~14~

~Chapter Fourteen~

I can see you standin', honey
With his arms around your body
Laughin' but the joke's not funny at all
And it took you five whole minutes
To pack us up and leave me with it
Holdin' all this love out here in the hall

~Taylor Swift (feat. Bon Iver), exile~

"These were the only kind they had left. Stop being a baby and just take them."

"I hate Mounds. Not only is that a horrible name for a candy bar, but it tastes like cardboard covered in chocolate."

I pull my phone out and scroll through my messages until I find the one that will absolve me from this so-called "abhorrent attempt at poisoning by candy."

I thrust the incriminating directions in his face. "It says right here—anything but circus peanuts." I point to the giant Mounds bar in his hands. "I know your ability to read is worse than a preschooler's, but just sound it out. Mounds and circus peanuts aren't phonetically alike."

"Your attempt at deflecting isn't working. Just admit that I have better taste than you."

"Says the guy dating Klaus's sister."

"You had a crush on a Jonas Brother," he retorts triumphantly.

"Yeah," I mutter. "When I was twelve."

Damon doesn't care about timelines, though. "Can't erase the past, Bon Bon. Your schoolgirl crush is way more embarrassing than my love life."

"Says you." I snip, wondering why I brought Rebekah up in the first place.

He grins like the Cheshire cat. "However, I'm willing to forgive you for this—" he waves the candy bar in my face, copying what I did with the cell phone. "Because I'm a generous person. You're welcome."

Damon strides across the parking lot, toward the ticket booth in front of the movie theater.

"I'm not thanking you for that!" I protest loudly, trying to catch up with him.

I know he hears me. I can tell because a smirk is pulling at the corners of his mouth when I reach him. There's also a devilish gleam in his eyes that lets me know he's enjoying every second of my indignation. The girl behind the glass doesn't realize that though, I think she believes he's checking her out. She's batting her thick eyelashes at him, flipping her long brown hair over her shoulder, and giggling.

She's resembles Elena closely, but she's shorter than my best friend by a good inch. Her hair is also a shade lighter and longer. I peek at Damon from the corner of my eye. Maybe I'm mistaken, maybe he is flirting with her. It's more likely than I'm willing to admit, especially since the real Elena is ignoring him. And he and Rebekah are fighting over something he refuses to talk about.

For the third time this month.

"Two for the eight 'o clock showing of Villains please," he says smoothly.

The girl notices me for the first time. Apparently, my approach hadn't been a distraction until Damon asked for two tickets instead of one. She does her best to hide her irritation.

She's doing it horribly, though. When she punches a few numbers on the cash register, she's unnecessarily aggressive and when she speaks again, her voice is an octave higher. "Sure thing. One ticket for you and one for your…"

"Best friend," Damon supplies with a disarming smile.

The relief she displays is more annoying than it should be. "Oh, your friends. That's a surprise. I would have thought you had a girlfriend with looks like those." She nods at him with yet another obnoxious giggle.

Man, subtlety isn't her forte.

"He does." My voice is flat.

"Actually," Damon interjects quickly. "My girlfriend's upset with me right now."

"She's not the only one," I mutter under my breath.

The girl, who's wearing a polo with the name Clarice stitched across the breast pocket, smiles widely. "I'm sorry to hear that."

She certainly doesn't sound it, but whatever. I toy with the idea of telling her that he's only leading her on, that his massive ego doesn't allow him to forgo the charm he exudes, but I know I'm just being moody.

It doesn't matter if his relationship with Rebekah is on the rocks. It makes no difference to me if he wants to have a fling with a college girl who works in a movie theater an hour outside of Mystic Falls. Sure, he should be worried about something else entirely, but I'm not his keeper. And I shouldn't involve myself in his love life, my focus needs to be elsewhere. Yet, here I am, trying to separate my opinions on our responsibilities with Damon's ability to think about anything other than sex—because how can he do what he needs to if he's worried about Elena or Rebekah or Clarice or the next person he sees?

"… you know, maybe we could meet up next week if your girlfriend is still upset. Sometimes the best way to get over someone is to get under someone new."

Okay, that actually makes me want to blow chunks.

"See Clarice, I've got a lot going on right now," Damon throws an arm around me. "And that's kind of why Bonster and I are here. I wanted to have some fun before shit hits the fan, so to speak."

"That's… disappointing. I, uh, hope things get better."

