“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.”