"How about him?" Stefan asks as they walk down the street, her arm under his, clinging onto him as if she's afraid wind will blow her away.
Few people who walk by them give them a strange look, but aren't most people weary when they see true happiness in front of their eyes? They scowl at its existence, maybe out of jealousy, maybe out of habit.
"Yeah, fake Rolex around his wrist is such a turn on," she jokes, pulling him closer to herself, hungry for the warmth his body provides her.
"He has a suit," Stefan points out, his look falling on a dark blue suit man in front of them is wearing, thinking how he would wear such a suit in special occasions only, and here's this man, walking in the middle of a street in one. Shirts, hoodies and jeans are more of his thing. You don't have to worry about wrinkles, plus it's way more comfortable than a suit. He was lucky his job didn't require wearing a suit unless he has a professional meeting. "I remember you saying you love men in suits," his lips brush against her ear, whispering in it silently, slowly.
She smiles gently, whispering right back, "I was a foolish, little girl. I know better now," she pulls her fingernail over his face seductively, smirking at him as their faces touch. There were times when she had thought men in suits and polished shoes and briefcases are more mature, and that she could spend the rest of her life with that kind of a man.
But truth to be told, she's not that kind of a woman. She doesn't like black blazers and black polished shoes, she likes thick, green hoodies in which she can bury her face in and comfortable Nike's in which he can run to the nearest 7 - Eleven during a storm to buy her ice cream. She doesn't like mature and serious, she likes playful and silly. She likes sloppy kisses on her neck and teasing in the middle of a restaurant, when he lays his hand on her thigh, like it's an innocent gesture.
If her stomach never growled at the mention of cheesecake, she would have never went with a complete stranger for a slice of cheesecake, she would have never met Stefan, and she would have never found out what she really wants.
The moment they sat down and started talking over a piece of the most delicious cheesecake she ever had in her life, she knew she doesn't want suits and grayness and maturity, even if they mean wealth in which she thought lies happiness. All of a sudden she realized she wants a sky blue shirt and rough, bruised hands, angelic face and piercing eyes, and to have a piece of that cheesecake every morning for breakfast.
She knew she wants Stefan.
"Why do we even play this game?" she furrows her brows, even though she knows the answer to it. She was the one who started it by accident, after a moment of jealousy. He accepted it. Not so long ago, she falsely accused him of staring at the woman in front of them, when actually he was looking at the baby on her hip, who was shielded from Elena's point of view. Until then she thought not being able to have a baby was her cross to bear. That her problems with conceiving were hers and hers alone. That was the farthest thing from the truth because, even though he never said anything, Stefan wanted a child as much as she did, and not being able to have one had hurt him deeply. He was simply selfless enough to put her pain before his own, and she repaid him by rudely commenting "You probably wish you were married to her."
The lines on his face stiffened, his jaw clenched, and he looked at her with so much pain in his eyes, but with splits of anger as well. If looks could kill, Stefan's was a double pointed dagger going right through her heart. She could only imagine how fiercely her words stung him if he looked at her like that.
To turn it into a joke, he started playing this game, "Do you wish you're married to him?", every time they were walking down the street. In the beginning, she would only be reminded of the cruelty of her words, but after some time she accepted it as Stefan's way of pointing out to her that there's not a person he would rather be married to other than her.
"It's fun."
"I don't like it."
"Come on, Buttercup. If you weren't married to me, maybe you would be married to one of these men."
"But I am married to you. And I plan to stay married to you until the rest of my life," she squeezes his arm with her hand, allowing herself a certain amount of roughness, knowing he probably won't even feel it on his muscles, "I don't want to be married to anyone else."
She can feel his body go stiff for a moment, and catches a last glance of serious expression on his face, before he smiles and says, "Luckily for you, you don't have to be," and presses his lips against hers.
They stop in front of a small bakery, and he pulls his arm away from hers, reaching for his pocket. "Why don't you go in and take what we came for?" he smiles at her, "I have to make a call."
She just nods in understanding and turns around to open the bakery door. As the wooden door fly open, the bell makes a ringing sound. There are only few tables in it, but no customers. The walls are light yellow, the floor covered with black tiles, lacy, white clothes on the tables providing the bakery a warm, homey feeling. Her eyes fall on the counter, by which numerous of delicacies lie in a stand covered with glass, and when she notices a big, yellow, still not sliced cheesecake, she can feel herself slipping into another memory.
