"You let me drive it when you lived with me."
"That ended when you announced your engagement over dinner."
"This is insane. They towed it. I'm stuck dealing with paperwork at the station."
"Perfect," I said. "You can Uber home."
"You're evil."
"I'm practical."
She hung up after a string of insults that sounded more like a toddler tantrum than an adult meltdown.
I got my car back that evening, parked it behind the house this time, locked everything twice.
For about five hours, things were peaceful again. Then, at 9:00 p.m., came the pounding.
Three hits on the front door, loud enough to shake the frame. I looked at the security feed. Landon and two of his buddies, looking like the discount version of a moving crew.
I hit the speaker. "Can I help you?"
Landon yelled, "We're here to get Minerva's furniture. She said you're holding her stuff hostage."
I almost laughed. "What furniture?"
"The living room set, the coffee machine, the TV."
"Landon, buddy, every single thing in this house was bought by me. I've got receipts for all of it. You can leave before I call the cops, or you can wait here and meet them personally."
He pointed at the camera. "You can't just lock her out and keep everything."
"Sure I can. I own it. You want to see the bills? Or should I print them out for your next tantrum?"
That got him red. He stepped closer. "You think you're funny?"
"A little," I said. "You're standing on a porch threatening a guy whose ex cheated on him with you. You tell me who looks dumb right now."