~8~

~Chapter Eight~

And that's the thing about illicit affairs
And clandestine meetings
And longing stares
It's born from just one single glance
But it dies, and it dies, and it dies
...a million little times

~Taylor Swift, illicit affairs~

"Well… are you going to make up your mind?"

Damon's voice breaks through the heavy silence like a wrecking ball.

I glance at him. His eyes are trained on the road, face blank. This isn't how I thought this conversation would go. I pictured anger, accusations, proclamations about how his cruise down easy street is now fucked beyond repair.

Only he is taking the news in stride.

This reasonable side of Damon is one that I didn't think existed. Sure, he can act level-headed, but that doesn't mean it's genuine. Damon's wild and unpredictable, a loose cannon with the capability of destroying everything around him—specifically in times of panic or uncertainty.

"Take the next exit," I instruct, turning back to the window and resting my chin on my hand.

"Still not specific," he mutters, but he flicks on the turn signal anyway.

I'm a bit surprised when he doesn't demand any further instructions from me. He doesn't say much of anything else, opting to play music from his phone instead. Nirvana's In Bloom emerges from the speakers, and the loud guitars and senseless lyrics sound odd at the low volume Damon set.

I reach for the controls, cranking it up so I can feel the music thrumming against the soles of my feet, pounding in my stomach.

He throws me a look and opens his mouth to protest, probably to say that it's his car and therefore he gets to decide every aspect of our drive—the speed, the air, the music, but I don't allow him the opportunity.

"I want to stop thinking."

"I knew you were spending too much time with Enzo. Tell me, how many I.Q. points have you lost so far?"

"That's… not very nice."

He snorts. "Wow Sherlock, I never would have known that without your help."

"Damon—you don't know how friendship works, do you?"

"I'm offended—I called you my best friend—" he glances at the digital clock on his phone "—twenty minutes ago and now you're telling me I'm mean—and insulting my intelligence. Maybe you're the one who doesn't understand friendship."

"I just want to know why you're suddenly acting like Enzo is public enemy number one."

"If you knew—" he stops short.

"If I knew what?" I press, suddenly very suspicious that I am missing something, something I should probably pick up on myself.

"People aren't all one thing, Bon Bon. They aren't all good or all bad—there's always room for both. Sometimes, you have to be willing to see people for what they are. Nobody's perfect."

"Obviously," I mutter. "Thanks for the info, oh wise one."

"Enzo… he can be a dick, Bennett. And I know you like him, but just remember… the two of us get along for a reason."

"What are you insinuating?"

"Nothing. I just… get a weird feeling about him sometimes, that's all. I just chalk it up to being around you. If I have to hear about your chi one more time, I might puke."

"Aw, Damon… you care about my feelings!"

"No," he asserts. "I care about Elena's feelings, and she cares about you. It's just a shitty side-effect of wanting to be nice to Stefan's girlfriend—I don't think she'll come to her senses and dump his emo ass anytime soon."

"Okay. I believe you." I smirk—just like he does when he wants to patronize me. I turn back to the window, and I can see my smug reflection in the glass.

I don't have to look at him to know that he's rolling his eyes. "I'm ignoring that—I take the next left to get to your parent's beach house, right?"

"How do you know that I want to go there?"

"I just had a feeling."

"Says the guy who doesn't want to talk about chi."

He ignores my remark. "Okay—we're here. And a solid hour away from Mystic Falls, good choice Bennett. Hey, I bet it feels good to make one of those again."

"Shut up," is all I can think to say.

"Only if you explain why you had me drive an hour away just to talk." He tries to cover his bewilderment by adding, "did you just want to re-visit the scene of the crime? If so, you'll just have to settle for your place. I don't have the keys—my dad says Stefan's more responsible and he should have them."

"No—I don't want to be inside of any place of yours."

"That's what she said."

"You're juvenile. I just thought I could… I don't know. I thought… that we could… discuss everything better here."

The confused expression hasn't left Damon's face. "Okay, but how are we going to do that?"

"By playing Monopoly!" I say suddenly, sounding far more cheerful than I actually feel.

"You want to handle this by playing a board game?" he says slowly. "You've fucking cracked, haven't you?" A hint of anger mars his tone.

"No. I want to calm down before I make any heavy decisions."

"But you're not calm when you lose."

"I don't plan on losing."

I shut the door and wait for Damon to lock the car, stepping out into the chilly night. The cold air smacks me in the face and I shiver involuntarily. I look down at my attire: a short, red dress and thin cardigan. I am not dressed for the beach in late September. I rub my arms and I feel the goosebumps on my skin. God, how did I go from being prompt, organized, and responsible to completely and utterly unprepared?

I cock my head to the side and motion for Damon to follow me up the walkway. I jog up the porch steps and turn the outside light on. I reach for the spare key that sits underneath a bunch of potted begonias. Their petals are brown around the edges, wilting slowly, and I feel a surge of pity for them. I had warned Mom that she should choose a flower that will bloom with the weather, a plant that leaves seeds behind so they will be brand-new upon our return, but she just had to use the same ones that were in her wedding bouquet. Typical Abby—forcing her desires onto a subject that won't easily comply. Typical Rudy, too, I think with a roll of my eyes.

