Thoughtless

Jordan A. Masters and Ruth Anne Masters

I threw the phone across the room. It was always some excuse or another, some lame reason why I had to be stuck at home while he was out with his friends. At least his friends had the sense not to be screaming in the background this time while he fed me the newest excuse—he had to take his truck to get washed or his boss would read him the riot act. Clever.

It would have been more believable if I hadn’t known that he’d had all damn day to do it, but had instead been working on restoring his newest acquisition—yet another pickup.

I stared at the shattered pieces of what had moments before been my cell phone. Somehow I didn’t care. He barely ever called me anyway, and even when he did, it was always after dark and always to give me the “I can’t come over tonight for this-lame-ass-reason-you-won’t-believe-but-I’ll-try-anyway” story.

Grabbing my car keys off the table, I walked out into the garage, slamming the door behind me. A few slams later—the driver’s door, my finger on the garage door opener, the key into the ignition, my foot on the gas—I was speeding down the street, heading for his house. When I got there, I saw it sitting in the driveway—the evil pickup that had ruined my weekend. Taking the bat from my back seat—thankfully my friend had left his baseball gear in my car—I strutted over to the beast. “So,” I muttered, “ruin my weekend, will you?” I brought the bat down on the windshield until it shattered. I wailed on the truck until I felt slightly better—and until I was certain he’d be better off scrapping it than restoring it.

I climbed back in my car, replacing the bat in the back seat. Taking off again, I headed for the one place I knew he would be—he was out eating with friends. As I pulled into the parking lot, I spotted his truck, and looking inside the restaurant window, I saw him and his friends at a table, laughing. He had his arm around a girl I’d never seen before, and as I watched, she planted a kiss on his lips.

Brilliant. So the rat bastard was cheating on me, too.

Parking my car next to his, I climbed out, digging the key to his truck out of my pocket. I’d swiped it a few weeks before, just in case. I climbed up into it and started it—it was laughable, actually, the sap thought I couldn’t drive it. I took off, laughing maniacally, nearly hitting my own car.

Halfway down the road, I spotted a cell phone lying on the console. It wasn’t his, so I had to assume it belonged to that hussy he was with. I picked it up and dialed his number. After a few rings, he answered. “Uh, hello?”

“Hi, sweetie. Missing something?”

There was an audible gulp on the other end after a few moments of silence. “Katy, where’s my truck? Are you…did you take my fucking truck?!”

“Yep.”

“Why did you…?!”

“You’re a cheating bastard, you know that?” I didn’t wait for him to answer. “What’s her name, Josh? Huh? What’s the name of that little whore you’re cheating on me with?!” He didn’t answer. “Fine. If you want your truck back, come get it. I’ll be waiting. You know where.” I hung up without waiting for a response. After a moment, I opened the window—it was such a nice night.

After a few more minutes of driving, I pulled into an abandoned parking lot—our old “make-out” spot. I climbed out and reached into the bed, pulling out the half-empty container of gasoline he had. Pouring it in and around the truck, I threw the now-empty container on the ground and climbed back into the driver’s seat, shutting the door.

Josh and his friends showed up not a minute later, piling out of his friend’s truck. “Katy! Get out of there!”

I leaned out the open window. “I wouldn’t get too close if I were you.” I pointed to the gas container on the ground. His eyes went wide, and he threw out his arms, stopping everyone else.

“Are you out of your fucking mind?! Get out of there!”

I reached into the console and pulled out the box of matches he kept hidden there. I struck one, and with a look at him, and a smile, I dropped it to the floor, laughing hysterically.