Page 50 of The Gaybor War

"Oh," I whisper, scandalized. "Absolutely not."

I watch them disappear inside, the door closing softly behind them like a betrayal.

Okay. Fine. Calm down. Breathe. This could be anyone.

A cousin. A coworker. A… A… contractor?

A lover.

No. No. I don’t know that. I don’t know anything.

Except that Carter hasn’t hugged me. And I once reorganized his closet with my bare hands. My coffee is suddenly inadequate. Liquor would better suffice.

I should stop watching. Any decent person would stop watching. This is where boundaries live. Instead, I grab my sunglasses and slip on my slides.

For discretion. I need clarity.

I cross the street under the guise of checking my mail, even though it’s dark, and I already checked it today. I’m definitely not sneaking. Just… walking. On the sidewalk. Like a citizen. A concerned one. I angle myself toward Carter’s front windows, heart hammering, telling myself I just need context.

The blinds are partially open. An invitation, really. It’s practically rude not to look.

Inside, they’re talking. Laughing. The man claps Carter on the shoulder. Carter smiles—really smiles. The kind I haven’t seen aimed at me yet.

My chest tightens. "Wow," I murmur. "So, this is how it is."

I take one more step closer, craning to see⁠—

And my foot catches on a loose landscaping rock. Time slows.

I windmill. I regret every decision that led me here. I consider my obituary.

Then I go down. Hard.

My shin hits first. Then my hip. Then my dignity explodes as I crash directly into Carter’s garbage cans, sending one skidding, the lid clattering loudly enough to alert wildlife in three counties.

I land in a tangle of limbs and recycling, staring up at the dark sky.

"Son of a⁠—"

From inside Carter’s house, a light flicks on. I hold my breath.

The front door opens. Footsteps grow louder.

"Oh my God." Carter’s voice.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

This is how I die. In Lemon Taffy-colored suburbia. Killed by curiosity and a rogue rock.

"Benji?"

I open one eye.

Carter is standing over me, concern written all over his stupidly handsome face. Behind him, the man from earlier peers over Carter’s broad shoulder, eyebrows raised.

"I—hi," I say weakly, still half inside a trash can. "So this isn’t what it looks like."

Carter rubs his forehead. "You fell."