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—”