I shake my head, shove the key into the doorknob, and push the door open with more force than necessary. Once inside, I turn on the light and catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror hanging on the adjacent wall. My black hair is a mess despite Caroline's attempt to make it look presentable before she allowed me to leave her room. And yet, I still look like an extra on the set of The Walking Dead.

So much for that "pregnancy glow."

"Okay… where are the games?" Damon asks, closing the door behind him.

"First door on the left."

As my blue-eyed partner-in-crime rifles through the games closet, I head to the kitchen and sit at the table. Our beach house is relatively small. Quaint, with blue walls and white wicker furniture. I put my head on the tabletop and sigh. My parents waited to have me until they were both established in their careers. They had a bunch of resources at their disposal. Heck, I'm pretty sure they purchased this place before the end of my first year. They did not have to give anything up—they were smart.

Unlike me.

This leaves me feeling like I'm drowning, trying desperately to hold onto the oxygen decaying in my lungs because I can't seem to reach the surface.

Damon sets up the board game as I wallow, appointing himself as the banker despite my protests. We are able to play a few rounds, all of which he won by cheating. I knock his game piece off the board, hitting it so hard it falls onto the linoleum with a plink!

"Who's the sore loser, now?" he taunts, waving a stack of fake five-hundred-dollar bills in my direction.

I wrap my arms around my torso and pout. "Still you—you're a cheater."

"No, I'm a real estate tycoon."

"Cheater, cheater pumpkin eater!" I chant, sticking my tongue out. I sound so immature that if I had said those words to anyone else, I would have wanted to run away in embarrassment. Possibly change my name and re-locate to Hawaii.

But it's only Damon and there is no way that he'll surpass me in the maturity department.

"You lost fair and square!"

I shift away from Damon. "Fine, since you're such a winner, you can tell me what you think we should do."

Part of my reason for looking at the painting of sea creatures behind me is so I don't have to watch his face when he says abort it.

"As the new champion I think I'll let you go before me—I'm feeling gracious."

That's it; I've had it. "I'm going to my room—come find me when you want to start being serious."

I trudge into the hallway, stomp up the stairs, slam my bedroom door shut.

I throw myself onto my bed, hoping to cling to the familiarity, the whims of the twelve-year-old who finally got to have a say in what both of her rooms looked like.

Everything is so very Bonnie—a sentiment that hasn't changed in the five years since I designed it. My bed is made up like one you might see in a hotel room. Crisp and white with a matching white canopy hanging over the headboard. All of my books are lined up neatly on a little shelf, organized by both size and color. A display of pink seashells sits on my nightstand, next to a small pink lamp.

Somehow, I have managed to be me, the same person I have been since puberty, for so long that it seems almost impossible for me to be in this situation.

I'm dwelling on my personality crisis when there is a light tap on the door.

Ten minutes. That's how long it took him to get his shit together and find me.

I let him in. "What is it?"

Damon breezes by me and plops down on my bed. He looks around the room and has to suppress a smile.

"I bet you spent the last few hours here deciding what to do with those books." He nods toward the shelf.

"No," I respond pointedly. "I was hungover. The rest of my summer was spent in bed feeling sorry for myself because you chose Rebekah over me." I turn away, burying my face in my hands.

"You were jealous of Rebekah?"

"No." I face him again. My eyes are so watery they begin to sting. "… I was…. I just thought we were… at least going to be cordial… isn't it the polite thing… to do… when you've taken someone's virginity… I mean… shouldn't you have… given me a heads up or something."

"About Rebekah?" he asks, half amused, half bewildered. "You know she came to me, right? I never asked her to show up on my doorstep."

I don't know what to think about that, how I should respond to his statement

"Okay let's get down to business." I shake my head abruptly, changing gears so quickly it looks like it makes Damon's head spin.

"Fine by me."

I start talking very fast as if a bomb will go off if I don't finish speaking in time. "I'm at least two weeks late and every one of those damn sticks said you knocked me up. I think we should make an appointment with an OBGYN and go from there…. That would be the responsible thing to do."

"You want to keep it?" Damon asks incredulously.

"Yes… no…. I have no clue. All I know is that being tied to you for eighteen years completely repulses me."

He glares at me. "You're no peach either."

Damon glances up at me again. I am suddenly very aware of the fact that I don't even look like I could pass for the girl-next-door, the ones who are described as peaches for their sunny dispositions. The girls like my friends, who are always on their game, always the sweetest girls out of the bunch—energetic, optimistic, put-together. My hair is a mess of curls, somehow making me look like I'm trying too hard with the party attire and I look like I haven't slept in a month. My dark hair, mocha-colored skin, and bright green eyes are usually so different from what Damon sees now. All the fight in my expression has disappeared.

Now it's his turn to go silent, but—because he's Damon—that doesn't last long

"You need sleep." He states, clearly uncomfortable.

I scoff. "As if I can sleep when I'm up at two in the morning puking."

"… I see that."

"Shut up," I mumble.

"I'll stay downstairs while you sleep in here. Then we will head home in the morning."

