Chapter 7
Yard Sale Day in Morningwood Estates is the social event of the season—if your idea of a social event involves sunburns, petty rivalries, and bidding wars over other people’s broken appliances.
I’ve been up since seven, not because I’m dedicated, but because Shania texted "Rise and Shine, Morningwood!" in the group chat at six-forty-five and then followed it with seventeen sparkle emojis.
Now I’m standing in my driveway, surrounded by what can only be described as the end of civilization in box form. My neighbors’ trash, my potential treasure.
First up is a bin labeled ‘miscellaneous kitchen gadgets.’ Inside is a quesadilla maker, three fondue forks, and something that looks like a medieval torture device but turns out to be a cherry pitter.
"Who eats that many cherries?" I mutter. "Are we running a pie cartel?"
Two driveways down, Malia has a row of essential oil diffusers and yoga mats that have clearly never seen a downward dog.
Across the street from her, Candace is selling baby clothes even though her youngest is seven. "They’re vintage collectibles now," she insists.
And Kiki’s table? Absolute madness. A blender without a lid, an incomplete set of hot curlers, two left shoes, and a sign that says ‘Name Your Price.’ I consider offering twenty bucks for the lot, just to salvage her pride.
I’m about to take another lap down the street when I spot something odd under a pile of old DVDs—a framed portrait of a clown. Not a cute circus clown. Haunted-orphanage clown.
"Oh, absolutely not," I whisper. "This thing’s cursed."
I put it back exactly where I found it. Let some unsuspecting fool take that home and release Pennywise 2.0 into their living room.
"Morning, Benji!" calls Ruth from Woodpecker Lane. She’s wearing a visor big enough to interfere with satellite reception, digging through boxes and piles with undisguised glee. "Are you selling anything fun today?"
I wave back. "Just my dignity, Ruth! Half off if you buy in bulk!"
She laughs and wanders off. I’m halfway through reorganizing my table when I see Carter, Mr. Serious himself, looking unfairly good for someone who probably alphabetizes his canned goods.
He’s setting up across the street, and of course his table is perfect. Minimal. Neat rows. Labels. He probably has a spreadsheet. Meanwhile, my area looks like a Pinterest board threw up.
"Hey, neighbor!" I call. "Are you selling the stick up your butt or hanging on to it for sentimental reasons?"
He doesn’t even flinch. "Good morning to you too, Benji."
He’s wearing sunglasses, which somehow makes him hotter and more irritating at the same time. I’m a sucker for aloofness. Maybe it’s the busybody in me?
I sip my iced coffee and lean back in my chair, pretending not to notice how his forearms flex as he arranges things.
"What’re you selling?" I ask. "Books on how not to smile?"
"Actually," he says coolly, "I’ve got some first editions, a couple of vintage records, and a collector's coin set celebrating the national parks." He glances at my table. "What is all… that?"
"This," I declare proudly, "is the culmination of years of tasteful impulse buying and emotional damage."
He smirks, and that tiny crack in his armor that I live for makes an appearance.
"Good luck with your sales." Carter turns back to his table with a smug grin.
"Oh, I don’t need luck." My tone is saccharine-sweet. "I have marketing skills."
Which means putting a big sign in front of my table that says, ‘Benji’s Bargain Bonanza—Come for the deals, stay for the sass.’ The sass is actually my tightest shorts, which the ladies can’t pass up a peek of my junk in, even if said junk will never stand at attention for them.
And when Carter inevitably rolls his eyes, I smile into my cup and mutter, "Hook, line, and uptight sinker."
I get absorbed in Candace’s petty argument with her husband about her audacity to sell the Chinese vase his mother gave them last Christmas, which Candace swears came from HomeGoods and not "the Ming dynasty, Greg, for Christ’s sake."
Their voices rise over the hum of traffic and screaming children.
Greg folds his arms, red-faced. "It has sentimental value!"
Candace snorts. "It has a barcode sticker on the bottom."
"Maybe it’s a reproduction!" he counters.
"Oh, honey, the only thing reproduced was your mother’s taste in bad décor."
I pause mid-sip. I shouldn’t enjoy this. I really shouldn’t. But it’s the kind of live theater that makes HOA dues feel almost worth it.
Across the street, Carter rubs his temples as though he’s calculating how far the property values are falling per insult as he tries to sell a stack of books to Eunice, the self-appointed queen of the HOA and my personal nemesis in beige.
She’s got that expression that says she’s about to turn a conversation into a Supreme Court hearing.
"They’re all first editions. I could do fifty for the set."
"Fifty?" Eunice squeaks. "For paper someone’s already read? Oh, no, dear. Ten."
Carter blinks. "They’re collectible."
"Mm-hmm. So were Beanie Babies and look how that turned out."
I almost choke on my iced coffee.
He tries again, polite but firm. "I paid much more than that."
Eunice sniffs, flipping through the top one as if she’s checking for hidden porn. "Well, maybe you can get your money back on Antiques Roadshow, sweetheart. I’ll give you twelve. Cash."
I fold over my knees, wheezing. My shades slip down my nose. I look up just in time to see Carter pinch the bridge of his nose, physically restraining himself from screaming.
He finally sighs. "Fine. Twelve."
Eunice beams, counting the bills with exacting slowness. She crinkles each one to make sure none are sticking together. "See? Everyone wins when you don’t get greedy."
When she toddles off, triumphant, Carter mutters something I can’t quite catch but sounds suspiciously like, "I hate this place."
