“Please move.”
Vanessa crossed her arms.
“This unloading stops until the truck leaves.”
Marcus looked at her.
“You’re standing in my driveway.”
“And you are violating neighborhood standards.”
“No.”
He held up the authorization.
“I’m following them.”
Vanessa leaned closer.
“You have lived here less than one hour.”
“Twenty-three minutes.”
Her nostrils flared.
“And you’re already being difficult.”
Marcus almost laughed.
Not because anything was funny.
Because he was exhausted.
He had spent the previous month packing two apartments’ worth of belongings into one life.
For years, Marcus had moved between temporary rentals because of work.
He was a civil project manager who specialized in large commercial developments.
One project lasted eighteen months.
Another nine.
Sometimes he spent half a year living near a construction site before returning to whatever apartment happened to contain his furniture.
He had become very good at not owning much.
Very good at folding life into boxes.
Very good at never becoming attached to a neighborhood.
Then he turned thirty-eight.
Something changed.
Not dramatically.
He simply became tired of explaining his mailing address.
So he bought a house.
Three bedrooms.
Stone façade.
White trim.
Two-car garage.
Small back patio.
Enough room for a workshop.
Enough room for his younger sister and nephew to stay during holidays.
Enough space that he could imagine owning the same dining table ten years from now.
He had spent six months searching.
Another two negotiating.
He had read every page of the community restrictions twice before closing because Marcus disliked surprises.
That was why the woman standing in his driveway irritated him.
Not because she questioned him.
Questions were fine.
Because she had been shown the answer and continued behaving as though seeing evidence were optional.
Marcus said:
“The truck stays until we finish.”
Vanessa smiled.
It was a thin smile.
“You’re going to regret starting like this.”
“Starting like what?”
“Hostile.”
Marcus looked around.
Greg was standing beside a hand truck.
Two younger movers waited near the rear of the truck.
A neighbor watched from behind a hydrangea bush.
Marcus looked back at Vanessa.
“You walked onto my property and ordered my movers to stop.”
“I’m enforcing standards.”
“You haven’t shown me a rule I’m breaking.”
“I don’t need to debate community policy with every resident.”
Marcus nodded.
“Then we don’t have anything else to discuss.”
He stepped around her.
Vanessa grabbed her phone.
“I’m calling the police.”
Marcus stopped.
Slowly turned.
“For what?”
“Unauthorized commercial access.”
“No.”
“And possible trespassing.”
Marcus stared at his house.
Then at Vanessa.
Then back at the house.
“That is my house.”
“That is what you claim.”
Greg muttered something behind Marcus.
Marcus ignored it.
His voice became quieter.
“Are you saying you don’t believe I own the property?”
Vanessa adjusted her handbag.
“I am saying I have never seen you before.”
Marcus waited.
When she offered nothing more, he asked:
“And?”
“New residents normally introduce themselves.”
“To you?”
“To the community.”
“I submitted every required document.”
“You’re avoiding the point.”
“No.”
Marcus folded his arms.
“I’m trying to find it.”