H.O.A.

Moving wasn't Gary's idea, but there were worse neighborhoods to live in. That's what he thought when Sal steered the U-Haul down Ambrosia Lane: the cul-de-sac that was now their home. Every squeaky-clean, butter yellow house was newly built, surrounded by emerald green lawns and handsome white picket fences. Flowers waved hello to him from boxes on every front-facing window, their petals dancing in the warm summer breeze.

It took Gary a minute to realize they were all red begonias. Odd, but not alarming. For all he knew, there must've been a bargain sale on red begonias at their local Home Depot. Likewise, there seemed to be a heavy demand for minivans in this town, as one sat in every paved driveway they passed. Each one the same, drab shade of beige. Again, uncanny but not unexpected. They were perfectly good, dependable cars, especially for families with little kids. And there seemed to be a lot of those on Ambrosia Lane, too.

Laughter poured through Gary's window from all the way up the block, long before he actually saw any kids. They hopped from lawn to lawn merrily like fleas on a dog, hard at play with their balls, super soakers, and Big Wheel tricycles. Gary couldn't help but smile when he saw them, his hand finding Sal's on the gearshift automatically and giving it a squeeze. With any luck, it wouldn't be long before they had a little one of their own for the neighborhood kids to play with. That was his hope, anyway.

Sal's warm, dark eyes left the road for just a second to meet Gary's, returning the affectionate hand squeeze with a smile. A minute later, the U-Haul eased to a stop in front of no. 162; their forever home. Sal cut the engine quickly as soon as their rented truck stopped rolling, chafing Gary's leg with a nervous smile.

"Well, we're home. Ready, Babe?"

After a long breath to steady his nerves, Gary guided the hand on his leg up to his scruffy lips. "As I'll ever be."

With a spring in his step, Gary hopped out after Sal. Although tired from their long, cross-country drive, he was eager to get the U-Haul unloaded as soon as possible. While he still had the very first box in his hands, a blonde and khaki blur entered his field of vision. Before he had time to even think about setting it down, she pounced.

"Hi, y'all!" a golden tan hand flew out like a shot, its long, French-tipped claws narrowly missing Gary's nose. "I'm Luanne Finley; my husband, Chuck, and I live right next door. Welcome to the neighborhood!"

Gary juggled his box of dishes onto his hip, freeing up a hand to shake hers. "Thank you," he said, a surprised smile tugging at his lips, "Gosh, you folks take that 'Southern hospitality' stuff seriously around here. We didn't expect to meet anybody right away."

Luanne's baby blue left eye gave a small twitch, but her slightly-too-wide smile never faltered. "Well, bless your heart," she cooed, "I get the feelin' you came a long ways to get here. Whereabouts are y'all from?"

"Um, California," Gary said, adjusting his grip on the box, which seemed to be getting heavier by the second, "Just outside of Burbank. Sal got a promotion, which involved transferring here to Atlanta, so-"

Gary's grip chose that second to fail, derailing his train of thought. The box slipped right through his sweaty fingers, tumbling toward the ground. Thankfully, Sal was there to catch it before its contents could shatter against the pavement.

"Whoops! Careful, Babe!" Sal giggled, pecking Gary on the lips, "Let me get that for you."

Gary flashed Sal an appreciative grin before turning back to Luanne, "Thanks, Hon. Oh, where are my manners? I'm Gary Clark; and this tall drink of water is my partner."

Sal set the box down and wiped his large, bronze hand on his jeans, offering it to Luanne charismatically, "Salvatore Ruiz... but my friends call me Sal. And you are...?"

Luanne took a half step back, her fingers climbing toward the string of pearls around her skinny neck. Her smile fell - just for a second - before she seemed to remember her manners again. It came back as she gave Sal's hand a brief pump, just as wide but twice as tight.

