~4~

~Chapter Four~

Good and bad
I swear I've had them both, they're overrated
But is it fun
When you get hold of one
Some gone bad
And some gone back
Good ones all get taken

~Foo Fighters, Halo~

I thought all I needed was rest. Well, rest and better eating habits.

But neither of those things seem to be doing the trick. I'm still exhausted, despite my strict nine 'o clock bed-time. The dizziness hasn't gone away either, which leaves me wondering if I am suffering from some kind of rare food poisoning.

I've got a better handle on it, though. And by that, I mean I'm able to conceal my fatigued state from Elena and Caroline. As it turns out, the longer I feel like crap, the easier it is to work through it. I also don't have to keep the act up around Mom and Dad because they've been so busy lately that I haven't seen them in two weeks (maybe more).

Dad has been spending evenings at his office—he's a manager at what I think is the nation's smallest marketing agency, so the majority of the campaigns fall on him (and his boss, but the way he talks it doesn't seem that way). And my mother is in charge of running the tiny science museum on the edge of town. According to their daily memos, I should continue to fend for myself.

Apparently, Mom has to orchestrate some new exhibit about… actually, I don't remember. I find her area of expertise so tedious that I've stopped reading her drawn-out explanations—especially when they span several Post-It notes.

Why they think biophysics would be the thing I want to dedicate my life to studying; I have absolutely no clue.

But it's what they want—and if I expect them to help me cover some of the costs of attending a prestigious college, then I have to be willing to major in a field they approve of.

It's how my father's parents dealt with his schooling, so the same applies to me. For some strange reason, since he never really speaks about his childhood. I assume that's why he took my mom's name and not vice versa.

But that doesn't mean "a parent doesn't know what is best for their child," or whatever Dad told me when I suggested going to school for English lit or anthropology. "You want to maximize your success kiddo, trust me on this one."

I sigh in relief when the bell rings for lunch. Anatomy has been the bane of my existence lately. I hadn't been psyched to take this class, but it went from something I wasn't crazy about something so dull that I'm nearly falling asleep over my notes regarding frog dissection.

"Look alive, Judgy," Damon sneers as he walks past my desk.

I'm too tired to insult him. Too tired to even acknowledge him.

"You alright, Bennett?" he stops walking down the aisle and regards me with curiosity. "You look a little green. I could have told you that shoving your tongue down Enzo's throat would make you want to puke. Which says something because you don't really have a gag reflex."

"Shut up, Damon."

"That was weak. You usually have better comebacks than that."

I shove my incomplete notes into my bag. "Why do you care?"

"It's not that I care," he insists. "I just asked, you know, in case Elena needs reassurance."

"That's a shit excuse, Salvatore."

"Well obviously—I didn't think you'd be so boring. I can't give you good material if you don't give me anything to work with."

"Sorry to disappoint," I roll my eyes, exiting the classroom with hesitation. I don't actually want to eat—going to the cafeteria is a bad idea. My stomach twists painfully at the mere thought. However, spending another lunch period in a bathroom stall that smells of urine isn't appealing either.

I had thought walking away would end my pointless exchange with Damon, but he has other plans.

"You have fun with… whatever awkward thing you're trying to accomplish by standing there. I'm going to get out of here." he heads off in the direction of the front doors.

Surprisingly, his flagrant disregard for school rules is what catches my attention. "You can't just leave, you idiot. You have to have permission!"

"How have you not figured out that it's better just do what you want and not ask for permission?" Damon calls over his shoulder.

"It's not!"

He turns around, amused. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Prove it, Buzzkill Bennett. Take another walk on the dark side—skip your last class."

"I don't have to prove anything to you!" I'm embarrassed by the exasperation in my tone. What he's doing is obvious and yet I'm still letting him get under my skin.

"Suit yourself. Enjoy the fish sticks, then."

My feet are moving before I give myself the chance to change my mind. Damon is walking slow on purpose like he already knows I will ditch my afternoon classes with him. That's not good—I hope he doesn't get the wrong impression. I'm not—in any way, shape, or form—trying to convey that I agree with him.

I'm only doing this because the thought of eating three-day-old fish sticks truly makes me want to hurl. I can feel my breakfast climbing up throat as two freshman pass by me on their way to the courtyard, with their trays of them, accompanied by a small cup of peaches.

"I'm going with you as a form of self-preservation. Not because you implied I'm a goody-two-shoes."

Damon just smiles in response as we slink past the main office and out the front doors.

"So… what exactly did you plan on doing?"

Damon shrugs casually as he gets into the car, slipping sunglasses over his eyes.

I set my belongings in the back seat. "I'm surprised you're not letting Rebekah tag along. She acts like you guys are joined at the hips." I shake my head when I realize the double-meaning in my words. "I mean, conjoined twins. She acts like you guys are conjoined."

"That sounds like the plot of a bad porn movie."

