Chapter 1: Maple Heights Avengers Assemble

Tyler Grant literally tossed me out of the new place, and before I knew it, I was trudging back to my old apartment at Maple Heights—dust in my hair, grime on my jeans, feeling like I’d just crawled out of a demolition site.

Grit scraped at my skin with every step. I winced, thinking, wow, this is rock bottom, huh? The hallway lights flickered, casting weird shadows as I fumbled my keys. My shoulders sagged so hard I nearly lost my bag. My shoes tracked mud all the way to my door. The air inside was stale—like an old sock drawer—but at least it was mine. For a second, I just stood there, letting the silence close in, heavy as a winter coat I couldn’t take off.

After bawling my eyes out (I was a mess, honestly), I fired off a post in our building’s Facebook Messenger group:

"Broke up. Need a tall dude (5'11"+) to help me get my stuff from my ex’s place. Just need backup so I don’t fold. If you can help me stand my ground—or, you know, put him in his place if it comes to that—hit me up with your rate. DM me. Seriously."

I hovered over the send button, my thumb shaking, eyes puffy and raw. Was this too much? Did I sound totally desperate? Whatever. I honestly didn’t care. I was just too wiped out to care. I hit send, powered off my phone, and faceplanted on my bed. When I finally woke up, the chat was blowing up. The old-timers had called a midnight emergency meeting and somehow picked five volunteers to go with me.

I couldn’t even remember falling asleep. For a second, I just lay there, staring at the ceiling. Then sunlight started sneaking through the blinds, and my phone was buzzing like it had a personal vendetta. My heart hammered—what now? But it was just a tidal wave of messages. Group chat icons stacked up like dominoes. The building’s unofficial council—basically the retiree mafia—had gone full emergency response. Five people were picked already, like it was a neighborhood draft.

Next morning, I stepped out and nearly tripped over the crowd waiting downstairs. A big U-Haul was parked out front, and there were kids in pajamas, teens with hoodies pulled up, old-timers with walkers, and even some folks in slippers and robes—everyone looked half-awake, half-hyped for something wild.

No joke, the whole Maple Heights complex was buzzing like it was the Fourth of July. Kids chased each other, neighbors I’d only ever nodded to were suddenly waving, and there were at least three people clutching coffee like their lives depended on it. The U-Haul’s engine rumbled, exhaust curling in the cold air. Somebody brought donuts—Krispy Kreme, if my nose was right. For a second, I wondered if I was dreaming. Or maybe still delirious from crying.

The second I turned my phone on, my notifications exploded. The group was usually dead. Lost cat, missing package, that’s it. Now? My phone was blowing up—tagged in every other post.

I scrolled through the madness, hands shaking. Lost mail? Parking complaints? All buried under a flood of comments, memes, and inside jokes. My phone buzzed so much it was about to vibrate off the table. I swear, it was like the building had been waiting for a cause, and my breakup was it.

“My husband and I can play your brother and sister-in-law. He’s 6'1", 200 pounds, ex-Army. I talk fast and loud—never lost an argument. We’ve got an 80-pound golden retriever and a little girl who can cry on cue.”

I nearly snorted coffee out my nose. What was this, an actual sitcom? A tactical family unit with a golden retriever and a kid who could waterworks on command. All we needed was a laugh track and a dramatic zoom-in.

“If your daughter’s going, I want in too. I’m great at crying—I’ll hug your little girl and we’ll cry together.”

I pictured a squad of teary-eyed kids, arms linked like a tiny emotional SWAT team. For a second, I actually felt lighter. Maybe this wouldn’t be a total train wreck.

“My son’s perfect—eighth grader, rebellious, loves to argue and scrap, sharp logic, and he’s free.”

That one made me snort-laugh. Backup muscle in the form of a middle-schooler? That’s straight out of a Disney Channel Original Movie. I could practically see him, arms crossed, ready to debate my ex into oblivion.

Laughing emojis everywhere. I just stared, speechless, as the notifications kept rolling in, feeling like I’d wandered into the world’s weirdest pep rally.

My phone was a blur of hearts, thumbs-up, and at least three GIFs of cats wielding baseball bats. (That last one? I lost it.) I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. So, naturally, I did both—alternating every other second.

“I’m 5'11", my boyfriend’s a cop, 6'3"—as long as nobody throws a punch, we’ll look scary enough. We’ll make sure you’re good.”

Everyone was volunteering their height like it was some kind of superpower. I pictured a lineup of tall folks, arms folded, looking like the Maple Heights Avengers. Assemble!

“Take me too, I’ve got a stomach bug lately, I can ‘do my business’ at his place if needed.”

That one had me wheezing. Only in this building would someone offer to weaponize a stomach bug. I could almost hear the laughter bouncing off the stairwell walls.

“I can drive and follow behind you. Send the address. After we’re done kicking ass, I’ll help haul your stuff.”

People were already divvying up rides, planning snack runs. It was like a field trip, except the destination was my heartbreak. Oof.

One truck might not be enough—I’ve got a car, seats four.

For half a second, I pictured a convoy of minivans and sedans, hazard lights blinking, rolling up on Tyler’s street like we were about to storm Area 51.

I’ll ride in the trunk if I have to, but I’m coming.

That one was so Maple Heights it hurt. I didn’t even know who wrote it, but I’d bet money they meant it. Some of my neighbors were tough as nails.

I run moving and storage—let them handle the muscle, I’ll pack up for you. Whatever you need, I can even bring matching paint for touch-ups.

I could practically see the guy in overalls, rolling up with boxes and a paint scraper, determined to reclaim every last inch. Even the wall paint. That’s commitment. I almost wanted to high-five him through the phone.

