I showed up anyway. The park was immaculate—at least, what was left of it. They'd rented a massive water tank and disguised the hose under fake rocks so Sarah's personal lawn would still glisten. Half the guests knew the truth, but everyone kept smiling. That's the HOA way: gossip behind your neighbor's hydrangeas, then pretend you're best friends at the next cookout.
Sarah stood near the grill wearing a pink floral blouse and a smile that could cut glass. "José Flores!" she sang out, her tone sweet enough to rot your teeth. "I was hoping you'd stop by."
"Wouldn't miss it," I said. "Heard there'd be free water."
Her smile twitched. She gestured toward the food table. "Please, grab a plate. We're just trying to move past all this confusion."
Confusion. That was her word for felony water theft.
As I filled a paper plate with baked beans, she kept talking, loud enough for everyone to hear: "You know, José, it's such a shame when small misunderstandings turn into big problems. We're all neighbors here. Surely, we can settle this without drama."
I leaned on the table, met her eyes, and said, "Drama's your department, Sarah. I'm just the guy who pays for his own water."
A few homeowners nearby tried not to choke on their ribs. Sarah laughed, high-pitched and brittle. "Well, I suppose we'll let the county handle it then. After all, no one wants to make this uglier than it already is."
That's when her husband, Greg Murphy—the HOA's vice president of aesthetics—joined in: big guy, golf tan, permanent sunglasses.
"José," he said, lowering his voice. "Sarah's been under a lot of stress. Maybe you could ease up a bit. She didn't mean any harm."
I looked at him, then at her. "Funny. My cows didn't mean any harm either when they went thirsty."
He stiffened. "You don't want this to get legal, do you?"
I grinned. "Greg, it's already legal. You just don't like who's winning."
Sarah's face turned redder than her wine. "Well," she said sharply, "I hope you're satisfied. You've ruined our irrigation system, and now everyone's lawns are suffering."
"Correction," I said. "Your system was built on my water. You ruined it the moment you tapped that line."
The whole park went quiet. You could have heard a mosquito land on a corn leaf.
Sarah recovered quickly, plastering on another fake smile. "Let's not be dramatic," she said. "We can fix this like adults. Perhaps some compensation?"