I glare at him, buckle my seatbelt, and fold my arms over my chest. "Exactly."

"It's casual, Bennett. You make it sound like we're getting married—and I'm pretty sure I'd rather sell my soul to the Devil for a Jonas Brothers CD than do that. Wait, I'd rather marry an actual Jonas brother." He pulls out of his parking spot, drives out of the lot, and makes a left—which is the quickest route out of Mystic Falls.

"You'd have to have a soul to sell, to begin with. And where are we going? I thought you said you had no plans. Which, by the way, doesn't surprise me. I don't know why I even asked."

He groans, and then says—like he's explaining something simple to a child— "First rule of truancy—don't go to places where you'll be recognized."

I don't have anything to say. It's solid logic (something I wasn't aware Damon had the ability to use).

"I'm waiting…"

"For?"

Damon lifts his glasses and flashes me the most arrogant look he can manage. "You to admit that I'm right."

"I'd rather drown in a vat of acid, you douchebag."

"Aw, Bonster, that's sweet, but flattery won't get you out of this one."

"Why are you so irritating?"

"Why are you so judgmental?"

I turn away, staring out the window indignantly. "Have you ever stopped to think that maybe I'm not the judgmental one? That maybe, just maybe, I'm the one with normal standards? And that everyone else just expects you to be an ass, so they don't even bother to hope for anything else?"

"Ouch. That one cut deep, Bennett. But what about you? Didn't you like just being you—doing what you wanted and not caring about anyone else's opinion?"

A little bit, yeah. "Life isn't all fun and games, Damon."

"I don't know, my life is very fun and full of games. I'm a big fan of Scrabble." Of course, he can't give me a serious response.

"I don't know how Enzo puts up with you," I mutter, and when I see how he grips the steering wheel tighter, I feel a little guilty.

I hadn't known that he would react so negatively to the mention of his friendship with my…whatever Enzo is to me. It seems that Damon didn't either. He opens his mouth, pauses, and goes completely silent.

"I don't know how I put up with him," he says suddenly. "It's always Bonnie, Bonnie, Bonnie. He never shuts the fuck up about you. The way he talks, you'd think you were some kind of angel."

"He's smarter than I thought," I retort, and the smugness in my voice makes me sound like Damon.

"If by smart, you mean fucking delusional—then yeah, I guess we agree on something."

"Damon, honestly, if you hate me so much, why did you invite me to come with you?"

"I think you answered your own question."

"Not really."

"Do you do this with Enzo?" There's a hint of frustration in his voice, but I pretend like I don't hear it.

I honestly don't understand what he means. "What is 'this' exactly?"

Damon chuckles at my confusion. "You know—the schtick where you act like you're above, well, anything involving fun."

"No—"

"—while pretending that you're the head of the morality patrol, policing everyone else's values, even though you're just dying to do something bad."

"I don't do that—it's not my fault that I have to babysit you every time you fuck something up."

"If you think babysitting is the same as initiating sex. Then your problems go way deeper than mine."

"Whatever Freud… the point is… I don't have to… be the morality police with Enzo—he actually has his own morals."

"And you don't think Lorenzo will fuck everything up?"

"Not from what I've seen."

"What have you seen?"

"Careful Damon, you're starting to sound like a jealous boyfriend. But nothing… yet; we've only been on a few dates. We kissed. That's it. Not that it's any of your business." I tack the last sentence on as an afterthought.

"It's not," he says quietly, so low that I can just barely hear him.

We are quiet for the rest of the drive. Granted, we are only on the road for ten more minutes. Damon takes the next exit, travels about half a mile, and turns into a tiny shopping center.

There are very few cars in the lot. Aside from Damon's Camaro, there is a black Charger, a red station wagon, and a beat-up minivan with a huge scratch across the front. It's almost a ghost town. I assume it's from the time of day, however, and not because every storefront looks deserted and run-down. Well, nearly deserted. I spot one shopper in what looks like a second-hand store that sells baby clothes and furniture.

Our destination is right next to Bargain Babies. Damon remarks that the store's name makes it sound like a black-market child auction, and while the comment horrifies me, a part of me wonders if that's the reason for the lack of customers.

Bad marketing is the death of a business is Rudy Bennett's favorite thing to say when we pass hole-in-the-wall eateries and seedy storefronts. He's usually overstating things, but I know that if he were to see this place, he'd go on and on about how terrible everything looks, that he just knows about this stuff, and how he'd use it as a springboard to justify all of his opinions—every single one, even those that have nothing to do with his line of work.

Thankfully, the diner that Damon has chosen to enter appears much nicer. Clean floors, newly reupholstered booths, a jukebox on the opposite side of the entrance, and décor that makes me feel like I've stepped into an episode of Happy Days.

It's surprisingly casual, which doesn't exactly scream Damon, but he's also a bit of an enigma—you never really know everything about him. Until we spent quality time together, I didn't know that he liked to keep people guessing so much.