"Yeah, it kind of is. I'm going to have to be a lot more responsible—family obligations, you know? And that's not really my thing. Bon Bon here doesn't have any faith in me. Can you believe that?"

Clarice shoots me a glare. It's so mean-spirited that you would have thought Damon said I killed someone. "That's not encouraging."

"Okay, Damon. There's a line. And it's getting dark and cold and I told you I wanted to get nachos before the movie starts."

"Well, if you decide you want someone nicer to talk with, here's my number." She jots it down on the receipt and hands it to him along with our tickets.

Once we've stepped out of line, Damon shrugs his leather jacket off and drapes it over my shoulders. "If you wanted my attention, you should have said so."

That stupid, smug, infuriating, asshole. "Like you're better than nachos. And you know you're hot, why must you always flirt with every girl you run into?"

"You think I'm hot, huh?"

"As if."

"You're the one that said it; not me."

"I did not!" I huff, stomping my foot.

"Okay, then give me my jacket back."

I clutch the leather, pulling it closer to me. "No. I'm cold—it's past seven pm in October. If you just bought tickets like a normal person, I wouldn't have had to stand outside for fifteen minutes in this weather."

"You could have gone back and gotten your sweater from the car," he points out loftily.

"I don't think it fits me at the moment—which is half your fault!"

Damon gives me a once over before opening the door to let me inside. "You look the same to me. And that sweater doesn't even have buttons. So, your argument is bullshit."

I grab a ten-dollar bill from the pocket of my jeans. "Just get me the biggest possible nachos and a large cherry coke."

"That thing already looks like an alien; you want it to grow four arms because you're addicted to caffeine?"

"Just get me my fucking soda, Damon!"

He gives me a thumbs up. "It would be my pleasure, Bon Bon, but maybe you should listen to what—" he double-checks the receipt— "Clarissa said and be a little nicer."

I want to tell him that he didn't use the correct name, to say that he's being a jerk, but he places the money back in my hand, and I'm suddenly at a loss for words.

"I've got it. You got the chocolate bar; besides, I like nachos, too. And I'm buying popcorn, so I don't have to starve because you're hogging everything else."

God, he's so confusing. "Thanks… well, except for the part about me being a hog."

But he's already sauntering over to the concession stand, leaving me in the middle of the lobby. Next to a poster for the upcoming Joker film and a pair of sisters—one significantly older than the other—bickering over how much money they should waste on arcade games.

I head over to the bathrooms, feeling overcome with emotion that I don't know how to handle and the smell of crappy movie-theater butter. I stare at myself in a full-length mirror, which is covered in fingerprints from top to bottom.

I guess Damon's right—I do look the same, save for a pound or so—but I certainly don't feel that way, even though I spend a lot of time trying to convince myself otherwise. I definitely react more than I pause to consider my options—a side-effect of hormones, of course. And it's a huge adjustment for me, but now that Damon's pointing it out, I wonder if I'm sending the wrong message.

I don't like Damon the way everyone is implying, and I don't want him to start believing the press because he'll make fun of me mercifully for it. And when he gets something in his mind, it's game-over.

No going back.

And let's face it, Damon doesn't need extra ammo. I've given him enough already.

The movie hadn't been all that bad.

Sure, it was weird. But at least it wasn't boring or predictable. There was actual character growth and the ending was bittersweet but satisfying—I would never have gone to see it on my own—it's release is limited—but I'm glad Damon decided to take me. I thought the ride out of town would be for naught, that I'd be tired, grumpy, and pissed that I sat through a crappy film when I could've finished my homework and gone to bed early.

The temperature has dropped another couple of degrees by the time we exit the theater. I'm sure it's more apparent because I gave the coat back to Damon in exchange for my nachos. I am only semi-aware of the goosebumps on my arms anyway.

I'm too busy trying to wrestle the popcorn bucket out of Damon's hands. He's pelting me with the leftover kernels because he claims I started a popcorn war when I threw some at him. Which, okay, I did. But only after he declared that he'd rather let someone kill him if the alternative was being handcuffed to me like the two main characters had been.

Damon releases the bucket, but not before grabbing a few pieces of popcorn. I hold the container up as a shield and when he lobs the entire handful at me, I'm confident I've blocked them all.

I take the one lone kernel from the bin and throw it at his face. It bounces off his nose and lands on the pavement. "That was the last one—I win!"

"Well, yeah. You got to spend time with me—that's a win for anyone." he actually sounds like he truly believes that. "And I wouldn't be so smug if I were you. You only won by half a point."