"It's closed," she comments when they arrive at the small bakery, only few blocks away from the club, and notices the lights are out.
"Maybe because it's 5 in the morning," he smirks at her, putting his hand on the doorknob and twisting it around.
"What are you doing?" she asks in disbelief. Isn't darkness inside of the bakery and a sign hanging on the door, which says closed, good enough of a sign for him that the bakery is not working at this ungodly hour?
"Trying to get in, obviously."
"You can't break in!" she says, her voice rising. She should have known this will get her in some kind of a trouble. She knew, and she went with him anyway. Why is that?
As his hand still lingers on the doorknob, she can feel her adrenaline rising.
This is exciting her. Being with a complete stranger in the middle of the night, when nobody is around, not knowing what will happen next or what his plans are. Everything is so unfamiliar and she doesn't know what to expect next, and it's giving her a rise.
He lets go off the knob, turns around, which is when she notices a smile on his face, and his fingers dig inside of the pocket of his jeans. "Good thing I have a key, then," he takes out a hoop with few keys attached to it and rattles them in front of her.
"You own this place?" she asks surprised as he pushes the key in the hole and opens the front door of the bakery. She remembers his hands, rusty skin as an evidence of hard work, and she thinks how baking cakes is not something that would damage his skin like that.
"Yes," is all he says as he gestures for her to get inside, "Well, technically, my family does," he turns on the lights inside of the bakery and Elena's eyes wander over the interior.
Small place. Really small. Yellow walls with few portraits on them. White, lacy curtains on the windows. Matching cloths covering tables. Small, wooden tables surrounded by small wooden chairs. Shimmering tiles under her feet. And delicious food looking at her from other side of the room. She tries to will her stomach not to growl, but she knows her efforts are worthless.
"Do you bring all of the girls here?" she teases him, still buried in one place as he goes behind the counter and pops two soda cans open.
"What girls?" he asks innocently, but rather seriously, while taking two plates out from under the counter.
She rolls her eyes, knowing he can't see her. When he gets the big, round cheesecake from the glass compartment, her eyes pop out, as well as her stomach.
"Please, make yourself comfortable," he points to one of the tables with his look once he notices she's still standing at the door. Probably still a little bit weary about the whole situation.
She comes closer to the table he pointed at, pulls out a chair and sits on it, pulling her black, leather jacket from her back. His look flies to her as she does so, but once again she notices he's not checking her out, but carefully watching the movements her hair makes as she pulls it out of the jacket where it got stuck. She doesn't say anything about it.
He slides the knife through the middle of the cake and cuts two pieces out of it, placing one piece on each plate. He puts the plates and soda cans on the table, one in front of her, and the other in front of where he's about to sit.
"So, where do you live?" he asks her as he takes the first bite of the cheesecake.
She cocks her eyebrow at him. "As if I'm telling you."
He chuckles silently. "Fine," he shrugs, "I'll find out when I drive you home anyway."
She brings the fork so close to her face that she can smell the delicious cheesy filling.
"Why do you think you're driving me home?"
He looks up from his plate to her and grins lightly. "Buttercup," is all he says, and somehow that puts her to ease. His calm voice as he says her newly given nickname calms her down, she stops building up walls between herself and the rest of the world, and accepts the idea of him driving her home. Maybe not just today.
Cheesecake finally finds its way to her mouth, and as it touches the inner walls of her mouth, she almost moans out loud.
Delicious.
"I live at the new part of the town," she gives in.
He hums. "That's a nice neighborhood," he nods, "What do you do for a living?" he asks curiously.
"I'm an interior designer," the answer escapes her. She feels like she can answer his questions freely. Maybe it's the cake. Maybe there's magic in it which makes her speak the truth. Her look becomes still on his hands. "And you?"
"I live nearby."
"No, I meant what do you do for a living?"
"I'm an architect."
She puts the fork down and crosses her arms on her chest. "Really?" she knits her brows together.
"You don't believe me?" he asks slightly offended, even though he knows she has no reason to trust him.
Her lips part slightly. "Your hands," words escape her in the form of a whisper.
He glances over to his hands and winces when he realizes she's referring to the condition they're in. "I wasn't always an architect," he swallows, "I used to work in construction."
Well, that explains it.
"Architects make good money."
"Decent amount."
"Why are you still living in this crappy neighborhood, then?"
"Because it's home."
Silence surrounds them.
"Do you do this kind of a thing often? Pick up girls from - "
"I've never done it before," he interrupts her in the middle of the sentence.
