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Neither of us got a wink of sleep that night.

Not with Patricia—affectionately dubbed Flabby Patty Crazy Pants—stomping around upstairs like a drunk elephant in orthopedic flip-flops.

Jon gave her that name after witnessing a truly harrowing moment on the back patio.

The woman had declared war on bras, and gravity was winning.

Those things swung low like two weary travelers just trying to get home.

I swear Jon still flinches when he hears the words “free spirit.” He won’t even walk past Victoria’s Secret anymore.

Our bedroom—or what had become our war bunker—reeked of exhaustion and mild despair.

We had the ceiling fan going full blast to drown out the creaks from above, but no luck.

Every floorboard groan was a jump scare.

IDTV was on, naturally, because nothing says “relax” like listening to narration about husbands who murder their wives in remote cabins.

Nacho was wedged between us like a furry Switzerland, huffing dramatically every time one of us shifted. He was over it. We all were.

We finally dozed off around 2 a.m., but not before Jon whispered, “I swear if I hear one more thump from upstairs, I’m calling in an airstrike.”

By 7 a.m., I was wide awake and feral. The sun sliced through the blinds like it was personally offended we were still there.

I started packing with the manic energy of someone trying to outrun a natural disaster.

Four suitcases. Two giant tubs. Clothes, toiletries, my travel steamer, everything I’ve accumulated since being with Jon for 6 months.

Jon’s “emergency beard kit,” and all the good snacks Patricia’s kids kept trying to steal when they came over to “do homework” Yeah, sure. Homework.

The air inside the house was heavy—like it had absorbed every argument, passive-aggressive sigh, and microwave beep from the last month.

You could practically taste the dysfunction.

Jon moved around like a man possessed, assembling cardboard boxes like he was building a fort to emotionally hide inside.

I caught him fiddling with the keypad lock on his bedroom door, testing it three times like a dad leaving for vacation in a neighborhood full of raccoons with opposable thumbs.

“I just don’t want to come back and find a meth lab in here,” he muttered, tightening the bolt.

“Reasonable,” I said, tossing another pair of socks into a suitcase.

“She did ask me last week if we ‘happen to know a guy who’s good with rats.’ But, like, she winked when she said it.” Jon paled.

“I’m not coming back unless I have legal counsel.” He left to pick up the rental—thank God we weren’t taking his truck, which at this point smelled like wet gym socks and dog farts—and called Blake before he walked out the door. I only heard his side of the conversation:

“Hey, man. Just letting you know we’re heading to Texas for a bit. Yeah. Couple weeks. Maybe a month. Just until we feel… emotionally safe.” Pause .

“Yeah, I left you half the mortgage. So you can’t say we ghosted you.” Another pause. Then Jon ended the call with a tight smile and muttered, “He’s surprisingly chill for someone living with chaos on two legs.”

Meanwhile, I was double-checking the house like I was being graded. Doors locked. Candles are blown out. The leftover Chinese from last night was tossed so it wouldn’t become sentient while we were gone. Patricia, nowhere in sight… Coward narcissistic bitch ….

The place looked oddly peaceful in the morning light, which felt rude considering the psychological damage it had caused us.

It was like the house knew we were leaving and was putting on its best “no, stay!” face.

Too late. I wasn’t sticking around to become the next IDTV story.

I’d already picked out my villain monologue for the reenactment.

Jon pulled up in the rental—a sensible Chevy SUV that screamed, “We’ve given up on cool and chosen survival.” He loaded the car while Nacho watched suspiciously from the open garage, clearly wondering if he was being shipped off again or if he was just along for the drama, as usual.

Jon slammed the trunk shut, we looked at each other, and without saying anything, nodded like two people escaping a cult with only a carry-on and a shared trauma bond.

Texas, here we come. Bring on my parents, an AC that works, and a home that doesn’t feel like a haunted real estate listing and if Flabby Patty tries to call us while we’re gone?

We’re changing our names and moving to Canada. That bitch is fucking nuts…..

Jon looked a little misty-eyed, the way a man does when he's trying hard not to feel feelings but they're elbowing their way to the surface anyway. This had been his home for three years, tucked into the folds of Idaho Falls, where he built a life with someone he’d served with in the Navy—a guy he didn’t just call a friend, but a brother.

And now? That so-called brother was playing house with a woman who could pass for the villain in a mid-budget Lifetime thriller.

I could only imagine what Jon was feeling, standing there with his jaw tight and eyes scanning the driveway like it might explain how Blake had gone from navy brother to whipped minion.

He probably felt abandoned, maybe even betrayed.

And yeah, I wanted to hug him. But I also wanted to slash Patricia’s tires.

Emotional growth and impulse control—it’s a balance.

Blake, for his part, acted like a human shrug, completely oblivious to the fact that his new live-in nightmare had driven a wedge between him and Jon deeper than the Grand Canyon.

Patricia had wormed her way into every crevice of Blake’s life like mold in a poorly ventilated bathroom.

And the worst part? He didn’t even notice.

It was like watching a man proudly show off his new chains while insisting he’s never been freer.

He was even dumb enough to buy her a car—with his credit, no less.

Like, full-on co-signed for a woman who thinks astrology is a personality type and hasn’t paid for her shampoo since Obama was in office.

I mean, come on. She’s clearly using him, and he’s just standing there handing her the keys like it’s a Hallmark movie instead of a slow-burning horror movie.

This is going to end badly one day and we weren’t going to be around to see it…

. But we weren’t about to stick around and host an intervention.

Nope. We had an 18-hour road trip ahead of us—Idaho Falls to Texas—and we’d decided to take it slow.

No more rushing from emotional landmine to emotional landmine. This time, we were going to breathe.

Jon packed up his camping gear with a kind of hopeful defiance like maybe the great outdoors could detox him from all the Patricia-shaped toxicity in the air.

I didn’t say it, but I loved this plan. The idea of stopping somewhere under the stars, just the two of us (and Nacho, obviously), eating canned chili by fire and pretending we were unbothered by the emotional carnage we just left behind—it sounded like heaven.

So, we hit the road. A man with a bruised heart, a woman with sarcasm as her emotional support system, and a dog who honestly was just thrilled to be wherever snacks were. Texas was our next major stop.