Page 3 of The Gaybor War

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.