"Then why me?" her curiosity gets the best of her.
"I like you, Buttercup," he smiles warmly in her direction and she can feel her cheeks turning red.
"Why?"
Usually it takes people some time to warm up to her. It takes people some time to warm up to anyone, actually.
"Why not?"
"Who does that?" she asks irritated by his answers which are really just questions, "No one believes their instincts, it's too dangerous. People wear too many masks and you can never be sure what hides beneath them. No one is insane enough to pick one person in the crowd and just.. like them."
"Clearly I am," he says calmly, amused by her words.
This only gets her more aggravated. "How do you know I'm not a psycho? How do you know I don't have serious mental or health issues?" she inhales deeply before asking him her next question, "How do you know I'm not going to break your heart?"
He eyes her amused before he bursts into laughter. "You think too much," is all he says as he watches her cheeks flush with anger, and her chest fall and raise faster than it's normal.
"I deserve an explanation," she says after few minutes she spends composing herself.
He takes a sip of soda before puckering his lips and exhaling loudly, "Your fire burns brighter than anyone's else."
She blinks confused. "Meaning?"
"I watched you dance," he confesses, "And you don't dance out of the same reason the rest of the girls in that club do. You don't dance to be seen or to catch someones attention, you dance for yourself."
She should be scared. A stranger just confessed he had watched her dance without her being aware she's being watched. But she's not. She's intrigued.
"You're not like the rest of the guys, either," she says silently, "And I don't just mean in the club, I mean in general. You haven't stared at my legs or looked inside of my cleavage, you kept looking into my eyes."
He smirks, glad she had noticed that. "Don't get me wrong, you have amazing legs," his smirk gets wider as he creates a mental imagine of her long, slender legs in his head, "And an amazing pair of.." he looks down at her chest and she blushes, "But maybe," he leans over the table, looking into her eyes, "Maybe I like what I see in here better."
Both of them keep quiet for a moment. She's convinced he's going to kiss her, and afraid she would have let him.
But to her surprise he backs down and leans into his chair. "Finish your cake, Buttercup," he orders her with a pleading voice, "Then I'm going to drive you home."
As the memory leaves her, the inside of her throat gets tight, and it keeps tightening with every passing second. Her whole body starts shaking, and her eyelids feel heavy, like she's trying to prevent herself from blinking.
She closes her eyes and when she opens them again, there's blood everywhere. It's pouring down walls, covering tiles, surrounding her, closing her in a small circle in the bakery.
She wants to scream, the plead for help, but she stops herself from doing so. None of this is real. This is her mind trying to play tricks on her.
Or trying to tell her something.
Something has happened here, something bad.
But what could happen in a place like this, place filled with pleasant memories?
"Elena, darling!" a warm, familiar voice pulls her away from the ugly picture in front of her. Stefan's mom is standing behind the counter, her long, sandy hair tucked behind her ear, and piercing blue eyes following Elena's confused, and somewhat scared look. "I haven't seen you in quite some time," she comments, looking at Elena worryingly.
"Nonsense," she thinks to herself, "We had lunch only.." this is where she comes to a stop when she remembers the last time Stefan and her had lunch with his parents was almost two months ago.
"I'm sorry for that, I promise we will meet soon. I'm in a hurry, can I have two pieces of cheesecake?"
"Of course. How are you holding up, dear?"
She obviously knows about her memory loss, and is well aware with what had caused it. Stefan had probably told her.
She wants to ask. She comes so close to asking. But Stefan is right, she has to remember on her own.
"I'm trying," she smiles warmly, taking the pink box, which holds two pieces of cheesecake, in her hands.
"Of course," her husbands mother lowers her head, but before she does, Elena catches a look full of understanding and sadness, and maybe even pity, on her face.
"I better get going now," she smiles and before she knows it she's already at the door, pushing her way through the crowd, to Stefan.
"Tell me more about this incident in the bakery," Dr. Edwards insists, tapping with his pen on the edge of the notebook.
"There's nothing more to tell," she exhales exhausted, "The only thing I saw was blood. Lots and lots of blood," she cringes as she remembers.
"Was it yours?" the doctor asks.
"No," she shakes her head after giving it a second thought.
"It was someones else then?" he asks even though he sounds more like he's making a statement.
"The bakery was empty," she frowns, feeling like she's about to have a massive headache, "I don't know from where it came from, I don't know its source. It was like.." she stops, realizing how crazy she probably sounds, "It was like the walls were bleeding."