"Charmed," she said through her clenched, perfect white teeth, "You can call me Miz Finley. Chuck an' I live just-"

Luanne's sentence ended abruptly as her gaze was suddenly drawn over and past Sal's glistening bald head. She backed away - slowly - from whatever she saw, her face slackening in horror.

"Oh... sweet... Merciful Lord," she gasped, "What is that?!"

Gary followed her line of sight, confused, to the driver's side window of the U-Haul. Hanging out of it was Macho's head. In all his excitement, Gary had almost forgotten about the four-year-old Great Dane. The dog still looked pretty sleepy, apparently just woken up from his long nap in the floorboards. As quickly as he could, Gary reached up and scratched the dog's floppy, spotted ears.

"Hey, Boy," he cooed, "This is Macho. He's the bestest boy in the whole world. Yes, him is!"

"Oh, no," Luanne tusked, fiddling with her five-carat diamond wedding ring anxiously, "No, this won't do at all. You'll have to get rid of it right away!"

The notion was so absurd, Gary and Sal both laughed out loud. When he realized Luanne was completely serious, however, Gary stopped laughing first. Sal took a few seconds longer to read the room. As his chuckles slowly died off, he seemed a lot calmer about the situation than Gary felt.

"Macho is a part of our family," he explained politely, "I know he's big, but he's very gentle and rarely barks. And he's lazy as hell, so he won't be a bother to anybody."

"You don't understand," Luanne said, her tone suddenly pricklier than a cactus made of porcupines, "It's against the regulations. Section two under 'pets', article twenty-three, paragraph one: no dogs over twenty pounds are allowed in this neighborhood. So there."

Gary would've told Luanne exactly what she could do with her so-called regulations had Sal's hand not landed gently on his shoulder. They'd been together long enough, Gary didn't have to say a word for him to understand the complete outrage that was going through his head. The strong fingers kneading his shoulder helped to calm Gary right away. And it didn't hurt to have a professional civil litigator as a spouse.

"I wasn't aware the H.O.A. had such regulations," Sal said, in that crisp, cool attorney's voice of his, "If you have a copy handy, please send it to me at your earliest convenience. Once we've reviewed it thoroughly, we'll decide whether taking any action or not is prudent."

Luanne stood there sputtering like an old Edsel for about two minutes. Eventually, her genteel decorum settled over her again like a blanket, cooling her temper. This time, though, her smile didn't return.

"I will happily oblige," she said, "As vice-president of the Association, I always have extra copies available. Y'all take care now."

The wind blew a little colder as the khaki-clad Karen sashayed away, sending a shiver through Gary. That little farewell felt less than friendly. Frankly, it sounded more like a warning, and Gary didn't care for it a bit. They'd been residents of Ambrosia Lane for literally five minutes, and already they were butting heads with the neighbors. Not an ideal situation, to be sure. As always, though, one smile from Sal was all Gary needed to brighten his sour mood.

"Don't let her get to you," Sal insisted, his fingers passing gently through Gary's soft, black curls, "C'mon: the truck won't unload itself, and I think Macho is overdue for a potty break."

Shaky start aside, life on Ambrosia Lane was fairly calm and uneventful for the next few weeks. With Sal settling in to his new position in the Atlanta-based branch of his firm, it was up to Gary to do most of the unpacking. Not that he minded, of course. Unboxing and organizing their belongings made their new house steadily feel like a home. That, and it kept him blissfully distracted from everything happening outside that budding homestead.

Every time Gary left the house, he always felt eyes on him. He tried to ignore the ruffling curtains and shifting blinds, pretending it didn't bother him. Less easy to ignore were Luanne's coven of stay-at-home moms, habitually congregating at fences and over hedges. Some were polite enough to smile and wave when they saw him; Luanne always just walked away, shooting him dirty looks over her shoulder.

