Some people learn by listening. Others have to feel the consequences for themselves. My neighbor Owen was definitely the latter—so I made sure he got the lesson he deserved.
The very first thing I do every morning is brew coffee. The second thing is to glance out the kitchen window to see if a certain silver hatchback is parked in front of my garage again.
And lately, it almost always is.
For the past six months—ever since my neighbor’s son moved back home—my mornings have started with a deep breath, a muttered “you’ve got to be kidding me,” and a walk next door to knock on his door. Six months of him fumbling for his keys in pajama pants. Six months of mumbled, half-hearted apologies. Six months of me being late to work.
It all began the week Owen Saunders moved back in with his parents.
I’m thirty-two, and I’ve had my fair share of bad luck in love. Three serious boyfriends so far, each relationship ending with me changing my Netflix password, buying new sheets, and wondering how I’d missed the warning signs. The last one, Eric, broke things off because he “needed space”—which he apparently found in my best friend’s apartment.
After that, I decided I’d had enough of relationship drama. I threw myself into my career, poured my energy into my home, and learned to enjoy my own company. As a graphic designer for a marketing agency in the city, I earn enough to live in a small but perfect house that I’ve decorated entirely for myself—no compromises. Teal accent wall? Done. Vintage movie posters? Framed. Ice cream for dinner? Who’s going to stop me?
The plan was simple: work hard, save money, and next year, take myself on a solo trip to New Zealand. That plan was going just fine—until Owen’s car became a daily roadblock.
On the morning in question, I peeked through the blinds and, sure enough, there it was: his silver hatchback sitting squarely in front of my garage door. I put my coffee down, shoved my feet into sneakers, and headed next door.
Three knocks. Footsteps. A bleary-eyed Owen opened the door.
“Oh, hey, Marissa,” he said, rubbing his eyes. “Am I blocking you again?”
“As I was yesterday,” I said, “and the day before that, and pretty much every day since you moved back.”
He winced. “Sorry. I’ll move it right now.”
I stood there, arms crossed, while he rummaged around for his keys. At twenty-eight, Owen should have been starting the prime of his life. Instead, he was wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a shirt from a band I’d never heard of.
Word around the neighborhood—thanks to Mrs. Daley, the self-appointed president of the local gossip network—was that Owen had lost his job at a tech startup and “come home to regroup.” The story was sprinkled with phrases like “helping his parents” and “figuring things out.”
If he hadn’t been sabotaging my commute, I might have felt sorry for him.
When he finally moved his car, I gave a tight smile. “You know, this wouldn’t have to happen if you just parked somewhere else.”
He sighed. “Where, Marissa? My dad’s in the garage, the street fills up by the time I get home, and—”
“That’s not my problem,” I cut in. “Figure it out.”
But the very next morning, there it was again—like an unwelcome déjà vu.
That evening, I spotted him outside washing his father’s car. I walked over. “Owen, we need to talk about the parking situation.”
He turned off the hose. “I know, I know. I’m sorry about this morning.”
“And yesterday morning. And the morning before that.”
“I don’t have many options,” he said, shrugging. “If I park down the block, I have to walk back through the woods after my night shift—and that’s where the raccoons hang out.”
I blinked. “You work nights?”
“Security guard at the mill,” he said. “Graveyard shift. It’s not glamorous, but it pays.”
“Still doesn’t give you the right to block my garage,” I said flatly. “One more time, Owen, and there will be consequences.”
He smirked. “Consequences? Like you’ll call a tow truck?”
“Worse,” I said.
He chuckled. “You’re kind of intense, you know that?”
By the time I got back to my house, I was already planning exactly what “worse” would look like.
That night, I did some research and found something intriguing—an article about natural wildlife attractants. It turns out the wooded preserve behind our neighborhood is home to raccoons, possums, deer, and more. They usually keep to themselves… unless tempted.
The next day, I stopped by a pet store and bought a large bag of wild birdseed and a bottle of “Critter Potty Training Attractant.” The cashier eyed my purchase and asked, “Got a new pet?”