Upon hearing this he opens his notebook and writes something down.
"Did something happen there?" she swallows hard.
"Yes," he confirms.
Another tarnished memory.
She jumps on her feet, and Dr. Edwards follows her movements closely.
"You're one step closer, Mrs. Salvatore," he says calmly, "You have to be patient."
"I feel like I'm going insane," she hisses through her teeth, "I feel like a part of me has been ripped off. And I'm not talking just about my memories," she starts pacing around the room, "I literally feel like someone reached inside of me and pulled something out. I feel empty at all the places I'm supposed to feel full. I used to feel full," she declares truthfully.
"Loss is a big thing," he exhales silently, "To lose something, but continue living as if nothing had happened, it requires a great deal of heavenly strength. Some never succeed to deal with loss."
Shivers attack her spine. "And others?" she asks, "Those who succeed in it?"
"They spend the rest of their life with a hole in their hearts, but they spend it nevertheless, just more cautiously, and little less.."
"Alive?" she asks, even though she's finishing his sentence for him.
He looks at her from under his glasses. "Some losses are greater than the others. Like parents who lose their child. Parents aren't supposed to outlive their children. Or a mother who loses it even before she gets a chance to meet her child, knowing her body had killed this person she fell in love with since it was a size of a bean. Or a person who loses their better half, forever itching the place where their wedding band used to be."
"Imagine that," her throat tightens, "Spending the rest of your life treating love as if it's a memory."
"Who says they have to? The idea of one true love is a very romantic notion, but it's rare. Thousands of people lose the person they were in love with and they find happiness again. The more we love, the more love we have to give. We're not born with a limited amount of love we can give or receive, quite the contrary, with time those amounts only grow. Love is a very tricky thing, you see, it creeps up on you when you least expect it."
Doesn't she know it.
Still, the cold tone of his voice, and the way with which he handles the matter makes her tremble even though the fire is cracking in the fireplace few inches away from her.
"But I haven't experienced that kind of a loss," she states with force.
"You don't know what kind of a loss you had experienced," Dr. Edwards furrows his brows.
She can feel anger rising in her, almost suffocating her. "So how do I remember?" she raises her voice, "How do I deal with the loss? How does anyone?" she screams at him, frustrated.
But he stays composed. "Are you asking me as your psychologist, or as a friend?"
She didn't think of Dr. Edwards as a friend before. More as of an acquaintance.
"As a human being," she answers.
"The world does not care about your pain, Mrs. Salvatore," he takes his glasses off, "People are too busy dealing with their own pain to notice yours. I can't save you, your husband can't save you, no one else you might know can't save you. You're the only person who can save herself," she crosses his hands in his lap, his fingers intertwining, his knuckles as white as snow, "It takes a second for a heart to break, but a lifetime for it to heal."
"Turn left here," she points at the small street, and he does as she says.
He stops the car in front of a peach colored building with big white windows and even bigger white door.
"I'd invite you in, but it's too early," she furrows her brows, "Too late, I mean. Or both," she looks to the other side, trying to avoid his smile, smile that can make her do anything he wants and say anything she doesn't.
"I didn't offer you a ride because I expect something in return," he clears the air.
"You didn't offer it at all," she pushes his buttons, "You told me you will drive me. I didn't have much say in it."
He tilts his head to the side, his voice warm and calming. "Buttercup," he says, making her relax, and she asks herself how does he manage to do that.
"Thank you for the cake," she puts her hand on the door handle but doesn't find enough strength in her body to push the car door open.
"Anytime."
She turns her head to look at him.
"There will be no second time, you know that, right?" she raises her eyebrow at him.
"We'll see," is all he says.
"You drive me insane," she pulls her hand from the door handle and buries her face in her hands.
"That makes two of us," he answers calmly.
"This is crazy," she says through laughter, "I know nothing about you. You could be anyone. Everything you told me tonight could have been lies."
"True," he shrugs, "I could have lied to you. But then," he grins, "I could have been honest as well."
"Tell me a lie," she challenges him.
"I absolutely don't want to kiss you right now."
She inhales through her teeth.
"Tell me something that is true."
"This is only first of our many mornings together."
"Give me your phone."
He takes his phone out of the pocket of his jeans and gives it to her. She types something before giving it back to him. He looks at the screen. Her number. She saved it under the name Buttercup.
She gets out of the car but before she closes the door she tells him, "Don't make me regret this."