For a few days, I let myself believe it was over. Maybe Cara was simply eccentric. Redwood Crest had its share of oddballs—retirees who measured lawn growth with rulers, hobbyists who fought over bird feeders, self-appointed watchdogs peering through blinds. But deep down, I knew Cara was different. There was something calculated in her indifference, a brazenness that didn't come from ignorance, but from conviction.
And I was right.
Three nights later, Lena and I returned from dinner. The first thing I saw was the gleam of headlights bouncing off my garage door. The white SUV sat squarely in my driveway. Again, the charger cable was locked tight into its side. Worse this time, it was parked directly behind my sedan, trapping me inside.
Lena's breath hitched. "You've got to be kidding me."
The slow burn reignited, hotter this time. "She's testing me."
I stormed across the street, Lena trailing, and pounded on Cara's ornate front door. The one who opened it wasn't Cara, but her husband, Ben. He looked worn down, his posture sagging as if every conversation in his house was a battle he'd already lost.
"Oh, hello," he said nervously. "Everything okay?"
"No, Ben, it's not," I snapped, jerking a thumb over my shoulder. "Your wife has blocked my garage and is using my charger again."
Ben's face fell. "She said you'd worked something out. A sharing arrangement."
My laugh was sharp, humorless. "The arrangement was that she stays off my property."
And then Cara appeared behind him, dish towel in hand, her expression one of irritation rather than shame. "What's the shouting about?" she asked, stepping forward.
"You've trapped my car in my own garage," I barked. "I could have an emergency."
"Oh, don't be so dramatic," she scoffed, brushing past Ben. "It's just a top-up. An hour maybe. If you really needed me to move, you could have asked nicely."
"That's not how this works," Lena interjected, her arms folded tight. "This is theft. It's trespassing. It's illegal."