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~Chapter Eleven~
We're so close
To something better left unknown
We're so close
To something better left unknown
I can feel it in my bones
~Metric, Gimme Sympathy~
I'm beginning to feel like an idiot.
It's a revelation I have while watching Damon as he returns to the kitchen with a large pepperoni pizza. I'm sixteen again and desperately trying to convince myself that things between Damon and I could remain platonic.
Our casual hookups had been my suggestion, although Elena didn't believe me when I told her. She had only been able to focus on her crash course on being the prosecution's main witness for an hour longer after I redirected our conversation.
You can't expect me to believe that this wasn't Damon's idea. You don't have to pretend… I get it. Obviously.
Except she really doesn't. Knowing a person doesn't mean you understand them. That's a lesson she has never learned. The Bonnie she knows would never go within ten feet of Damon Salvatore. And yes, I didn't say or do anything to make her think otherwise, but if she bothered to pay attention, it wouldn't be such a shock.
Sometimes I wonder if the monotony was the only thing I couldn't stand about Mystic Falls.
"You look… like someone pissed in your cheerios this morning," Damon observes, taking a seat at the kitchen table.
Jeremy, I think to myself, I look just like Jeremy did when we had our fourth meeting on how not to conduct yourself when you are the main attraction in a murder mystery.
I sit up straight, letting my arms fall to my sides. "What do you know about Malachi Parker—off the record, of course."
"Isn't everything we do 'off the record?'" Damon asks, using air quotes for emphasis.
I glare at him.
"Too soon for witty quips, I see. You are really upset. And here I thought you just came over to see how my date went," he pauses to flash me a smile I'm sure he's been told appears charming. "Kai Parker… I don't like the kid. He's creepy. We had to respond to a domestic last year. Kai and a girl got into a very loud argument. The neighbors called us. We separated them. They were out of each other's sight completely… couldn't hear anything the other said. She looked scared and shaken but refused to tell us if he hurt her. She said she was fine. There weren't any signs of injury. I took her home, though. Drove around the block a few extra times that night to make sure he didn't go near her. I went the long way to work that week… passed her house…just to be sure... I even talked to the resource officer at the school. No problems. Then, one day, I noticed her house was empty. Gone. No signs of life, except for a realtor's sign in the yard. I couldn't find out where her family went. But I knew that Parker had something to do with it. I had a feeling… you know, one of those Bennett-chill-down-your-spine moments."
"Are you making fun of my intuition?"
"No—I'm being serious. Something is really fucked up about Kai. And that's coming from me." he pushes the box my way, having already taken a slice for himself.
I pick a piece of pepperoni from underneath a gob of melted cheese. "I'm going to ask him for his side of the story tomorrow. Get an outsider's perspective on everything."
"You're working on a Sunday?"
"I have to," I don't know why I sound so defensive, but I do. "Jeremy's life depends on me doing my job."
Damon stares at me. Silent. And then, "I know that's how you feel. Clearly, your years of solitude in Kill Devil Hills haven't made a dent in your sense of loyalty but busting your ass every day won't make everything better. You need to refill your prescription of chill pills."
"I will. When everything is not so screwed up. Maybe I'll bake some brownies on my last night here and we can have that final hurrah you're so butt hurt about not getting nine years ago."
"Don't make plans you won't keep, Bonster. It's rude."
"I mean it."
"Sure, you do," the sarcasm is biting. "And then… you won't."
"Damon, you're being dramatic." I roll my eyes. "Are you seriously mad at me?"
"Nope. I got over that years ago. Out of all the girls I made plans with, you were the only one who stood me up. My track record is otherwise impeccable—you're the odd one out."
"I feel a cliché coming on," I mutter, copying Damon's signature smirk.
"So, basically, it's not me, it's you."
"Didn't you already think that?"
"Yeah, but you seemed like you needed a reminder."
"How could I forget that particular bit of information?"
"Beats me, Bennett, but I forgive you. You've been busy."
I am quiet for a minute, unsure of what to say. "…I'll have time. I'm stuck here for months. You won't be able to get rid of me."
"Lucky me," he says. "Enzo will be happy to hear that, too."
My eyes narrow. "Oh, joy. Just what I wanted, a self-absorbed douchebag chasing after me."
"Well, you did sleep with me," he responds glibly. "So, I figured you had a type."
This comment gives me pause. I haven't had many boyfriends. I dated this one guy for a month, but that ended when it became clear that we didn't mesh well. He was very serious about his studies, so we were a perfect match on paper, and it was nice.
But that was it.
The conversations were boring, the dates a standard dinner-and-a-movie deal, and the sex lackluster. There was nothing special, no spark, no genuine connection.
The whole thing left me wondering if my best days were far behind me, stuck in a field dotted with tombstones and a mausoleum. And, well, that thought is pretty depressing… and much easier to bury under a catalog of crime scene photos and disgusting predators when I'm not here.
"My last boyfriend was a law student," I tell him wryly. "Very serious about school—so, the anti-you."
"Oh, I can't imagine why that didn't last," he smirks, passing me a plate from one of the cupboards.
I inspect it closely, looking for spots and/or dried pieces of food he neglected to wash off. It's clean—so shiny my reflection stares back at me. "Stefan does most of the chores, huh?"
"Well, yeah. But I help—sometimes."
