The first thing I do every morning is make coffee. The second thing I do is look out my kitchen window to see if Richard’s blue Honda Civic is blocking my garage.
Again.
For six months now, that car has been the first thing I see every morning. Six months of knocking on his door at 7:45 a.m. Six months of fake-smiling through clenched teeth while he fumbles with his keys and mumbles half-hearted apologies.
Six months of being late to work.
I’ve never been great with relationships. By the time I turned thirty-two, I’d had three serious boyfriends. Each one ended the same way: me changing my Netflix password, throwing away their toothbrush, and buying new sheets.
The last breakup was the worst.
Jason had said he “needed space.” Apparently the space he needed was my best friend’s apartment.
After that, I decided relationships simply weren’t worth the trouble.
So I focused on my career instead.
As a graphic designer for a marketing firm downtown, I earn enough to afford my small but perfect house. I’ve decorated it exactly the way I want it—no compromises.
The teal accent wall stays teal. The framed vintage movie posters stay exactly where I hung them. And if I want to eat ice cream for dinner or book a spontaneous trip somewhere, no one gets to complain about it.
Speaking of travel, I’ve been saving for a solo trip to New Zealand next year.
Well… trying to.
Each time I’m late because of Richard’s parking habits, my boss gives me that look that says, “I’m not angry, just disappointed.” Which is somehow worse.
This morning was no different.
I peeked through the blinds and there it was again—the blue Honda Civic, parked directly in front of my garage door like it owned the place.
With a sigh, I set down my mug, slipped on my shoes, and trudged next door.
Three sharp knocks.
Footsteps.
Then the door cracked open and Richard’s sleepy face appeared.
“Oh, hey Cindy,” he said. “Car’s in the way again?”
“As it was yesterday,” I replied. “And the day before. And pretty much every day since you moved back home.”
He had the decency to look embarrassed.
“Sorry. I’ll move it right now.”
I stood there while he searched for his keys, still wearing plaid pajama bottoms and a faded band T-shirt.
At twenty-eight, Richard Peterson should have had his life together.
Instead, he’d moved back in with his parents six months ago, supposedly to “help them out.”
Mrs. Peterson—the unofficial mayor of neighborhood gossip disguised as a book club host—had already spread the story.
Richard lost his job at some tech startup in the city.
Came home with his tail between his legs.
I might have felt sorry for him if he wasn’t making me late for work three times a week.
“Thanks,” I said curtly when he finally moved the car. “But you know, this wouldn’t keep happening if you just parked somewhere else.”
He sighed.
“Where, Cindy? My dad’s car takes the garage, and street parking is full by the time I get home.”
“That’s not my problem,” I said, climbing into my Subaru. “Figure it out.”
But the next morning…
There it was again.
Blue Honda.
Same spot.
After work that day, I decided it was time for a proper conversation.
I found Richard washing his father’s car in their driveway.
“Richard,” I said, crossing my arms. “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.”
He rubbed the back of his neck.
“Look, I’m in a tough spot. Dad can’t walk far, so he needs the garage. The street’s filled up with the Johnsons’ three cars, and—”
“And that makes it okay to block my garage?” I interrupted.
“No,” he admitted quietly. “But I don’t know what else to do.”
“Park around the block.”
“And walk half a mile in the dark after my night shift? Through the woods where those raccoons hang out?”
I blinked.
Night shift?
I hadn’t known that.
Or that raccoons apparently terrified him.
Still, my patience was gone.
“Richard,” I said firmly, “if you block my garage one more time, there will be consequences.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“Consequences? Like what? You’ll call a tow truck?”
“Worse,” I said. “Much worse.”
He laughed.
“Cindy, has anyone ever told you you’re kind of intense?”
I stormed off, my cheeks burning—not because he was wrong, but because I was already plotting exactly what those consequences would be.
That evening, around ten o’clock, I watched from my living room window.
Richard’s blue Honda rolled up the street.
He slowed…
Looked at my house.
Then—like clockwork—parked directly in front of my garage.
“That’s it,” I muttered.
I pulled out my laptop.
And began researching.
An hour later, I found something interesting.
An article about wildlife attractants and deterrents.
The forest preserve behind our neighborhood housed all kinds of creatures—raccoons, possums, deer, birds.
They mostly kept to themselves.
But with the right incentive…
Well.
They could become very curious.
The next day was Friday.
