Rick Thorne, a broad-shouldered bulldozer of a man, had turned my once peaceful street into a construction site, staking his claim with an arrogant belief that boundaries were mere suggestions.
The pavement on my property, the lilac bush he buried under black asphalt—gone—but not forgotten. His disregard for the lines Mark and I had cherished was an insult that simmered in my chest. Rick’s smirk said it all: he thought he’d won.
But sweet, sweet justice awaited. Armed with Mark’s impeccable survey, I wasn’t just going to reclaim what was mine; I would make sure Rick’s monument to arrogance became a foundation for something that lasted.
As the legal and literal groundwork shifted beneath Rick’s feet, a surprising twist began to take shape—a brick wall rooted in the remnants of his own wrongdoing. The reckoning was nigh, and justice, in all its poetic irony, would soon be as solid and unyielding as the bricks we laid.
The Erased Line: A Neighbor of Substance
The moving truck was offensively large. It blocked the entire street, a hulking white beast of a thing that seemed to grunt and hiss every time the ramp was lowered. From my kitchen window, I watched a parade of polished mahogany and chrome furniture disappear into the house next door, the one that had sat empty for six long months after old Mrs. Gable passed.
I should have gone over with a welcome basket or a casserole. That’s what people do. That’s what Mark and I did when we first moved in, twenty-two years ago. But Mark was gone, and the part of me that baked welcome casseroles seemed to have gone with him. Instead, I nursed a cup of lukewarm coffee and watched the new owner direct the movers with sharp, impatient gestures. He was a man built of solid, confident lines—broad shoulders, a thick neck, a jaw that looked like it could crack walnuts. He wore a crisp polo shirt tucked into expensive jeans, the kind of guy who probably referred to his boat as “she.”
Later that afternoon, as I was weeding the small patch of garden that bordered our properties, he finally moseyed over. He wiped his hands on a clean rag he pulled from his back pocket, a gesture that felt more performative than practical.
“Afternoon,” he said, his voice a low rumble. “Rick Thorne.” He didn’t offer a hand to shake, just stood there, his shadow falling over my hydrangeas.
“Sarah Jennings,” I replied, pushing a stray strand of hair from my face. My hands were caked with dirt. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”
He gave a curt nod, his eyes scanning the length of my yard, then his, then the invisible line between them. He squinted at the six-foot-wide strip of grass where I was working, a little ribbon of green that ran from the sidewalk all the way to the back fence. It was technically my property, a quirk of the original land survey, but it ran flush against his driveway. His gaze settled on the lilac bush standing sentinel at the end of the strip. Its branches were bare now in the late autumn chill, but in my mind, they were heavy with the fragrant purple blossoms of spring.
“Nice little setup you’ve got here,” he said, the compliment landing with the weight of a stone. “You know, I was looking at the plat maps online. This whole property line thing is a little… ambiguous.” He gestured vaguely with his chin. “Seems more like a suggestion than a hard boundary, you know?”
A cold knot formed in my stomach. “I’m fairly certain it’s not a suggestion, Mr. Thorne.”
He chuckled, a short, dismissive sound. “Call me Rick. And hey, I’m just saying. A guy could use a little more elbow room for his truck.” He clapped his hands together, the sound sharp and final. “Well, gotta finish unpacking. Good meeting you, Sarah.” He turned and walked back to his house, leaving me with the ghost of his words hanging in the air. A suggestion. The line Mark had measured himself, the line that held the lilac we planted on our first anniversary, was just a suggestion.
A Son and a Suitcase
The following Friday, I was packing a small overnight bag. My son, Leo, had called from college, his voice tight with the stress of midterms. “I’m drowning in organic chemistry, Mom. Can you just… come? Bring cookies. The ones with the caramel.”
He was a twenty-year-old man asking for his mother and cookies. It was the easiest ‘yes’ I’d ever given. The drive was three hours, a straight shot up the interstate. As I packed my toiletries, I glanced out the bathroom window and saw Rick Thorne in his yard, talking on his phone and pacing the length of his driveway. He stopped and stared at the lilac bush for a long moment, his head tilted. It was the look of a man doing calculations.
I zipped my bag shut, a familiar ache settling in my chest. Mark should have been here, teasing me about my packing, reminding me to check the tire pressure. We’d driven this route to visit Leo together a dozen times. Doing it alone still felt like trying to walk with one shoe. The house was too quiet, the silence a constant reminder of the half of my life that was now just a memory.
Before leaving, I did one last walk-through. I locked the back door, checked the stove, and paused in the living room, my eyes falling on the framed photo on the mantel. It was Mark and me, twenty years younger, grinning, standing on our bare patch of lawn next to a spindly little sapling. The lilac. His arm was slung around my shoulder, and he was holding a rolled-up blueprint, the survey map he’d drafted for our property when we bought it. He’d been so proud of that map, of its precision. “Every line has a purpose, Sarah,” he used to say. “No suggestions here.”
I shook the memory away, grabbed my keys, and headed out. The unease about my new neighbor was a small, nagging thing, easily pushed aside by the more immediate need of my son. It was just a weekend. What could possibly happen in a weekend?
About the Author
