At 1:14 AM, the heavy thuds of him pounding on the front door echoed through the hallway. I watched him through the doorbell camera as he stood there in his navy button-down, looking disheveled and acting as though he was the victim in this scenario.
I sent him one final text: “You said you were sleeping with Brianna, so I just helped you finish the move.” After that, the banging stopped and the street fell into a heavy, uneasy silence.
I assumed he had crawled back to her place to lick his wounds, but at 3:00 AM, my phone buzzed with an unrecognized number. I answered with a racing heart, expecting his voice, but a woman’s shaky, tearful tone met my ear instead.
“Is this Skylar? This is Brianna. I think your boyfriend is passed out in my front yard.”
I sat up straight in bed, the smell of fresh wood from the new door frames still lingering in the air. “Is he injured?” I asked, the instinct to care for him dying a slow death.
“He is wasted or something, and he was screaming at my door about how I ruined his life before the neighbors called the cops. But Skylar, I found something in one of the bags you dropped off that you need to see before the police get here.”