Page 20 of The Gaybor War

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."