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“So, he takes a bat,” Vanessa says, “and he smashes in her windshield. Just completely shatters it.”
“No way,” Phineas says, eyes going wide.
You click your tongue over the rim of your martini before taking a long sip.
“I’m trying to get her to press charges, but Lacey’s such an idiot when it comes to him. Even now, she’s all, ‘But, Vanessa, he’s really sorry! He only did it because he thought I was texting another guy! If he loved me any less, it wouldn’t have bothered him that much!’” She heaves a loud sigh, lifting a hand from the table to run her fingers through her hair. “I swear, I don’t know what to do with her sometimes.”
“That boyfriend sounds like a real jerk,” Phineas says, his mouth twisting. “I mean, seriously! Even if he thought she was cheating on him—and he could’ve asked if he was really that worried about it—trashing her car? Will her insurance even cover that? And what’s she supposed to do in the meantime? I mean, what a—like, he’s such a total—you know—”
As he stammers, not finding the words, you finish your drink, sit your glass on the table, and drape an arm alongside the top of the booth just over Phineas’ shoulders.
“What he’s trying to say is,” you tell Vanessa, “fuck that guy.”
Phineas stops short, blinks, reddens slightly, and then nods in agreement. “Yeah,” he says. “That.”
Brevity, Shakespeare said, is the soul of wit.