Page 18 of The Gaybor War

Across the street, Malia’s walking her golden retriever and waves. "Love the slogan, boys!"

"Thank you!" Benji calls, beaming.

"Please don’t encourage him."

She giggles, tugging the leash. "Oh, I’m not. I’m enabling him!"

I’m surrounded by lunatics.

We move to the next block. Benji sips from his ever-present tumbler, the one I’m sure is filled with something boozy. I nod toward it. "You know, you could just admit that’s not water."

He shrugs innocently. "It’s electrolyte recovery fluid."

"From what? Sitting?"

He hums, stapling another flyer. "From tolerating you."

Lord, please stop me from putting a staple in this man’s crotch.

We keep going, a mismatched duo with matching sunburns and mutual resentment. Every time we pass another neighbor, Benji turns the charm up to eleven—laughing, waving, and calling people by name like he’s running for mayor of Morningwood.

By the time we reach the end of the block, I’ve said good morning to fourteen people, and please stop talking in my head at least fifty times.

Benji hands me the last flyer. "Final destination: the bulletin board by the pool. Want to race?"

"I’m not racing you."

"Scared to lose?"

I pin him with a look. "No. Scared you’ll cheat."

He flashes a smile. "Then you do know me."

And I hate that he’s right about that too.

By the time we reach the pool, the sun’s in full "try not to melt" mode. The place is quiet because the pool hasn’t officially opened for the season yet, but the bulletin board is accessible to all.

Benji sets down his tote bag—because of course he brought a tote bag—and pulls out his tumbler, a handful of flyers, and what looks suspiciously like sunscreen labeled "Golden Hour Glow."

"You brought sunscreen to hang flyers?" I ask.

He gives me a scandalized look. "Sweetie, I bring sunscreen to check the mail."

I should walk away. I want to walk away. But then he sits on the edge of a lounge chair, toes dipping into the pool, his shirt unbuttoned just enough to confirm that yes, the abs are real, and yes, I’m deeply, irreparably annoyed by that fact.

He catches me looking.

"Relax," he says. "You’re making that face again."

"What face?"

"The one that says you’re internally writing my obituary."

"Maybe I am."

He laughs, low and amused, as if I’m flirting instead of fantasizing about moving to a gated community in the woods.

Then he picks up one flyer, scribbles something on it with a glitter pen—because of course he has a glitter pen—and pins it to the board.