He leads me over to a table that has orange, vinyl seats. Each booth has the standard napkin holder, salt and pepper, and red and yellow squeeze bottles filled with ketchup and mustard. However, every table showcases something specific from the '50s. Ours happens to be decked out with pictures of good-looking young twentysomethings dressed vintage fashion statements—poodle skirts, leather jackets, greased hair.

Maybe Damon doesn't look as out of place as I first thought.

An older woman comes over to us, in a pale pink dress, white apron, and sensible white shoes. Her face is lined with wrinkles but her brown eyes are shining brightly, even more so when she sees Damon.

"Look at you!" she exclaimed, reaching out to pinch him on the cheek. "You look more and more like Lily every time I see you!"

"Just in the shape of my face," he protests, sounding—dare I say it—bashful.

"The spirit, too," she argues. I decide that I like this woman, whoever she is because that is something I could picture Grams saying.

"Alright—the spirit, too."

"Damn right…" she trails off, turning to look at me. "Your girlfriend is gorgeous, sweetie. What's she doing with you?"

"No clue, Milly."

"You're lucky to have her," The woman—Milly—states matter-of-factly. "What's your name, dear?"

"I'm Bonnie—it's nice to meet you, Milly."

"Thank you, sweetie. Your name suits you very well. I think my favorite great-nephew has finally found a keeper."

"Thanks, Aunt Milly," Damon says. "I'm glad someone thinks I can get something right."

"You're related?" I ask, mostly because I don't think I should comment on Damon's ratio of correctness.

"Kind of."

Milly laughs and it sounds quiet as if she's spent so much of her life laughing that her vocal cords don't have the strength to do so with fervor any longer. "His mother—Lillian—was best friends with my daughter—Ruthanne. They were inseparable. Ruthanne is his Godmother. Lily used to bring the boys here all the time. Now Damon carries on the tradition—he used to stop by every month or so, but it seems he's been busy. I see why now, and I forgive him. Love, especially young love, can be all-consuming."

"Oh, I—uh, I'm—" I chirp, and I can feel the heat rushing to my cheek. "I'm—

"She's ready to eat, Aunt Milly," Damon interjects quickly. "Can we order? Pretty please?"

"Of course, honey, will you have the usual?"

"You know me so well."

When it's my turn to order, Milly takes a small notepad from her pocket. "And what would you like, Bonnie?"

I grab a menu from the end of the table. I hadn't realized that bickering with my asshole of a lunch date made me work up an appetite. "I'll just have a chicken sandwich."

"Everything on it?"

I try not to wrinkle my nose when I see that "everything" consists of pickles and raw onions, which will make the rest of my meal smell just like them. "No thank you."

"You've got it, sweetie. I'll have everything right out for you. Do you want anything to drink?"

"Soda," I reply, hoping that the extra caffeine will give me enough of a boost to allow me to do my homework tonight. "Please."

"I'll have water, Aunt Milly."

"As if you need to tell me," she answers, rolling her eyes in a comically exaggerated manner.

When she's out of earshot, I take the opportunity to make fun of Damon's sudden change in temperament. "I didn't know you could be nice."

"I'm a complicated man," he replies as if my jab doesn't bother him in the slightest. "Besides, look at that woman—I don't think Ed Kemper could be mean to her."

"Damon—have you ever tried being appropriate in public?"

"Once. It was boring, so I stopped."

He says this with a look of complete sincerity. Like it never occurred to him that some things might have precedence over his amusement. Nothing Damon does is ever for the overall good, not once have I witnessed him putting another person above himself. Not even Stefan. How can two people who share the same blood be so intrinsically different?

A few moments later, Milly returns with our beverages, a huge grin still plastered on her face, sparing me the difficulty of understanding the inner-workings of his twisted mind.

"You better be good to her," Milly threatens, wagging a finger at Damon sternly. "If you aren't, I'll tell Mehri and she'll set you straight."

"Mehri?"

"My granddaughter—she used to give him a run for his money whenever she caught him messing with Stefan. One time, she scared him with a beetle. Shoved it right in his face and he ran away crying."

I burst out in laughter. True, genuine laughter. I can't stop myself and I don't know why I find this so entertaining. The thought of a toddler-sized Damon running away from a bug is the funniest story I've heard in months.

When Milly leaves to retrieve our food from the kitchen, Damon shoots me a look of annoyance. "Shut up—I was six. And it almost bit me."

I take a deep breath. My sides have started to ache. "Sorry… really… it just… I haven't… laughed like that since… well, the beach, I guess."

"You mean when we had our portrait done by the caricature artist?"

This gives me pause. It's true—I haven't felt this carefree since the last time Damon and I hung out. The thought startles me, a surge of unease pooling in my belly, spreading down my arms, all the way down to my fingertips.

The last time I had any fun was when I was with him—my worst nightmare—and the undeniability of it all absolutely terrifies me.