When we settled into our new home, we figured we’d hit the jackpot with the folks next door. But coming back from our trip to a wrecked yard, I uncovered a secret message that flipped our world and made us wonder who we could truly count on.
We pulled up to our new place a year back, and it all felt just right. The street was peaceful, the house was charming, and we couldn’t wait to dig in. Our neighbors, the Hargroves, came across as friendly right off. They dropped by with a fresh-baked pie and warm grins.
“Glad you’re here!” Isolde said brightly, offering a hot apple pie. Her husband, Thayer, hung back a step, smiling and giving a quick wave.
“Much appreciated,” I replied, grabbing the pie. “I’m Lark, and this is my husband Dorian.”
Dorian moved up, shaking their hands. “Nice to meet you. We’re pumped to call this spot home.”
We talked a bit, and they seemed solid. Their place looked a touch worn, but it didn’t faze us. In the months that followed, we warmed up to them more. We fired up the grill together, splashed around in our pool, and mostly clicked without issues.
But three months in, I stumbled on a slip from the old owners stuffed in a cabinet. It said: “Watch out for the Hargroves. They’ll turn your days upside down. Keep ’em at arm’s length.”
I passed it to Dorian that night. “What do you make of this?” I asked, sliding him the paper.
He scanned it and scowled. “Sounds over the top, right? They’ve only been kind to us.”
I agreed, though a doubt lingered. “True enough. Likely no big deal.”
“Maybe the last folks had some grudge,” Dorian added. “Neighbors can hold silly grudges.”
We brushed it off. Why not? We’d been hitting it off with Isolde and Thayer. Weekends meant invites for swims and cookouts. We traded cooking tricks, loaned novels, and even picked their brains on yard setups.
“Your tomatoes are killer, Thayer,” I told him one afternoon as he eyed my new veggie bed. “Got any pointers?” I wondered.
Thayer swelled a bit. “It’s mostly about prepping the dirt right…”
Isolde and I traded reading picks often. “Lark, grab this one,” she’d urge, shoving a book my way. “You won’t put it down.”
We let them use our yard and pool whenever—no sweat, since we were off on our yearly family getaway, and it felt nice sharing the fun with our fresh pals.
Skip ahead to last week. Dorian and I got home from our break, and the mess we walked into had us seeing red. Our neat yard was stomped flat, the pool clogged with junk, and trash dumped everywhere on the drive. Total disaster.
“What in the world went down?” Dorian burst out, cheeks flushing mad.
I balled my hands. “No clue, but I’ll dig it up.”
We headed straight to the Hargroves’. I rapped on the door, chin firm. Isolde swung it open with a grin that stretched too far.
“Hi, friends! Trip any good?” she sang out.
“What’d you do to our yard?” Dorian cut in, skipping the chit-chat.
Thayer poked his head out on the steps, face all innocent. “Wasn’t us. Good luck proving squat,” he bit back.
I arched a brow. “Why jump to blame? You got a guess on who?”
Isolde’s gaze flicked side to side. “Uh, the pair over the street? Quillan and his girl—they’re oddballs, total free spirits, you know.”
“Got it,” I said, not buying it. “We’ll ask around.”
We checked it out. Quillan opened up, puzzled by our sharp edge. His girlfriend, Pomeline, hovered close, just as thrown.
“Sorry to bug you,” I began, “but someone wrecked our place while we were gone. The Hargroves pointed fingers at you two.”
Quillan’s eyes bugged. “Us? No chance! We’ve stuck close since settling in. Fixing up the spot.”
Pomeline leaned in. “Wait, we could pitch in. We set up cams last week. They catch some of your side too.”
“For real?” Dorian lit up. “Mind if we peek?”
Quillan shrugged. “Sure, step inside.”
We stared at the clips, jaws on the floor. The Hargroves had hosted a string of bashes in our yard while we were out. Their crowd trashed the spot, and Isolde with Thayer just let it roll.
“Unreal,” I grumbled, spotting Isolde cracking up as her boy tagged our fence.
Dorian’s hands knotted. “Those sneaky, fake—”
“Sorry about that,” Quillan said. “Had zero hint.”
Pomeline agreed. “Yeah, we’d have hollered if we caught wind.”
We thanked them and bounced, rage growing with every stride to the Hargroves’. This round, no knock needed.
“Yo, Thayer,” I hollered. “Round two on the junk that popped up in our yard.”
Thayer cracked the door, eyed me a sec, then shrugged weak. “You’re making mountains of molehills. Bit of litter and spray. Young ones, am I right?”
“Bit of litter?” Dorian blew up. “Pool’s a dump, yard’s ruined, trash everywhere!”
“And don’t skip the nonstop parties in our space,” I tossed in. “Cams nabbed it all.”
Isolde went sheet-white. “What cams?”
“Quillan and Pomeline’s setup got the full show,” I laid out, soaking in their freaked looks.
Their cocky vibes stoked my fire. Time to school ’em good.
That night, once the Hargroves turned in, Dorian and I kicked off our fix. We scooped every scrap they’d dumped, tossing in extras from our bins.
At midnight, we snuck to their patch. “Set?” I breathed to Dorian.
He nodded, eyes twinkling sly. “Go time.”
We dumped the mess across their grass and beds, turning it chaotic. For kicks, we let the kids tag their front fence free-style.
“Go wild, crew,” I hushed. “Let loose.”
Our girl beamed, gripping her brush like a sword. “This’ll rock!”
Next dawn, we rose quick for the drama. Isolde’s yelp of horror hit like a tune.
“Thayer! Thayer! Check this!” she wailed.
Thayer shuffled out, chin hitting dirt at the view. “What’s all this?”
We sauntered over, mugs steaming. “All good?” I asked sweet.
Isolde whipped to us, face beet-red. “Your doing?”
I lifted my shoulders, copying Thayer’s shrug. “Making mountains of molehills. Just litter and a splash of color.”
Dorian jumped in, “Young ones, am I right?”
Their mugs were gold. They knew the jig was up, no wiggle room.
“This won’t fly!” Thayer huffed. “We’ll sic the homeowners’ group on you!”
I grinned soft. “Knock yourself out. Bet they’d dig the clips of you wrecking ours too.”
Isolde’s mug fell. “Why hit back like this?”
“Why hit back?” Dorian echoed, floored. “You kidding? You wrecked our home, partied without asking, let your bunch smash everything!”
“And lied through it,” I piled on. “Even pinned it on Quillan and Pomeline.”
Thayer at least looked sorry. “We… figured you wouldn’t catch on.”
“Well, we did,” I stated flat. “Now you get the vibe.”
Talk flew fast around the block. When Isolde griped to others, we just flashed the Hargroves’ mess on video.
“Hard to buy they’d pull that,” our neighbor Greer said, head shaking post-clip. “Seemed decent enough.”
Another, Rafferty, matched the vibe. “Flat wrong. Can’t trash folks’ stuff like that.”
In days, the street iced them out. They had to scrub their chaos and shape up or ship out.
As I eyed them bagging their yard, that old slip crossed my mind. Some days, you gotta push back and show respect’s a two-way street. The Hargroves got the memo the tough route—that kicking others bites back.
“You know,” Dorian said, slinging an arm my way, “Stoked we dug up that slip, late or not.”
I dipped my head, snuggling close. “Same. And next warning? We’ll tune in quicker.”
We lingered, eyeing the Hargroves toil, glad the scales tipped fair. Not the hello to the hood we pictured, but one wild tale for sure.
As we headed in, I spotted Quillan and Pomeline strolling by. They waved; we waved too.
“You know,” I told Dorian, “Feels like we snagged some true buds here after all.”
