Total pages in book: 53
Estimated words: 51131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 256(@200wpm)___ 205(@250wpm)___ 170(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 51131 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 256(@200wpm)___ 205(@250wpm)___ 170(@300wpm)
They didn’t seem thrilled for us, but I shrugged it off and went about my day.
It turned out that Jayden lived directly across the street from me. He enjoyed eyeing up my lawn as if he didn’t appreciate my leisurely lawn-mowing schedule—or maybe it was that I did it myself. Everyone else on our street has services that come to take care of things like that for them, but not me. I have gardening gloves and a little metal trowel for stubborn weeds, and a mower that I drag out when I need to trim the lawn.
Other than his snobbish behavior, Jayden wasn’t much of a problem.
The next time I saw Brent, though, he made it a point to tell me about a buddy of his who wanted to move into the neighborhood, but unfortunately, all the homes had sold. I nodded sympathetically, a bit impatient for him to leave so I could get back to my herb garden. Then he sprang his reason for stopping by and told me if I ever wanted to sell, I should let him know so he could let his buddy know.
I had no idea why he thought I would want to sell. I let him see my confusion and told him no, my daughter and I were perfectly happy where we were and had no plans to move.
“That’s too bad,” he said.
I thought it was incredibly rude and didn’t even know what to say.
Shortly afterward, I found out from one of the less awful neighbors that Brent’s wife had been looking into things, and she found the public record of my purchase—for substantially less than anyone else on this street had paid for their home. She started telling everyone I must have slept with the—married—developer to explain why I got a deal, and she didn’t. Inexplicably, despite there being no proof and no reason to believe such a thing, everyone seemed to buy it. I could tell by the snide, sideways looks I started getting.
Since then, the Hartleys, in particular, have been relentless in trying to get me to leave. First, it was their friend who wanted to buy in, then it was Brent’s brother and sister-in-law. They don’t care who replaces me. They just want me out.
It’s bullying, plain and simple. They’re the type of people who were obviously popular in high school and didn’t get the memo that we’ve all grown up. Once they decided they wanted me out, that was what was going to happen, and they would terrorize me until they got their way.
They probably figured I would give in easily because I’m soft-spoken and mild-mannered, because I garden and bake, and I teach dance for a living.
It’s nothing new, unfortunately. People have underestimated me my whole life.
But it doesn’t matter. I’m not going anywhere. No matter how juvenile they are and no matter how miserable they make me. I scrimped and saved every penny I could to buy this home, even at a reduced rate, and I could never afford a nicer, safer place for my daughter and me to live.
Their latest attempts to run me out have been crude and childish. They smashed cheese slices on the side of the house and hurled little green eco-friendly bags of dog poop on my front porch so I would step in it on my way out of the house. The last time I went outside to mow, I had to wear rubber gloves because dozens of open condoms littered my lawn. They weren’t used, thank God, but I couldn’t mow the lawn until I’d cleaned them all up.
I have a Ring doorbell for security, but everyone on this street does, so they also know the limited visual range and how best to stay out of the way of the camera.
I’m so fed up with their nonsense that I would press charges if I could catch them on camera.
I know they’re sitting back and laughing while I’m wasting my time cleaning up after them, but I don’t find it a bit funny. Not only are they being mean for no real reason, but they’re also eating up time I could be spending with my daughter that I have to spend dealing with their crap instead.
I hit the garage door opener and watch to make sure it rises as I ease down my driveway. Once it’s all the way up, I pull in next to my teenage daughter’s car and turn off the engine.
I gather my purse and my drinks—coffee and a bottle of water, because why choose?—and push my door open to climb out of the car.
“Hey, neighbor.”
Dread slithers through me and coils around my tummy. I hold back a sigh and turn to see Brent Hartley standing in the mouth of my open garage like a Cerberus guarding the gates of hell.