“Something like that,” I said.
That night, when the street was quiet, I dressed in dark clothes and crept outside. Owen’s silver hatchback gleamed under the streetlight. I sprinkled birdseed over the hood, roof, and trunk. Then I dabbed the attractant on the door handles, mirrors, and around the wheel wells. The smell was foul enough to make my stomach turn.
Satisfied, I went back inside, set my alarm for 6 a.m., and went to bed.
I didn’t need the alarm.
The next morning, I woke to the sound of shouting. Peeking out the blinds, I saw Owen standing in the driveway, hands on his head. His car looked like a scene from a nature documentary gone wrong. Bird droppings streaked the windshield. The paint was dotted with tiny scratches from pecking beaks. And a plump raccoon was perched on the roof, happily munching leftover seeds.
“Shoo! Get off!” Owen yelled, waving his arms. The raccoon glanced at him, completely unfazed.
I couldn’t help it—I laughed. Pulling on my robe, I stepped onto my porch. “Car trouble?” I called sweetly.
He turned. “Did you—? Was this—?”
“Wow,” I said, feigning innocence. “Looks like the wildlife really loves your car.”
“Marissa, I know this was you.”
“Prove it. Maybe it’s just karma for blocking someone’s garage over and over.”
He looked exasperated. “Do you have any idea how much this will cost to fix?”
“Probably about as much as it’s cost me in missed hours at work,” I replied.
He stared at me for a long moment. Then, to my surprise, the anger in his eyes shifted into something else. “You know what? I probably deserved this.”
That was not the reaction I’d expected. I’d been bracing for yelling, maybe even threats to call the police. Instead, he gave a half-smile. “Honestly? It’s kind of genius.”
I blinked. “You’re not mad?”
“Oh, I’m mad,” he said. “But impressed. Loud and clear—message received.”
He disappeared into his house, only to reappear minutes later with two buckets of soapy water, a sponge, and a pair of gloves. He walked over and held out the gloves to me. “Help me?”
I raised an eyebrow. “Why would I help you clean up a mess you brought on yourself?”
“Because,” he said, looking strangely nervous, “I owe you an explanation. And… an apology.”
I crossed my arms. “You can apologize from there.”
He hesitated, then said, “I didn’t just park there because of my dad’s car or the lack of spots. I… I wanted an excuse to talk to you.”
I blinked. “You’ve been making me late for work for six months because you wanted to chat?”
“I know it’s stupid,” he said quickly. “But when I moved back, I noticed you—how you keep fresh flowers on the porch, how you sing along to 80s music when you garden, the way you helped Mrs. Daley with her groceries. I kept meaning to just say something, but every time, I’d chicken out. So instead, I’d apologize for the car.”
I stared at him, incredulous. “That’s the worst flirting strategy I’ve ever heard.”
“I’m aware. I haven’t dated since college, and I’m rusty. I figured you’d never go for a guy who lives with his parents again.”
“You could have just brought cookies,” I said.
“I can’t bake,” he admitted. “But I make decent coffee. And I promise—no more blocking your garage.”
I looked at him for a moment. He did have nice eyes. And he wasn’t running away or calling the cops after the raccoon incident.
“Tell you what,” I said, taking the gloves. “I’ll help you clean this disaster, and then you’re taking me out for coffee.”
His grin was immediate. “Deal.”
We spent the next two hours scrubbing bird droppings, rinsing dirt, and vacuuming seed hulls from impossible crevices. It was disgusting, but oddly fun. He told me about his dad’s health, his job hunt, and his dream of opening a coffee shop someday.
By the time we finished, the car was mostly clean, though it still had a faint “wildlife” scent.
“Coffee now?” he asked hopefully.
“Not when your car still smells like that,” I said. “But there’s a wing place a few blocks away. We could walk.”
His smile widened. “I’d like that.”
And so, we did.
Funny thing is, from that day on, Owen never parked in front of my garage again. These days, he usually parks in my driveway instead.