It was even worse if he had Macho with him. Macho's gentle nature made him a kid magnet. Unfortunately, every parent on Ambrosia Lane flipped their shit if their child came within spitting distance of the Dane. Chuck nearly tore his own kids' arms off pulling them to "safety", then gave Gary and Sal an earful for walking around with such a "dangerous" animal. Then, a few days later, Chuck accused Macho of digging up his flowerbeds. Gary tried valiantly to diffuse the situation, until he noticed a trowel handle peeking out from under his neighbor's rose bush. After that, he just gave up and walked away, barricading himself indoors with the dog until Sal came home from work.

In less than a month, it felt like the whole neighborhood had been turned against them. And - without a doubt - the Finleys were the leaders of the pack. If Gary sneezed too loudly, either Finley was on his doorstep with a hankie and a copy of the H.O.A. regulations. They complained about literally everything: their hedges were too tall; the grass was too long; the pansies in their window boxes were too colorful; their new SUV was too big, and always in the way no matter where they parked it.

Although Gary was quickly losing patience with their overbearing neighbors, Sal kept him sane. Sal worked overtime trying to keep the peace, and used every legal loophole he knew of to battle those utterly ridiculous regulations. Through it all, Sal outwardly kept a cool head. Being so even-tempered and slow to anger was one of the reasons Gary loved him so much. As Summer swiftly cooled toward Autumn, however, Gary could see the signs that his partner was reaching his emotional limit.

Every week that passed, Sal left earlier for work and came home later. He had very little appetite, but drank more heavily than ever before. When Gary found a new bottle of ulcer medication for Sal in the medicine cabinet, he knew things were getting dire.

Everything came to a head at the end of September. From the moment he moved in, Gary knew he'd wanted to paint a mural on the house. He was an artist by trade, after all, and it had always been a dream project of his whenever he and Sal bought a place of their own. After studying the H.O.A. agreement thoroughly, Gary determined he was in the clear. For days, he devoted every working hour to planning the mural and gathering supplies. The following Friday morning, he was finally ready to begin.

It took a full day to do the linework, and by midday on Saturday he had the base coat down. Macho had been his faithful assistant the whole time, holding brushes in his mouth and guarding (okay, napping beside) Gary's paint cans. Macho apparently decided to sleep through lunch, so Gary left him on the lawn while he made some sandwiches for Sal and himself. He was gone half an hour - forty-five minutes, tops - before returning to his masterpiece. It didn't take forty-five seconds, though, to realize something was terribly wrong.

Macho was pacing back and forth from the fence to the house like he was on crack. He shook from hindquarters to snout, panting as if he'd just raced against Seabiscuit. Gary hugged the Dane's thick, spotted neck to calm him down, trying feverishly to diagnose the problem. Then, with no warning whatsoever, Macho tossed his kibble onto the grass.

Gary froze solid at the puddle of doggy vomit before him, his own lunch crawling toward his lips. It was dark brown, speckled with tiny pieces of glossy green paper and foil. There was no doubt in Gary's mind what it was. He just had no idea where Macho had gotten it.

Not wasting another second, Gary screamed for Sal. Within two minutes, they had Macho in the car, speeding to the animal hospital. The vet quickly confirmed Gary's suspicions: chocolate toxicity. Poor Macho needed his stomach pumped, then had to stay at the vet's overnight for observation. When they got back in the car that evening, Gary was still crying and Sal was angrier than Gary had ever seen him before.

"Five bars," he muttered, "how the hell did he eat five whole chocolate bars? We never keep chocolate in the house."

Gary was too upset to even think. He was totally out of it when they pulled into the driveway, his mind still with Macho. To that end, it took him a second to realize Chuck and Luanne were waiting for them by the fence.

"Y'all left in a powerful hurry," Chuck said, his snow-white moustache stretching with a neighborly grin, "Hope ever'thang's okay."

"Not exactly," Sal sighed, "Our dog is sick. The vet's not sure if he'll even make it through the night."

"Oh, what a shame," Luanne tusked, "Well, he was a nuisance anyhow, always gettin' into places he shouldn't be."

