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.”
