone could trip."

Malia presses a hand to her chest. "I told her we should rebrand."

Dressed head to toe in Lululemon, she’s nursing a green juice so violently neon it could power a Tesla. She’s never seen the inside of a gym, but she talks about yoga as though she’s the reincarnation of Gwyneth Paltrow.

"You told her we should start a wellness blog," Candace corrects. She’s in her usual sweats and UGGs, effortlessly pulling off "I woke up like this" in a way that feels almost couture.

"It could still happen."

"It absolutely should not."

I flip the page, committed now. "The Beautification Committee has freshly trimmed the hedges at the entrance."

Kiki snorts, nearly knocking over her drink as one of her feral children crawls under the table and kicks my shin. "I’m sorry—what?"

"Freshly trimmed hedges," I repeat. "This is erotica. For gardeners."

"No, no, keep going," Shania says, waving her hand. "I want to hear how deep this goes."

"Oh, it goes deep," I assure her. "There’s a lemonade social, a brownie contest—"

Candace perks up. "I could win that."

"You burned water last week."

"That was sabotage."

The newsletter is the usual suburban masterpiece of yard sale announcements, bake sale reminders, and the HOA meeting in the clubhouse where everyone will pretend they don’t drink wine from insulated travel mugs.

I’m tempted to lace the brownies with THC just to see Eunice Dobbins finally pull that stick out of her ass, but I can’t do that to the kids.

I scroll through the rest because, like every true masochist, I can’t look away from the trainwreck.

"And—oh, good—HOA reminders." I clear my throat. "No visible trash cans, no non-approved fencing, and absolutely no joy."

"Standard," Kiki mutters, draining her mimosa in one gulp.

I flip to the last line and pause. "Oh, they’ve outdone themselves."

"What?" Malia leans forward.

I hold it up like evidence. "A community that rises together, shines together. Jesus Christ," I whisper, staring at it like it’s a threat. "They doubled down."

The entire table dissolves into laughter.

"I can’t live like this," I say, dropping the newsletter onto the table. "I won’t."

"You thrive on this," Shania counters. "Don’t lie."

She’s not wrong.

Morningwood Estates is pastel houses, manicured lawns, and enough passive aggression to power a small city. My house—Sunset Sorbet, HOA approved—is directly across from the Lemon Taffy one that’s been sitting empty for weeks.

Empty. Peaceful. A gift.

"Anyway," Candace says, finally looking up, eyes sharp with interest—because nothing fuels her like new information she can immediately weaponize—"we have more important things to discuss."

I narrow my eyes. "That tone concerns me."

"We have a new neighbor."

All eyes swing to me. Shania leans forward, fully invested. Of course she is. If there’s a narrative, she’s already cast it, directed it, and assigned me the lead.

I set my mimosa down slowly. "No."

"Yes," Shania sings. "Across the street from you."

"Absolutely not."

"Single," Malia adds.

Kiki raises her glass. "God help him."

I hate how interested I am. "Stop. Right now."

"Benji," Candace says gently, "two S.A.G.s on the same street—"

And there it is—S.A.G—Single and gay, my honorary title bestowed by well-meaning women with piss-poor imaginations.

I close my eyes. "We need to retire that acronym."

"It’s affectionate," she insists.

"It’s traumatizing," I correct. "You take the periods out and suddenly I’m thinking about sagging anatomy and poor life choices." And my ex, three mistakes ago, who had the saggiest, lowest hanging ball sac I’d ever had the misfortune of putting in my mouth.

Kiki laughs. "You’re impossible."

"I’m self-aware."

Shania smirks. "Word is he’s your type."

"Define my type."

"Breathing," she shoots back.

The table erupts again, and I hate that I’m smiling. Because they’re already planning it. I can see it. In their eyes. In the way Candace is nodding like she’s officiating something.

Matchmaking. For me.

Great. I’m surrounded by women who treat me like I have a vagina.

"Do not," I warn. "Do not involve me."

"Too late," Malia says. "Linda already posted the SOLD sign in the group chat."

Of course she did.

I grab my phone.

Of course there’s a new thread.

Of course my name is in it.

The Morningwood Minute is exactly what I expect—notifications stacked like bad decisions.

Linda: New neighbor moving in!!!

Eunice: A young man! How lovely.

Candace: Benji will make him feel welcome

I stare at it. Then type:

Nothing says welcome like a man in pajama shorts and a hangover.

I hit send. No one reacts. They never react.

I look up. "I’m being ignored in real time."

"Because you’re deflecting," Shania says sweetly.

"I’m surviving."

