~7~

~Chapter Seven~

No power so effectually robs the mind of all its powers of acting and reasoning as fear.

~Edmund Burke~

I end up going to Caroline's house.

After packing my duffle bag with random pieces of clothing and standing with my hand on to the doorknob for ten minutes, I came to my senses. Or rather, I decided running away would create even more problems.

So, I turn back to my closet and begin selecting dresses, tops, and pants that would be Caroline-approved. I probably shouldn't go to this thing, I should probably just call Damon, tell him the news, but I'd prefer to pretend that nothing is wrong.

That this isn't happening.

So, the most logical course of action would be to go about my business as I originally planned.

When I ring the doorbell, Sheriff Forbes answers.

I, of course, know her as Liz. Caroline is her spitting image—they have the same shade of nearly-platinum blonde hair and blue eyes, though the older woman's hair is cropped short. She's also more reserved than her daughter. When her husband left her for his boyfriend, she didn't let anyone see her pain.

She remained poised in the face of scandal.

I've always admired her for it. It's how my grandmother dealt with emotional distress. Head-on and without fear.

"Hi, Mrs. Forbes—did Elena beat me here?"

Her face breaks into a smile, an action that highlights the lines around her mouth and eyes. "No—though, I warn you, Caroline's room already looks like a ransacked department store."

I can see by the way she just glows at the mention of her daughter, that she wouldn't have it any other way. A good thing that now makes me feel horrible.

"Do you think the door will still open?"

"If you hurry." She steps aside and allows me to enter.

The Forbes' home décor has changed a lot through the years. When Care became old enough to verbalize her distaste with her mother's preference, she very slowly took over the design of the whole house.

Every lamp, pillow, table, and fabric is trendy. The walls a pale shade of yellow, the couch gray, throw pillows a golden-yellow with a floral design printed in white. The television is playing some home renovation show, the coffee table adorned with a vase of sunflowers.

I always feel like I'm standing in the middle of a showroom when I'm here.

When I make it to Caroline's bedroom, I see that Liz had seriously underplayed the mess. The entirety of Caroline's shoe collection is scattered across the carpet, dresses hang out of the drawers, make-up bag spilled across the top of the aforementioned dresser.

I can barely walk over to her bed without tripping, falling, and being drowned in a pile of jackets, never to be seen again. I almost bury myself in the heap anyway. That has to be the best option.

"Can you believe that I can't find my—" Caroline whirls around, takes one look at me, and hops over several heaps of clothes to give me a bear hug. "Bon, what's wrong? We couldn't find you at lunch… we looked everywhere. Damon said he saw you leave and when I went back to talk to him later, he was gone. I checked my phone several thousand times in gym class, and I texted you—"

"I know, I saw… I just needed some time to sort some things out."

"I didn't want to bug you—that's why I didn't come to your house. You've been so emotionally distant lately… and I know you hate when I ask you the same thing over and over again… I didn't want to pry…" She's talking so quickly that I struggle to understand what she's saying.

Tell her. "I'm sorry… I r-really-y a-am. I've just… b-been…" I take a deep breath. "You see… Damon…"

"What did that asshole do?" Care interrupts, "Because I know you can fight your own battles, but I swear to God I'm going to kill him for making you so upset!"

"Thanks, Care, really, but—"

I stop talking when her bedroom door swings open, revealing Elena, who has a few dresses slung over her arms and a huge grin on her face. "I think I actually found something that you'll like!"

"Elena, I'm so glad you're here, Bonnie is in serious need of girl talk—" the last few words are muffled by my hand.

Elena can't know. I don't want to cause any more distress. I have enough to handle already. I don't want her to hate me. I wouldn't be able to live with myself if she feels as though I betrayed her by not being honest.

"Care's just being dramatic," I give my angry friend a pleading stare. Don't say anything, don't tell her, please. "I'm just bogged down with reports and essays…"

Caroline nods, pushing my hand away from her lips. "You know I think Tanner is a homework Nazi."

"Okay…" the brunette says slowly. I know she doesn't believe it, but she doesn't question us. Instead, she holds up a plum-colored dress. "How's this? It's not the purple one you hate."

We study her pick—especially me. I've never spent so much time staring at a dress in my entire life. That dress, which Elena purchased for the spring dance in tenth grade, is my savior, a much-needed Deux ex Machina.

"It's still purple," Caroline says. "But it's cute. I give my seal of approval."

I give the outfit another once-over. "It'll look great on you."

"Thanks, guys! Now, what about shoes… sandals or heels?"

I say sandals at the same time Care says heels and a wave of relief washes over me as I passionately argue over my fashion choice, my woes almost completely pushed away.

The sprawling lawn and giant Victorian-style house that the Lockwood family resides in never fails to impress me.

A large rectangle-shaped house with arching windows and an expansive porch held up by elegant pillars. The backyard has a pool and hot tub set up that can be seen from the side of the building.

A pool that is filled with the majority of the football team and every one of my fellow cheerleaders—Care and Elena and I being the exceptions. I could hear the music blaring from the iPod dock the second we turned onto the street.

