Cat Lancing slammed the front door of her home after throwing Jason's suitcase towards the curb. He was still trying to load his SUV with his personal effects, the ones that Cat had hurled at him for the past hour. CDs, framed pictures, sports trophies, clothes, soccer balls, a beat-up guitar—everything had been unceremoniously tossed into the yard on the front walkway after Cat had confronted her live-in lover, Jason Gardener, with his infidelity. She'd hired a private detective a month earlier after Jason started arriving home from the office – he sold copy machines – later and later. It turned out that Jason had been sleeping with his perky blond secretary named Dawn Durango, a Texas transplant who liked to two-step at cowboy bars.
Cat had shown Jason all the pics taken by her P.I., and the responses had been clichés. "But honey, she doesn't mean a thing. It was just a one-night thing. I was drunk." Then he had done the old turn-the-table routine. "Cat, you're just not interested in me anymore. We only have sex three times a month. You used to be all over me. I just don't feel loved anymore."
That's when Cat went ballistic. Jason was a manipulative thirty-two-year-old man who was a consummate salesman. He knew what buttons to push, what speeches to pull out of his mental archive. He always had an answer for everything. Cat responded by sucker-punching her man on the right cheek, causing him to reel backwards. He'd looked up in disbelief, rubbing his face like a wounded third grader in the schoolyard. Then he'd started to backpedal to the front door when he saw fire in Cat's eyes, fire so hot and filled with rage that he knew his tenure at her home was over for good.
"Okay," he said. "I get it. We're over. Just let me come back tomorrow and pick up my things."
"Sorry," Cat said unapologetically. "You get out to your Ford, and we'll have everything out of my house faster than you can say Dawn Durango, cowboy."
That's when Jason's personal belongings began to fly though the air like debris in a Kansas tornado. Neighbors came out on their front porches and or peeked through curtained windows. This was first-rate entertainment, and Cat wasn't holding back. People up and down the block loved her, although everyone knew that the twenty-eight-year-old newspaper reporter was a spitfire.
"Did you think I was stupid?" Cat asked as Jason crammed clothes into the back seat of his Bronco. "I'm a journalist, for God's sake. Did you think I can't tell when someone's lying to me? Did you think I didn't have the resources and know-how to track you down late at night?"
Jason had claimed as much as possible from the lawn and was now scrambling into the driver's seat. A hiking boot hit the driver's side window just as he closed the door. Cat was running towards the street as he turned the ignition, the Ford's engine roaring to life. She had a huge bowling trophy in her right hand, and he was afraid she might try to shatter a window. The Bronco sped down the street after leaving rubber on the pavement next to the curb.
Cat lowered the trophy and laughed. She turned around, walked back into her house, sat on the sofa, and broke down. She cried for the next two hours. Jason was out of her life – Jason, who was the father of her unborn baby.
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