"How kind of you. Do you know this is part of a very expensive china set?" Delicate flowers and intricate vines are painted around the edge of the plate.
He nods, taking a bite and setting the pizza down on a matching dish. "Yup. One of my parent's wedding gifts."
I yank a napkin from the bag that contained our garlic knots. "Damon! Do you have any idea how valuable these plates are?"
"No clue," he says with a shrug.
"A metric fuck-ton of money!" My voice rises several octaves.
"Oh… so, what you're saying is, a bunch of glass is worth more than my parent's actual marriage."
I huff in exasperation. "You know what I meant."
"I do," he admits. "But… if the wedding vows didn't matter, then why would the party favors?"
"Damon… I… didn't mean…" I trail off, averting my eyes.
Giuseppe Salvatore had cheated on his wife. Nobody knew about it until after she died. When they were looking through old pictures they found in the attic, the brothers came across a letter detailing their father's affair in great detail—I know because Damon had shown it to me one night. It was one of the first—and few—times I ever saw him cry.
From that day forward, Damon's already twisted and confused views about true love were completely shattered. And, by the looks of it, he was never able to put it back together.
"I know you didn't," he sounds bitter.
I risk a glance at him. He's staring off into the distance, at something behind my shoulder. His hands are clutching the counter tightly, knuckles white. "I think it meant something, Damon. Your dad—he made a mistake. One that isn't usually fixable, but he did love your mom. You remember what was written in that letter."
"Then, why did he abandon her after the accident?"
"I can't speak for him, Damon, but I do know running away when things get tough is a common thing and sometimes people think it's the easiest way to avoid… feelings… and it's not."
He looks pensive as if what I told him was based on something else and not some angry proclamation of hatred from a stranger. And he's right—well, partially. I had been referencing the piece of paper that incriminated Mr. Salvatore, but only in the beginning.
"You know it," he states, searching my face for signs of deception. "How?"
"You know how," I whisper.
"Do I?" He walks around the island, stopping right in front of me. He's standing so close to me that our knees are touching.
I scoot back reflexively, trying to escape the intensity of his gaze. "Yes."
"Still not ready to open up, huh, Bon Bon?" He smirks, but his heart isn't in the sarcasm.
I gather up all the resolve I can muster, looking back at him with the same level of emotion, only a bit more defiant. "Nope—I told you that. Pizza isn't a strong enough bribe."
"Fine," he says curtly, shutting the pizza box with more force than is needed. "Game on, Bennett."
"Game on," I repeat, smiling with determination. And while I plan to stay tight-lipped about my secrets, I can't help but feel a thrill when Damon tells me he refuses to stop trying.
I'm getting myself in deep, of what, I don't exactly know. I can only hope it won't hurt me in the end.
Kai Parker's house is just as picturesque as every other home in Mystic Falls.
A large brick building, with a front porch and kitschy eyesore of a welcome sign hanging on the front door. It's Halloween-themed: a placard with a little ghost that says welcome to our boo-tiful home in loopy purple lettering. I stare at it in mild confusion—it's so out of place when you look at all the other houses on the block. Everyone else has decorated their entryways with flowers and little bumblebee adornments. Children are running through sprinklers in their front yards; middle-aged women sipping mimosas on their porches, sunglasses obscuring their facial features and floppy sunhats atop their heads, concealing their bobbed and pixie-cut hairstyles.
The poor attempt at trying to seem scary is unsettling, not because of the sign, but because the Parker family is trying so hard to be the town oddballs.
I shake my head, approaching the door with a little caution. I'm not sure what I'm going to find when I get a glimpse of the inside.
Taking a deep breath, I press the doorbell.
I'm waiting on the front steps for a solid five minutes before anyone comes to the door. And, when it creaks open, I'm met with a dark blue-eyed stare. One that makes me uneasy. Upon further examination, I see that the person in front of me isn't a gray-haired adult, but a young man that could be anywhere from seventeen to twenty years old.
He has dark hair and—like Jeremy and Elena—doesn't seem to be aware of the weatherman's segment on the morning, midday, and nightly news broadcast. He is dressed in a long-sleeved plaid shirt and gray jeans.
"Hello, my name is Bonnie Bennett. Is Kai Parker home?"
The guy smiles at me pleasantly. "Yes—you're looking at him."
I figured as much, but I don't want to go about asking a minor such serious questions without parental consent. "I'm part of the prosecution—erm, the defense team of Jeremy Gilbert. I understand you two are friends and I'd like to speak to you about a few things—if you feel comfortable, that is. Are your parents available?"
"No."
"Oh, well then, when your legal guardians get home, could you give me a call?" I offer him my business card.
"No," he replies, monotone.
"It's really—" I start, but I'm interrupted by a chuckle.
"I get it," he says good-naturedly as if his tone weren't flat moments ago. "But they won't be back for a bit. They're on an extended business trip."
"Oh," well, fuck there goes this idea.
Kai lets out another laugh. "But that doesn't matter—I'm eighteen. I can consent to a conversation."
I eye him suspiciously.
"Here, I'll prove it." He takes a wallet out of his pocket and shows me his driver's license. Sure enough, his birthday passed a few months prior.
I look over the front and back—it's definitely a real form of identification. "Okay."
"Come on in," he says as I give return his card. "I have a feeling we are going to have an informative talk."
"Thank you," I answer.
And when I cross the threshold, a chill runs down my spine.