"How did you come up with that?"

"Easy," he says, pulling a popcorn kernel out of my hair. It landed in your hair instead of down the front of your shirt—which is where I wanted it to go."

"You're such a sore loser! Stop making excuses—you lost because you have crappy hand-eye coordination!"

"I'm not—I was hoping I'd get to watch you pull popcorn out of your bra"

I throw the now-empty bucket atop his head. "You're disgusting!"

"I'm aware," he says, returning the favor.

I'm ripping the bin off of my head when a soft breeze picks up. I shiver involuntarily, not expecting it to be as cold as it is.

"If I get hypothermia because of you, I'm sending you the hospital bill, Bennett." He tosses his leather jacket at me without much warning,

I catch it by the sleeve. "I'm not paying it—you can take it back."

"Just put the damn jacket on, Judgy."

"Bossy!"

"I learned from the best," he informs me, stupid smirk still on his face.

I ignore the jibe, shoving my arms into the sleeves. The warmth from his body lingers on the material, along with his cologne and deodorant. The scents mix together, creating one that's uniquely Damon, one that I'm embarrassed to like as much as I do. In part because Elena's mad at me for this… not that going to the movies is a thing but given recent events she sees it differently. Especially considering how complex her feelings for Damon have become.

I feel guilty for ignoring her crush. Care has still sworn up and down that our sisterhood remains intact, that Elena is calming down as we speak or eat or study. But I don't see how that's possible when she knows Damon and I are out having a good time.

It's why I didn't tell her about any of it in the first place.

"So, when are you going to tell me about the fight you had with Rebekah?" I ask because thinking about Elena isn't going to make anything better. It only serves to remind me that a mistake can do more damage than expected.

Damon groans and rolls his eyes. It's such a theatrical response and with Damon that could mean one of two totally different things: that he's just trying to be difficult or that whatever's bothering him is actually really serious.

Though, how he anything could top the clusterfuck of a situation we are in, I don't understand.

"Why do you care?"

"I just thought as your best friend, I might be able to help."

"I don't need help—especially the judgmental kind you're offering."

"Okay. Keep arguing with her. But you won't be able to go out with Elena 2.0 if you don't admit that you and Rebekah aren't compatible and end things before someone's feelings get hurt."

"Who said anything about…"

"Clarice."

Damon snaps his fingers. "Yeah—that's her name. Who said anything about her?"

"You kept the receipt with her number on it. You only do that if there isn't a trashcan around."

"Wow, you're so observant it's borderline creepy. Go ahead, check the pockets. I got rid of it while you were busy trying to assault me with snack foods."

"I'll take your word for it," I say, voice steady. "I was just trying to help you out. Mostly because I don't want to spend the next eighteen years around Rebekah and I'm pretty sure she is already planning your wedding."

"She's not like Caroline. If she has a delusion like that, I'm not part of it—and she doesn't. Besides, it's just casual. And fighting just means really good make-up sex later."

That doesn't exactly eliminate my reservations. "Okay…"

"Oh, God there you go with the 'okay,'" he lilts in a surprisingly accurate imitation. He even raises his eyebrows, looking downward just as I always do.

My eyes narrow and my hands are on my hips. The sleeves are so long on me that they disappear completely. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"That you think I'm doing something wrong," he states flatly. "You're not that hard to figure out, Bennett."

"Damon—I just don't…" I don't know how to put what I'm feeling into words. "I'm just…I guess I care about you—kind of. And… I don't want you to… get hurt."

"How sweet of you to say that…" he replies mockingly, though the next thing he says sounds genuine. "I care about you, too—kind of."

I chuckle. Those words go a lot deeper than you would think. Kind of is synonymous with totally in Damon-and-Bonnie-speak, a word of high praise.

"It's still mostly because I don't want Rebekah near me. I'd say it's eighty percent about disliking Rebekah and twenty percent about you."

"I wouldn't expect anything different—the real test of our friendship is if I'm more important to you than a large order of onion rings from the diner."

"I'll have to get back to you on that one."

"It's okay, I like the onion rings better than I like you. Don't feel too bad—the veggie burger is below you."

"Thank God—my self-esteem couldn't take it if you liked a veggie burger more than me!"

"Rest assured, Bennett—I promise you that you will always rank higher than a veggie burger."

That one doesn't have a direct translation in our personal dictionary, but something about the way he smiles and opens the car door for me lets me know that it's a good thing.