"Aw, come on," I call, still laughing. "She’s just testing your community spirit."
He shoots me a look over his sunglasses that could curdle milk. "You enjoy this, don’t you?"
"Immensely."
"I can tell." Carter shakes his head, half amused though he’s clearly trying not to be. "You really do love this circus, huh?"
I lift my cup in salute. "What can I say? I’m the ringmaster."
After two more hours, the sun hits that point where everyone’s sweat is visible, and the iced coffees are exchanged for cold beers. It’s the perfect time to liven things up a little.
Across the street, Carter rearranges his sad, dignified little table as if it’s a museum exhibit. Nobody’s biting.
Meanwhile, I’ve already sold half of my stuff. Turns out all it takes is charm, a decent smile, and a willingness to claim that any random tchotchke has a story.
(Does the ceramic frog lamp have a story? No. Did I make one up involving a forbidden romance between two rival terrarium designers? Absolutely.)
But Carter? The man could be selling Beyoncé’s discarded gum and still make it sound drier than a math lecture.
I take pity. Or maybe I’m just bored. Either way, I open the Morningwood Minute group chat.
Benji: PSA: Hot neighbor across the street is selling books, records, and quiet disappointment. Stop by and make him smile.
Carter’s phone buzzes. He looks at it, then at me. His jaw tightens in slow motion. He mouths, What did you do?
I give him my most innocent smile and lift my tumbler in a toast.
Five minutes later, three ladies happen to wander over to his table.
"Oh, Carter," Shania trills, "Benji said you were selling rare vinyls!"
He stutters. "I—what?"
"And I heard you’re offering a Hot Neighbor Discount!" Malia adds, all sparkly eyes and mischief.
The look on his face could power a small city.
"I am not offering a—" he starts, but it’s too late. They’re giggling, flipping through his records, fawning as if he’s the grand prize on The Bachelor: HOA Edition.
I lose it. I have to physically bite my straw to keep from bursting out laughing.
Eventually, he extricates himself, stalks across the street, and plants himself in front of my table.
"Did you seriously announce a ‘Hot Neighbor Discount’ on the group chat?"
I blink up at him. "Did I? Huh. Must’ve hit send by accident."
His voice drops, low and incredulous. "You’re unbelievable."
"Glad you finally noticed."
He exhales through his nose, two seconds away from throttling me—or kissing me just to shut me up. The tension sizzles for one absurdly long heartbeat.
Then Eunice’s voice carries from somewhere down the street. "Someone’s lemonade tastes suspiciously like vodka!"
I raise my cup. "Not it."
Carter stares at me. "You’re chaos personified."
"And you’re fun-deprived," I shoot back. "Opposites attract."
He groans and walks off, muttering, "This neighborhood’s going to give me an ulcer."
By early afternoon, the street looks like a pastel battlefield. Half the residents are sunburned, someone’s Bluetooth speaker is blasting ABBA, and I’ve reached the point where even my sunglasses feel sweaty.
I’m about to start packing up when I hear Kiki shrieking, "Dylan! What are you doing?!"
My head snaps up. Across the lawn, her two youngest are playing catch with—oh my God.
"Oh no," I whisper. "Oh no no no."
It’s unmistakable. Neon pink, silicone, battery-operated, and currently mid-air between two giggling children.
"Put that down!" Kiki yells, diving as if she’s in an Olympic event. The kids miss the catch, and the thing hits the pavement with a tragic buzz-bounce-buzz.
The entire street goes silent. Even ABBA dies off.
Candace covers her mouth. "Please tell me that’s a dog toy."
Shania squints. "Not unless it’s for a very… specific breed."
Malia chokes on what I’m sure is alcohol-laced coffee. "Oh my God, who was selling that?"
All eyes swivel toward Eunice’s table, where she’s staring at an empty box labeled ‘Misc. Personal Items – $1 Each.’
Eunice gasps, hand to her chest. "That was supposed to go to Goodwill!"
"Oh, honey," I say, trying not to laugh, "you’re about to be very well known at Goodwill." Honestly, how is that a donatable item?
Kiki finally snatches it up, holding it by the tip as if it’s radioactive. "My kids just played catch with a—"
"Don’t finish that sentence!" I interrupt, waving my hands. "We don’t need it on record!"
From across the street, Carter groans into his palms. "This neighborhood is a lawsuit waiting to happen."
I take it in stride. "Actually, it’s very on brand for this neighborhood."
Kiki glares at me, cheeks glowing red. "You think this is funny?"
"Yes," I say. "But also traumatic."
She sighs and storms off toward her house, muttering something about holy water. The crowd disperses in awkward laughter, and the tension breaks like a popped balloon.
Carter’s still watching me when I glance over—arms crossed, expression halfway between horror and amusement.
"You really don’t seem fazed by any of this," he observes.
I shrug. "I live here. Nothing surprises me anymore."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing," I confirm, sipping my drink.
He tries not to laugh, but he fails. Just barely, but I see it—the corner of his mouth twitching, betraying him.
"Are you ready to pack up your table and head to the pool? I’m thinking of celebrating my profits with a margarita and a smutty book."
He shakes his head, but the almost-smile lingers. "You made twelve dollars and a half-used candle, Benji."
"Exactly." I gather my sad little box of leftovers. "That’s twelve more dollars than I had this morning, and the candle smells like redemption and bad decisions, my favorite scent."
Carter glowers, trying for stern but landing squarely in amused. "I guess I’ll see you there. But don’t bother saving me a seat."
Ha, fat chance of that!