Several throngs of teenagers are milling around by the front door, too intimidated by the noise (or maybe the upperclassmen) to venture inside any further. Elena motions for us to link arms, which we do, and she and I are happy to let Care take the lead.

That puts us in front of the counter where bottles of hard liquor and fruit juices sit. The air in the kitchen reeks of alcohol. The scent is so prominent—even intermingled with pizza bites and mini-cheeseburgers—that I have to suppress the urge to gag.

If my posse notices, they don't show it.

I let them know that I'm going to search for Stefan, my partner in sobriety, while they're busy mixing drinks. They both nod eagerly as they're perusing bottles of prosecco, tequila, and Woodford Reserve bourbon—Damon's favorite.

I weave in and out of small crowds, nearly bumping into a couple so busy making out that they don't even acknowledge my presence. I look for the back of Stef's head amongst the backdrop of strobe lights (how Caroline managed to get that setup, I don't know) and haze of pot smoke wafting over the living room. The overbearing thrum of punk rock makes it very hard to distinguish between different voices.

I'm so focused on my mission that I nearly jump out of my skin when I feel a hand land on my shoulder.

I spin around, coming face-to-face with Damon Salvatore.

We are so close to one another that the tips of our noses touch. Not because we want to make physical contact; it's just that there isn't any room around us to maintain a normal speaking distance.

"I was looking for you," he says loudly, though I can barely hear him—even with him practically shouting over the music. "We need to talk."

My hopes for a drama-free evening are circling the drain. "Um, okay. Talk."

"Not here."

Fuck, fuck, fuck. I have a sinking suspicion that I know what he wants to discuss. I follow him into the foyer and up the steps. The upper hallway is vacant, save for a locked guest room or two, reinforced with sensible black socks on the doorknobs.

"Yes?"

His blue eyes dart from left to right, confirming that we are, in fact, alone. That our only audience is a photo of Tyler's mom and dad took when he was sworn into office.

"You skipped school today," he says. A statement; not a question.

"Not really," I deny. "I was there this morning."

"You left before anatomy."

"So? What are you, my secretary?"

"No, I'm observant." He glares at me. "Usually, I have much more entertaining things to keep tabs on—who wants to watch you bitch about the obscene graffiti in the girl's bathroom? You act like you haven't seen a penis before. But, seeing as there was nothing better going on, I was hoping you could entertain me."

"Sorry—I was feeling sick."

"See, that's the thing. I don't think you're sick," I'm beginning to resent his overuse of air quotes.

"What are implying?" My question comes out sounding like a dare. I raise an eyebrow, plant my hands on my hips. Go ahead, say it. My body language is screaming it, begging him to tell me his theory.

But I don't want to know it.

"I saw you. At CVS—buying cheap piss sticks."

"Piss sticks… what?"

"Look, what you want to pee on is none of my business—unless a pink plus sign showed up afterward."

I'm flustered. I don't know how I should respond. It turns out Damon can be discreet if he so chooses. I thought he didn't see me; I'd been so sure I went undetected. I thought I would have total control of the narrative.

I don't know if I overestimated myself or underestimated Damon.

"And, since you haven't let Enzo enter the promised land, I can only assume that this doesn't involve him. This means it is my problem, too. So, Bennett, grow some balls and tell me—are you pregnant?"

"Yes." The confirmation comes out sounding quiet and choked.

"Well, fuck."

"That's how we got into this mess," I remind him.

"Good one Bennett, I see I'm rubbing off on you."

"Damon! That's—ugh, can you at least pretend to be mature?"

He smiles and he looks so devious that I want to kick him. "I could, but immaturity is just too fun. I like seeing you squirm."

"How are you not freaking out?" I shriek, clenching my hands, trying to ignore the way my voice cracks.

Damon shrugs. "There's no point. We won't accomplish anything that way."

Okay, so he can act like he's older than twelve, which I knew. I have a better understanding of Damon than I'm comfortable with.

"I'll take your silence as approval."

"Okay."

"Come on, Bennett. We have some adulting to do."

He leads me back downstairs and outside, walking to the end of the driveway where he parked his car.

"Where should we go?" he asks. "Best friend rules dictate that it's your turn to choose."

"Aw, look at you, being polite."

"Don't get used to it," he waits until I'm buckled in to back out of the Lockwood property. "It doesn't happen often."

"I know."

But it's becoming a more common occurrence. That doesn't stop me from feeling surprised by it, but it's a nice kind of surprise—like a thoughtful birthday present or a gesture of goodwill. I'm sad that I can't appreciate it. It's too mixed-up in a very bad, highly unexpected monkey wrench.

As I sit down, I take a second to ponder his question. Where do I want to go?

I've always had the fortune—which feels more like misfortune right now—of always having an answer, some kind of plan. Some of my designs, others not so much.

But I have one.

I don't know what to do next.

And neither does he. We are searching for the right course of action where there isn't one. Not one where we can come out of this the same as we were.

And I'm not sure I'm ready to change.