When my new neighbor put up a camera aimed straight at the spot where I did yoga, I snapped. He’d done nothing but annoy me since he moved in, and never once returned a wave. I stormed over to confront him, and it backfired spectacularly.
I balanced a planter on my hip, trying not to drop the thing I’d spent three days transforming from a beat-up nightstand into something actually useful as I casually side-eyed my neighbor’s yard. “Stupid yard creeper,” I muttered, watching as my new neighbor paced back and forth like a caged animal while surreptitiously glancing my way with those serious dark eyes. Why did guys like this exist?
I mean, seriously. All I wanted was to sand furniture and drink my morning coffee in peace. But no, I had to get stuck with the neighborhood weirdo.
I set the planter down next to my workshop table and tried to shake off the irritation. This was meant to be my happy place, you know? My little corner of the world, where I could take someone’s discarded junk and turn it into something beautiful.
I’d built this whole business around salvaging furniture, and it grounded me in ways that most people wouldn’t understand. But then he came along, disrupting my calming routine of morning yoga, and days spent sanding, painting, or assembling whatever commission I had waiting. It seemed like every time I stepped outside, there he was.
He looked like he was around the same age as me, all lean and serious-faced. I’d tried waving at him twice. Twice!
Both times, he’d pretended not to see me and ducked back into his house like I was carrying some contagious disease. I didn’t get it. He was always lurking, always stealing glances into my yard, but couldn’t be friendly?
What was his deal? The next morning, I wrestled my second trash bag toward the curb, already mentally preparing for another day of pretending my neighbor didn’t exist. But when I rounded the corner of my garage, I nearly jumped out of my skin.
There he was, standing right by our trash bins with his arms crossed and his jaw set like he was about to deliver some kind of verdict. “Uh… morning,” I said, trying not to let him see how much he’d startled me. “I’m Lena, and you are?”
“Cal.” His eyes flicked to mine for maybe half a second before dropping back to the bins.
His mouth worked like he was chewing on his words before he finally said, “One of your bags was in my bin this morning.”
I froze. Did he just accuse me of what I think he accused me of? “Excuse me?”
“Right on top.” He tapped his foot against the crack that divided our driveways, and I swear it sounded like a judge striking a gavel.
“That’s my garbage service.”
I blinked at him, trying to process this. “Are you… You think I snuck one of my bags into your trash can?”
“I didn’t say that,” he muttered. He looked everywhere but me, his ears turning pink.
“I just noticed it.”
“Well, you noticed wrong, Cal.” I let my bag thud into my own bin with enough force to make my point. “I don’t use other people’s bins. Ever.”
He shifted his weight, folding his arms even tighter across his chest.
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