Jack and I had barely spent a single night in the house when the doorbell rang. We were still living out of boxes, the coffee maker hadn’t even been unpacked yet, and the windows stood bare without a single curtain. But that didn’t stop the neighborhood welcome wagon from rolling in right on time.
I peeked through the peephole. “Looks like we’ve got company,” I muttered.
Jack groaned. “Please tell me it’s not someone holding cookies.”
It was. A woman in a pastel pink cardigan, matching headband, and capri pants stood smiling on our front step like she was auditioning for a 1950s homemaker ad. She was holding a tray of chocolate chip cookies that looked like they’d been measured with a ruler. Not a crumb out of place.
“Hi there!” she chirped, teeth gleaming. “I’m Lindsey. I live right across the street. Just wanted to say welcome!”
We thanked her. Jack gave a half-hearted wave. But Lindsey wasn’t looking at us anymore—her eyes kept flicking past our shoulders, scanning the entryway like she expected to find a meth lab behind the coat rack.
“You folks settling in okay?” she asked, already inching forward.
“Just moved in yesterday,” I said, resisting the urge to step between her and the hallway.
She gave a saccharine nod. “Such a lovely neighborhood. Very… orderly.”
Then came the pitch. “Just so you’re aware, our HOA has a one-car-per-driveway policy. No exceptions. Keeps things neat.”
I blinked. “Even if we’re not blocking the road? Both cars fit just fine.”
She tilted her head. “Still two cars. One house. One driveway. One car.”
Jack gave her a look. “We’re here temporarily for work.”
She smiled brighter. “Rules apply to everyone. That’s the beauty of them.”
We shut the door before either of us said something we’d regret.
Three days later, the sound of clanking chains and hydraulics yanked us out of bed. It was barely dawn. Jack and I threw on clothes and bolted to the front door barefoot.
Two tow trucks. Both our cars. Half-lifted off the ground.
“What the hell is this?” I yelled, rushing down the driveway.
“HOA violation,” one of the drivers said flatly. “Only one car allowed. Orders came in this morning.”
Jack demanded to know who filed the order. No warning. No ticket. Just this.
And then we saw her. Lindsey. Standing smugly on the sidewalk in a lavender bathrobe, sipping coffee like she was watching the sunrise over the Grand Canyon. She gave us a little wave.
That’s when I smiled. Because I knew something she didn’t.
I walked toward her slowly. “You really went through with it, huh?”
She tilted her head. “You’re breaking the rules.”
Jack joined me, hands stuffed in his hoodie pockets. “Funny thing about rules,” he said. I pointed to the tiny decal on the rear windshield of our car.
She squinted. “What’s that?”
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