Page 1 of 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 naïve 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."