"Sole owner," I said. "Deed is in my name only. She was a guest."
"Good," Mike said. He nodded at the bags. "Good luck, brother."
I taped the note to the center bag. I turned off the porch light, went inside, and locked the deadbolt. It made a heavy, solid thud that felt better than the engagement ring ever did.
I went to the fridge, grabbed a beer, and sat in the dark living room.
My phone started buzzing at 11:45 p.m. It was Chloe: missed call, missed call, text.
You are being so childish. Come pick us up. Mom's car is still at the shop and Ubers are surging.
I stared at the screen. The old me would have apologized. The old me would have driven back, hat in hand, begging for forgiveness for ruining her night.
I blocked the number. Then I blocked Linda. Then I blocked her sister. Then I blocked her best friend.
I sat in the silence of my home. For the first time in three years, the air felt clean.
I fell asleep on the couch.
I woke up at 2:00 a.m. to the sound of pounding on the door, screaming. It was the muffled, hysterical shrieking of a woman who has realized the ATM is out of order.
"Mark, open this door! My stuff is outside! You can't do this!" It was Chloe.
And in the background, the shrill voice of Linda: "I told you he's psychotic! Call the police!"
I lay there in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to them rage against the solid oak door and the shiny new deadbolt. I didn't move. I didn't speak. I just listened.
Eventually, the pounding stopped. I heard the sound of a car door slamming—probably a very expensive Uber. And the silence returned.
I closed my eyes and slept like a baby.