“Because,” he said, looking suddenly nervous, “I owe you an explanation. And an apology.”
“You can apologize from over there, where you don’t smell like eau de raccoon.”
He set down the cleaning supplies.
“The truth is, I didn’t park in front of your garage just because of my dad’s car or lack of street parking.”
“No?”
“No,” he said. “I… I wanted an excuse to talk to you.”
I stared at him.
“You’ve been making me late for work for six months because you wanted to chat?”
“I know it sounds stupid,” he said quickly. “It is stupid. But ever since I moved back, I’ve noticed you.
How you always have fresh flowers on your porch. How you sing along to 80s music when you garden. The way you helped Mrs.
Peterson carry her groceries that time.”
I stared at him with wide eyes. I didn’t know what to say.
“I kept trying to work up the courage to ask you out properly,” he continued, “but each time I’d see you, I’d panic and just apologize for the car instead.”
“That’s the worst flirting strategy I’ve ever heard,” I finally managed.
“I know. I’m terrible at this.
I haven’t dated since college and then losing my job and moving back home at 28… not exactly prime dating material.”
I found myself softening. “You could have just brought over cookies or something like a normal person.”
“I’m a terrible baker,” he admitted with a small smile.
“But I make decent coffee. And I promise never to park in front of your garage again.”
I considered him for a moment. He did have nice eyes.
And he wasn’t running away or threatening lawsuits over the raccoon incident.
“Tell you what,” I said, descending the porch steps. “I’ll help you clean your car. And then you’re taking me out for coffee.”
His face lit up.
“Really?”
“Consider it your penance,” I said, taking the gloves from him. “And then we’ll see.”
We spent the morning scrubbing bird droppings and mysterious smudges, hosing down seats, and vacuuming seed hulls from every crevice. It was gross, smelly work, but also strangely fun.
All the while, Richard told me about his job search, his dad’s health problems, and his secret dream of opening a coffee shop someday.
By the time we finished, the car was clean but still faintly smelled of wildlife.
We were soaked, dirty, and laughing.
“Coffee now?” he asked hopefully.
I shook my head. “No. Your car still reeks.”
He frowned.
“But,” I added, “there’s a place about two blocks from here that makes amazing chicken wings.
We could walk.”
His smile returned. “I’d like that.”
As we walked to the restaurant, I realized I hadn’t felt this light in months. Maybe years.
I guess, sometimes, the best connections come from the strangest beginnings, even if they involve birdseed, raccoons, and a parking dispute.
And Richard? He never parked in front of my garage again. Though these days, he usually parks in my driveway instead.
