Vanessa’s face turned red from her collar to her hairline.
I didn’t make a speech. I didn’t need to. I took Irvin’s hand, and we walked out of the gate together.
By the time we reached our front porch, two couples were already heading home with their kids. A few minutes later, another neighbor walked past our house carrying a folding chair under his arm, and he gave us a little nod. The barbecue hadn’t officially ended. But the mood had.
For about forty minutes, I felt wonderful.
Then I started to wonder what a woman like Vanessa would do after losing in front of half the neighborhood.
Part Five: The Letter
The answer started with petty things.
First, a complaint to the HOA about Irvin running the lawnmower “excessively early,” at noon on a Saturday. Then an anonymous note in our mailbox about our trash cans being visible from the street on a non-collection day. Then a report that our porch light was “too bright.”