"I was planning on going home tonight."

"You won't be able to rest there—you'll be so tired you'll fall down the steps and break your neck."

"Since when do you care what happens to me?"

"Elena would be upset if you died."

"Whatever."

He smirks at my half-hearted reply. "Just text your parents and tell them you're staying at Elena's."

"I'm only doing it because I am exhausted; not because you told me to," I say childishly. I take my cell phone off the nightstand and punch the keyboard angrily.

"Yeah, right."

Damon gets up and heads for the door.

"I usually am," I retort.

"Sometimes." He corrects. "You're right some of the time—even a broken clock is right twice a day."

"I just… hope we can do the right thing now."

"We will," he says firmly like it's a fact.

I wish I could believe him.

I don't remember much of the drive home. I do remember the pit stop we made at the gas station, however… and it's been on my mind since I got home. I mulled it over while I was in the shower, rinsing away the last of the previous night's confusion. I contemplated it as I sat on the bathroom floor in nothing but a towel. And now… it's still bothering me as I lie on my bed in an over-sized t-shirt that just so happens to be Damon Salvatore's.

"Damon, you need to pull over."

"Are you kidding me? We've only been on the road for fifteen minutes."

I shot him the dirtiest look I could manage before I pressed my forehead against the window. "Just do it."

His eyes felt like lasers, I could tell he was appraising me, trying to figure out if I was being serious or difficult.

"Fine, but if you puke on my upholstery, you're paying to have it cleaned. I still have nightmares about your drunken assault on my bathroom. You were like that kid from The Exorcist."

I had opened my mouth to respond, but clamped it shut the second I realized that I'd be out a huge chunk of my savings if I continued to argue with him.

So, I decided to close my eyes until the car stopped moving.

Damon pulled into the smallest gas station I've ever seen. It only had three pumps and two bore handwritten out of order signs. There were only a few spaces to park in front of the convenience store, of which Damon took the last available spot. As soon as I saw the sign directing me to the bathrooms, I bolted over to it.

I barely made it inside the door before I began to wretch. My knees had hit the dirty floor and I am still disgusted by the mystery puddle I knelt in. Surprisingly, I found myself hoping it was pee—the other alternatives were far grosser. The strong scent of urine emanating from the toilet caused me to dry heave a few more times.

When I was satisfied nothing else was going to come up, I stood, used my foot to push the handle to flush, and dumped three-quarters of the soap left in the wall dispenser onto my hands. I ran them under the faucet until it felt like I scrubbed a layer of flesh away.

As I walked into the lot, I saw Damon leaning against the hood of his car. He looked amused like my constant discomfort was the funniest thing he ever witnessed.

"Take a picture; it'll last longer," I muttered, shouldering past him.

"If you insist," His comment was followed by the clicking sound of an iPhone camera capturing a photo.

"You—" I spun around, jabbing a finger in his face.

He backed away from me like I had the plague. "Uh, you've got a little…" he nodded at my chest.

I looked down to see a huge vomit stain on my dress.

"Fuck!"

"Hold on," Damon moved toward the back of his car, emerging with a wrinkled t-shirt a minute later. "Here," he tossed it my way.

I caught the replacement, pinching it between two fingers, wrinkling my nose. "I don't want to know about the things this poor shirt has been through."

"It's never been worn," Damon replied bluntly. "Though it was present when I hooked up with Tessa Newman two years ago."

I studied the logo carefully. "You must really hate Pink Floyd, then."

"I went to see a cover band at the Grille, it was the only shirt left—it's XXL. It'll be a little big on you, but I think you'll grow into it."

"Gee, thanks for the reassurance."

"No problem."

I stared at him, debating on my options: smell like a walking case of food poisoning or accept Damon's solution. I would have gladly dealt with the former if I didn't think that the stench would make me spew chunks again, but the odds weren't in my favor.

So, I climbed into the backseat of the Camaro and changed while Damon held up his leather jacket to shield me from the other patrons. When I finished, I regretfully threw my dress into the nearest trash bin, as some memories aren't worth the effort of washing away.

I stomped over to the passenger's side. "Thanks—I guess."

"No problem, Bonzo. You are buying your mouthwash, though."

That's the Damon I had grown to like. The one that acted like a sympathetic human being. Unfortunately, that's half of the reason this choice is so hard. Damon (who used the f-word to describe our relationship. best was also in there. I'm his best f-word) is on this sinking ship with me and I really don't want to jump without him.

Because there are things about me he understands, having been faced with similar situations himself. And, well, I must admit that not feeling alone is nice. Especially because I'd been so sure things were going to turn out differently.

Differently would make everything simpler, cleaner, but I've never been one to go for simple or easy. I have parents that won't stand for that, even if it is what I'd personally like to do.

That's why Damon has usurped Elena in the best friend category in a matter of months. Hell, honestly, it had only been weeks. It should be a no-brainer: I've been Elena's best friend for years (fourteen, to be exact) but with Damon… we're each other's friend. Had I been presented with this conundrum last May; I would have said those two sentences meant the same thing.

That's not the truth, though.

The truth is different—and not in an easy way.