Then Derek’s owner chimed in: "When are we leaving? I’ll fly back—save me a spot."

Derek—our building’s unofficial mascot, the fat orange tabby who ran the halls like a boss. Even his owner wanted in. That mental image? Yeah, I grinned for the first time in days.

Even folks living abroad chimed in: "Start a livestream—I’ll be the hype squad."

I pictured someone in Berlin, streaming the drama with popcorn in hand, dropping GIFs in the chat. It felt like the whole world was tuning in—at least, my world.

“You left yet? Just saw this. I’m 6'3", 240 pounds, bench press 265, and most importantly, I’ve got a full beard and two gold teeth.”

Now the crew sounded more like a biker gang than a moving team. The beard and gold teeth? That’s just extra flavor. I almost wanted to see Tyler’s face.

"Everyone should brush up on assault and self-defense laws."

Of course, someone had to be the voice of reason—probably the same neighbor who always posted about recycling bins. But hey, they weren’t wrong.

"Me, I’m bipolar—got the paperwork—so technically I’ve got a pass if I lose it..."

That cracked me up—half laugh, half cry. Dark humor? That’s Maple Heights, baby. Someone always knew how to break the tension.

"I can bring my border collie—she’s smart and knows what to do."

I pictured the dog herding Tyler out of his own living room. Honestly, I’d pay to watch that livestream.

The group was buzzing, people forming teams, hidden talents coming out of nowhere. It actually made me feel lighter. For once, it didn’t seem so hard.

My phone was still buzzing, but for the first time in ages, I didn’t feel alone. My neighbors were out here, ready to go to battle—or at least make a scene. Suddenly, facing Tyler didn’t seem so terrifying.

I dragged out two old suitcases and headed for the stairs. If nobody DM’d me, whatever—I’d just go alone. Not like I had a choice.

I paused at the landing, hands tight on the battered handles, heart banging in my chest. I told myself I’d do it solo if I had to. But honestly? I hoped—just a little—that someone would show.

But then I stepped outside, and holy crap—a whole crowd was waiting, chatting and laughing, energy bouncing off the walls. The place was electric.

I blinked, totally stunned. It was like a block party, only the theme was my breakup. People I barely knew were calling my name. Someone handed me a coffee, another pressed a granola bar into my hand. It was like stepping into a flash mob, but the playlist was heartbreak anthems.

I was still in a daze when Mrs. Ramirez, my landlord, appeared at my side and nudged me to look over.

Mrs. Ramirez rocked her signature pink housecoat, hair in curlers like she was ready for battle. She squeezed my arm, her eyes warm and steady. "Look over there, mija," she said, voice soft but not taking no for an answer.

A moving truck was parked there, a handful of people clustered around it.

The U-Haul gleamed in the sunlight, neighbors huddled in little groups, shifting from foot to foot. Someone had slapped a hand-drawn sign on the side: "Operation: Maya’s Stuff."

The bearded driver poked his head out, flashing those two gold teeth like a Vegas slot machine.

He shot me a thumbs-up, grin wide enough to light up the lot. "Ready to roll whenever you are!" he called, voice booming. Gold teeth sparkling, pirate vibes strong—even in cargo shorts.

Everyone shouted, “Come on, the sooner we go, the sooner we’re back. Everyone’s waiting for the livestream!”

A chorus rose up, some folks already chanting, "Let’s go, Maya!" Someone started a slow clap, and the streamer girl waved her phone, already counting down like it was New Year’s Eve.

A stylish young woman in giant sunglasses whipped out a handful of clip-on mics and started pinning them on us.

She rocked a vintage band tee and moved fast, snapping mics onto collars and lapels with practiced, almost ninja-like hands. "Don’t worry, you’ll look great on camera," she winked, her energy contagious.

"I’m a small-time streamer. The building group asked me to do a livestream, so please play along, everyone."

She grinned, holding her phone high. "We’ve already got thirty viewers. Let’s make this the most epic moving day ever—#MapleHeightsStrong!"

A guy in his forties or fifties stepped up: “Honey, I’m 5'11", Army vet, got a loud voice, and I’m old enough—if he lays a hand on you, I’ll knock him into next week.”

He clapped me on the back, handshake like a vice. "Been through a few wars myself," he said, winking. "Nobody messes with my neighbors."

One of the young guys in a suit piped up, "I’m a lawyer, here for legal backup."

He looked barely out of college, briefcase at his side. "Don’t worry," he said, "I’ve got your lease and down payment receipts. If things get ugly, I’ll handle it. Legal ninja style."

The buzz-cut guy added, "I’m a cop—off-duty, but I don’t stop serving and protecting."

He flashed his badge, then tucked it away. "Just here to keep the peace. Nobody’s getting hurt on my watch. Pinky swear."

Alright, but what about the baby-faced kid?

He clutched a backpack, sneakers untied, eyes dancing with mischief.

“That’s my son. Don’t let the eighth grade fool you—his mouth is deadly. He’ll roast your ex until he’s toast,” an aunt crowed from the crowd.

She ruffled his hair. He grinned, cracking his knuckles. "I’ve got a whole arsenal of comebacks ready," he whispered. I almost felt sorry for Tyler. Almost.

Mrs. Ramirez raised her hand for quiet. “Tell us the details. We’ll only take what’s yours—don’t touch anything that isn’t.”

She looked right at me, voice gentle but with zero wiggle room. "We’re here to help, not start a brawl. Let’s do this right, okay?"

She was so kind, I lost it again—tears just started pouring out.

Her kindness cracked me open. I hid my face, tears streaming. Someone handed me a tissue, and the crowd went quiet, giving me space. But I could feel their support—warm, real, all around me.