Which meant I wouldn’t need to leave early Saturday morning.
Perfect timing.
After work, I stopped at the pet store and bought a large bag of wild birdseed and a bottle labeled:
“Critter Potty Training Attractant.”
The cashier raised an eyebrow.
“New pet?”
“Something like that,” I replied.
That night, I waited until the neighborhood fell quiet.
Around midnight, dressed in dark clothes, I slipped outside with a canvas tote bag.
Richard’s Honda gleamed under the streetlight.
I worked quickly.
Birdseed across the hood.
Birdseed across the roof.
Birdseed across the trunk.
Then came the attractant.
I dabbed it along the door handles, mirrors, and wheel wells.
The smell was indescribably awful.
Mission accomplished.
I crept back inside and set my alarm for six.
But I didn’t need it.
I woke up to shouting.
I rushed to the window and pulled the blinds aside.
Richard stood beside his car in his pajamas, hands on his head.
His Honda looked like it had survived a wildlife apocalypse.
Bird droppings streaked the windshield.
Tiny scratches marked the paint where birds had pecked for seeds.
And judging by the muddy smears along the doors…
Something larger had definitely investigated.
A very fat raccoon sat comfortably on the roof, munching the remaining seeds.
“What the—?! Get off! Shoo!”
The raccoon barely glanced at him.
I burst out laughing.
Throwing on a robe, I stepped onto my porch.
“Car trouble?” I asked sweetly.
Richard spun around.
“Did you—? Was this—?”
He couldn’t even finish the sentence.
I shrugged.
“Wow. Looks like the local wildlife really took a liking to your car.”
“Cindy… I know this was you.”
“Prove it.”
He looked at the damage.
“Do you know how much this will cost to clean?”
“Probably about as much as it costs me when I’m late to work because someone blocks my garage three times a week.”
For a moment he just stared at me.
Then, unexpectedly…
He laughed.
“You know what? I probably deserved that.”
I blinked.
“You’re not… mad?”
“Oh, I’m furious,” he admitted. “But also impressed. This is diabolical.”
“Well,” I said, “you didn’t listen to words.”
“So you enlisted the wildlife.”
“Exactly.”
He ran a hand through his hair.
“Message received.”
Then he disappeared into his house.
A minute later he returned with buckets, gloves, and cleaning supplies.
He walked straight to my porch and held out a pair of gloves.
“Help me?”
“Why would I help you clean a mess you caused?”
He hesitated.
“Because I owe you an explanation.”
“And an apology.”
I crossed my arms.
“You can apologize from there.”
He took a breath.
“The truth is… I didn’t park there because of my dad’s car.”
“No?”
“No,” he said quietly.
“I parked there because it gave me an excuse to talk to you.”
I stared at him.
“You’ve been making me late for work for six months… because you wanted to talk?”
“I know it sounds stupid.”
“It is stupid.”
“But ever since I moved back, I’ve noticed you,” he said.
“How you put fresh flowers on your porch every week. How you sing along to 80s music when you garden. The way you helped Mrs. Peterson carry her groceries that time.”
I had no idea what to say.
“I kept trying to ask you out,” he continued, “but every time I saw you, I panicked. So I just apologized for the car instead.”
“That’s the worst flirting strategy in human history.”
“I know,” he admitted.
“I’m terrible at this.”
I studied him for a moment.
Nice eyes.
Sincere voice.
And he hadn’t called the police over the raccoon incident.
“Tell you what,” I said.
“I’ll help you clean your car.”
His face brightened.
“And then,” I continued, “you’re taking me out for coffee.”
“Really?”
“Consider it penance.”
We spent the next two hours scrubbing bird droppings, vacuuming seed shells, and washing mysterious smudges off the doors.
It was disgusting.
But strangely fun.
Richard told me about losing his job, helping his parents, and his secret dream of opening a coffee shop someday.
By the time we finished, the car was clean… but still faintly smelled like raccoon.
“Coffee now?” he asked hopefully.
I shook my head.
“No.”
His shoulders slumped.
“But there’s a place two blocks away that makes incredible chicken wings.”
He brightened instantly.
“We can walk.”
His smile returned.
“I’d like that.”
As we headed down the street together, I realized something.
For the first time in months—maybe years—I felt light.
And it occurred to me that sometimes the best connections begin in the strangest possible ways.
Even if they start with a parking dispute.
And end with a raccoon sitting on someone’s car. 🦝
