The moving truck pulled away with a grinding of gears and a cloud of exhaust, leaving me alone on the sidewalk with seventeen boxes and a determination to be happy.
Willow Creek, Oregon. Population: approximately 8,000. Distance from Chicago: 2,073 miles. Distance from my former fiancé and the cousin he cheated with: immeasurable, and yet somehow still not far enough.
"You can do this," I said to no one. "New town. New job. New Daisy. The old Daisy had terrible taste in men. The new Daisy is going to thrive."
The cottage was perfect—yellow door, wildflower garden, the kind of storybook charm that felt like a promise. The previous owner had been a retired schoolteacher who'd moved to be closer to grandchildren, and she'd left the place filled with good energy and functioning appliances. Already better than my Chicago apartment.
I dragged the first box inside and paused to breathe in the smell of cedar and possibility. Tomorrow I would start at Willow Creek Elementary, teaching kindergarten to tiny humans who had no idea that I'd spent the last six months rebuilding my entire life. They would know only Miss Martinez, the cheerful teacher with the craft supplies and the enthusiasm for phonics.
The woman I was becoming, not the woman I'd been.
"Focus," I told myself. "Unpack. Settle. Survive."
Box one: kitchen essentials. Box two: bathroom necessities. Box three: the comfort objects I needed to make any space feel like home—my mother's old blanket, the plant I'd named Fernando, the fairy lights I strung everywhere regardless of season.
By 4 PM, the cottage was habitable. By 5 PM, I'd made coffee and was sitting on my new porch, watching the Pacific Northwest sky turn shades of gray that Chicago never managed.
That's when I noticed him.
The house next door—gray siding, blinds perpetually closed, absolutely no personality—had a front porch that connected to mine via a low wooden fence. On that porch, in a weathered chair that looked like it hadn't been moved in years, sat a man.
He was glaring at me.
Not just looking. Glaring. Full-on, don't-you-dare-acknowledge-my-existence glaring. He had dark hair going silver at the temples, a jaw that could cut glass, and the general energy of someone who wanted the entire world to leave him alone.
I waved.
He did not wave back. He stood up abruptly, went inside, and shut the door with a force that rattled the windows.
"Charming," I said to Fernando the plant. "Our neighbor is delightful."
That night, I learned three things about my delightful neighbor.
One: His name was Theodore Blackwood, according to the mail I accidentally saw (not snooping, just... observant) when I walked past his mailbox.
Two: He was some kind of writer, based on the vintage typewriter visible through his side window (again, not snooping—I was retrieving Fernando, who had blown off the railing in a gust of wind).
Three: He absolutely, definitely did not want to be disturbed, as evidenced by the sign on his door that said, in no uncertain terms: DO NOT DISTURB. NO SOLICITORS. NO EXCEPTIONS.
I fell asleep planning how to be the exception.
Saturday morning dawned gray and drizzly—typical Oregon, according to the research I'd done before moving. I woke early, made cinnamon rolls because stress baking was cheaper than therapy, and began Phase One of my neighbor-charming initiative.
The cinnamon rolls were perfect. Golden, gooey, smelling like home and comfort and everything good in the world. I arranged six on a plate, covered it with a cheerful cloth napkin, and marched next door.
Theodore Blackwood answered on the fourth knock, looking like I'd woken him from a coma of misery. He was wearing a gray sweater, gray sweatpants, and an expression of absolute horror.
"Hi!" I said. "I'm Daisy. I moved in next door yesterday. I brought welcome-to-the-neighborhood gifts, but since technically I'm the newcomer, I'm calling them thank-you-for-tolerating-my-presence gifts. Cinnamon rolls. I made them fresh this morning. The secret is cold butter."
He stared at me like I'd started speaking in tongues.
"I know the sign says no soliciting," I continued, because silence made me nervous and nervous made me talk, "but technically I'm not soliciting anything. I'm offering. It's completely different. Also, I'm your neighbor, which means I'm not going away, so we might as well be on friendly terms. Or at least terms where you don't look at me like I'm going to steal your newspaper."
"I don't get a newspaper."
His voice was rusty, like he hadn't used it in weeks. Deep and rough and fundamentally unfriendly.
"Perfect! Then there's nothing for me to steal." I thrust the plate toward him. "Take the cinnamon rolls. I made too many. If you don't take them, I'll eat all of them, and then I'll feel guilty, and then I'll make more to make myself feel better, and it becomes a whole cycle. You'd be doing me a favor."
He looked at the plate. He looked at me. He looked at the plate again.
Then, with the enthusiasm of someone accepting a death sentence, he took the cinnamon rolls.
"Thank you," he said. It sounded like the words hurt coming out.
"You're welcome!" I beamed at him with all the aggressive cheerfulness I could muster. "I'm teaching kindergarten at the elementary school. If you ever need anything—sugar, eggs, someone to water your plants while you're away—I'm right next door. Though based on your windows, you don't have plants. We should fix that. Plants improve mood. It's science."
He closed the door in my face.
But he kept the cinnamon rolls.
I called it a victory.