“It’s Carla,” John said as he walked through the door.
“She’s at my house and she won’t leave.”
“Can’t you call the cops?” I asked.
“Her name is still on the lease.”
I grabbed three beers from the fridge. Jen emerged from our bedroom, clothed again.
“Crash here for a night or two while we all figure something out,” said Jen, her compassion one of the many reasons I loved her.
Notifications rang out from John’s phone in rapid succession. Carla was trashing John’s place and posting her rampage on Instagram. We took screenshots. We had plenty of evidence to evict Carla and get a restraining order for John.
The three of us raised our beers to cheer and then settled in on the couch for a movie marathon.