A white-hot spike of shock broke through Gary's icy shell of grief as he processed her words. He was so numb, though, none of them could sink in.

"What?" he murmured.

"Ain't that the truth?" Chuck giggled, ignoring Gary's stupefied question completely, "He was too damn big for his own good! A lapdog is what y'all need. If it helps, I know a fella who breeds Choweenies. You ever seen them lil' thangs? They damn cute!"

"We're not having this conversation," Sal insisted, "goodnight, Mr. and Mrs. Finley."

He grabbed Gary's shoulders, steering the shorter man toward the front door. They didn't get far, though, before Luanne suddenly leaned over the fence, thrusting a small, flat box in Gary's face.

"Here, take some candy bars," she insisted, "Bobby an' Betty Lou are sellin' 'em to buy new band uniforms, but y'all need 'em more."

For the second time that day, Gary froze. He'd seen those bright green wrappers before; shredded, and mixed in with Macho's vomit. He didn't want to think it was true... but the facts were impossible to ignore. Suddenly, Gary felt something deep inside him snap.

"What the actual hell is wrong with you?!"

"Gar-"

"No!" Gary snarled, shaking Sal's hands off, "I'm done playing nice! They tried to kill our dog, Sal!!"

"Why, I never!" Luanne scoffed, "All we've ever done is try to help y'all fit in! It ain't our fault your big, stupid mongrel got sick!"

"The hell it isn't!" Gary argued, grabbing a candy bar in anger, "You fed him chocolate! This chocolate! Just admit it!!"

"That stuff's all over Creation," Chuck snapped, puffing out his barrel chest indignantly, "Every kid in Fulton County is sellin' it! You'd know that if you weren't so busy paintin' that Godawful graffiti all over your house!"

"That's what this is all about?!" Gary roared, "You poisoned Macho over little paint?! Are you insane, you stupid redneck?!"

Clearly Gary hit a nerve, but he didn't realize it until too late. The next thing he knew, a fat fist crashed into his face like a freight train. He hit the ground - hard - too dazed to remember his own name for a second. When he looked up again, Sal and Chuck were standing over him. Although, Chuck was clearly still the aggressor. Before he could move or say anything, the enraged hick threw another punch... right into Sal's diaphragm.

Sal crumpled to the grass immediately, curling into the fetal position with a strangled wheeze. He gasped like a freshly caught trout, shaking all over as he struggled to suck in a breath. Gary scrambled over to him instantly, fearing he'd broken a rib. When his fingertips applied the lightest pressure to Sal's rock-hard core, though, Sal released a piercing yelp of agony. Within a minute, his face had turned sickly grey, raining buckets of cold sweat onto Gary's lap.

"Call an ambulance!" Gary screamed, "Now!"

The next few hours passed painfully slowly. From the minute they wheeled Sal into the ER, Gary was greeted by an endless parade of doctors and nurses. The news they shared wasn't good: Sal's ulcer had ruptured, requiring emergency surgery to repair. Thankfully, they'd caught it early, and there was a good chance Sal would pull through. Still, it didn't offer Gary much relief.

The police immediately ruled against him, accepting Chuck's claim of self-defense without question. Gary knew what they'd done to Sal and Macho, but without proof he was powerless. He could still see their smug faces; their expressions perfectly clear.

"You don't fit in... and you can't win."

They were right, of course: he and Sal would never fit in. Truthfully, Gary never cared about fitting in. But he did care about his family. And nobody got away with hurting his family.

He waited until Sal was in a recovery room before returning to Ambrosia Lane. The cul-de-sac was quiet and dark as he walked down it to the Finleys' house, two big cans of paint thinner sloshing at his sides. The Finleys weren't home; they'd left before the ambulance, "traumatized" by the fight. Within the hour, Gary's cans were empty. From across the street, he struck a match, watching the little flame dance with a cold, detached air.

"For Sal," he whispered.