Not carefully.

Not kindly.

Sneakers, hoodies, gaming headset, protein powder, unopened job applications he had printed and never submitted. I shoved them into garbage bags and lined them beside the door.

At 11:17 p.m., he called again.

This time, I answered.

“What the hell is wrong with you?” he shouted. Voices roared behind him. “They made me use my card!”

“Good.”

“My card declined!”

“Also good.”

“Sarah, I swear to God, if you don’t come back here—”

“You grabbed my face in a restaurant,” I said quietly. “You called me a pathetic little puppy in front of strangers. You ordered champagne on my tab. We’re done.”

There was a pause.

Then he laughed.

“You’re not done. You’re emotional.”

“No, Randy. I’m clear.”

His voice dropped into the tone he used when charm failed and control came out instead. “You think you can just cut me off? After everything?”

“Everything?” I repeated.

“I gave you three years.”

“No,” I said.
“I rented them from you at a terrible rate.”

I hung up.

Then I changed the smart lock code.

At 1:03 a.m., Randy arrived.

He hammered on the door so hard the frame shook.

“Sarah! Open the door!”

I sat on the couch, knees tucked under me, watching the security camera feed on my phone.

He looked smaller through the lens. Less like a man. More like a tantrum in a navy blazer.

“I know you’re in there!” he shouted. “My stuff is in there!”

I opened the door with the chain still on.

His face was red. His hair stuck up in sweaty clumps. The arrogance from the restaurant had curdled into panic.

“My bags are by the elevators,” I said.

His mouth opened. Closed.

“You can’t do this.”

“I already did.”

“This is my home.”

“No. This is my apartment.”

“My car is in the garage.”

That made me smile.

“About the car,” I said.

He narrowed his eyes.

“The final payment cleared this morning,” I told him. “You’re welcome.”

For one brief, stupid second, relief flashed over his face.

Then I added, “And since the loan was in my name, and the insurance was in my name, and every payment came from my account, I called the lienholder this afternoon. The title paperwork goes to me.”

His face changed.

Beautifully.

“You said it was my car.”

“I said I was helping you pay for it.”

“You can’t take my car.”

“Watch me.”

He slammed his palm against the door. The chain rattled.

“Open this door.”

“No.”

“Sarah.”

Then, from behind him, came a voice.

“Sir, step back from the door.”

Two police officers stood near the elevator. My downstairs neighbor, Mrs. Alvarez, hovered behind them in her robe, looking furious enough to fight Randy herself.

I had never loved her more.

Randy’s expression snapped into wounded innocence. “Officer, this is my girlfriend. We had a fight.”

“Ex-girlfriend,” I said.

One officer glanced at me. “Ma’am, are you safe?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want him removed from the property?”

I looked at Randy, at the man I once imagined marrying, at the man who had made me feel lucky when he remembered my birthday two days late.

“Yes,” I said.
“I do.”

He stared at me like he had never seen me before.

Maybe he hadn’t.

They escorted him out.

I slept badly, but I slept alone. That was enough.

The next morning, I woke to sunlight, silence, and forty-three missed messages. Some were angry. Some were pleading. Some were Randy insisting he loved me. One said he was “willing to forgive me.”