Apparently being single, gay, and friendly in this zip code means you’re a community project. A rescue mission with good hair.

"You’re curious."

"I am not."

"You are," four voices say in unison.

I drain my mimosa.

"Right," I say dryly. "Because statistically, every gay man in a five-mile radius is legally required to fall in love. I read that in Better Homes and Heartthrobs. And even if I was interested," I add, pushing to my feet, "this subdivision isn’t big enough for two of me."

"Oh, honey," Candace says. "There’s only one of you."

"Thank God."

"Moving on to matters of actual importance," Candace continues. "Apparently Denise on Bent Shaft Way is replacing her azaleas with hydrangeas because Gary said they photograph better."

"Interesting," I say, tipping my empty glass toward her.

Candace narrows her eyes. "I haven’t finished."

"I know. Still interesting."

She huffs and launches into what I’m sure is a deeply compelling account of Denise’s floral betrayal, but I’m already elsewhere.

Because for the first time all morning, the thought of the house across the street doesn’t feel like neighborhood gossip.

It feels like anticipation.

Whoever he is, whatever impossible combination of charming and insufferable these women have already decided he’ll be, he’s coming.

And despite every instinct telling me this is a terrible idea, I can’t stop wondering when he’ll finally show up.

On my walk home, past sprinklers misting in perfect sync, I wave to three more neighbors. Across the street, Mrs. Dobbins is already out watering her hydrangeas in a visor the size of a satellite dish. She waves.

I wave back, because I’m not a monster.

I’m hyperaware of everything in the neighborhood because working from home leaves me with a lot of time on my hands.

Mr. Tilson overwaters his azaleas every Tuesday.

Mrs. Marks carries plastic bags with her when she walks her cocker spaniel, Missy, but never actually picks up her dog’s poop from her neighbor’s yards.

And the Neighborhood Watch sign is crooked, which I’m tempted to fix just to assert dominance.

Everything is meticulous, pastel, and absurdly calm. And I’m the one who notices the ridiculousness. Which is why reading The Morningwood Monthly is both entertainment and torture.

By the time I reach my driveway, the air smells like fresh-cut grass, jasmine, and impending disaster.

I’m not looking. I refuse to look. I absolutely look. A black Audi SUV pulls up across the street.

"Well," I mutter, grabbing a handful of bills and advertising flyers from my mailbox. "Here we go."

The driver’s door opens. Out steps—Of course he’s hot. Gray T-shirt. Jeans that look like they were engineered by sin. The kind of shoulders that make you reconsider your entire personality.

I fan myself with a discount brochure for delivery pizza. "Rude."

At least I don’t look completely tragic.

Today’s ensemble is a yellow short-sleeve button-up dotted with martini glasses, fitting for the occasion, and khaki shorts the same color as the olives in the drinks, and yes, they’re on the short side.

If you’ve got decent thighs and a crippling need for validation, you flaunt them.

He grabs a box and hauls it toward the house—no help, no hesitation, just pure competence. I narrow my eyes.

"I don’t like him already."

He disappears inside. I linger. Because I’m not a stalker. I’m observant. There’s a difference. He comes back out, jaw tight, clearly in a committed relationship with irritation. Boxes start stacking up in the driveway like a Jenga tower built on testosterone.

He lifts his shirt to wipe his face.

"Okay," I wheeze. "So, he’s hot and capable. Disgusting."

He drags an oversized ottoman out next. Alone. Obviously. Because asking for help would be too easy. It gets stuck in the doorway.

A small, satisfied smile tugs at my lips. Petty? Absolutely.

"Oh, this is going to go badly."

He shoves. It doesn’t move.

I cover my smirk with an appointment reminder card from my dentist, fully invested now.

"Should I help?" I whisper. No. Absolutely not. That’s how this starts. That’s how I end up in a relationship because I assisted with furniture. Also, I hate to sweat if it doesn’t directly benefit me in some way—i.e., tanning, exercise, and sex.

He steps back, frustrated, muttering something I can’t hear but absolutely understand.

I laugh. A full, unfiltered snort. And of course, that’s when he looks up. Our eyes meet.

"Shit."

I turn so fast I nearly trip over a sprinkler head. Mail scatters everywhere. My phone buzzes immediately.

Shania: HE’S THERE, ISN’T HE

Malia: Go say hi!!!

Candace: Bring something!

Kiki: Make it cute!!

I stare at the messages. Then, across the street. Then back at the messages.

"Welcome to Morningwood," I mutter, grabbing up glossy flyers before they blow away. "Hope you like color-coded chaos."