~16~
~Chapter Sixteen~
There's no plan
There's no race to be run
The harder the pain, honey, the sweeter the song
~Hozier, No Plan~
"Damon, why do you have to ruin a completely innocent activity with your gross commentary?"
"Come on, you can't honestly tell me that cloud doesn't look like a penis!"
"I can. It's easy. Listen: that cloud doesn't resemble anything phallic."
I should have known that Damon would only last ten minutes before he tried to needle me. Though, to his credit, that was five minutes longer than my original estimate. Hoping for more was presumptuous of me.
I roll onto my side, propping my head up with my hand. Damon's lying on his back, hands laced behind his head, shirt riding up ever so slightly. He is studying the sky more carefully now, eyes narrowed in concentration.
"Okay… it's a rocket ship. A pitiful one, but I guess it could still qualify. There's a reason The Enterprise wasn't designed to look like that."
"Creative license?" I supply, hoping for a more in-depth description of all things sci-fi, but I doubt it'll go that way. Damon is very secretive about his love for the genre. He doesn't want anyone else to know he's a Trekkie.
Something about not wanting to ruin his reputation.
I stumbled onto this bit of information by accident. It was particularly cold in his house one afternoon, so he said I could raid his closet for a sweatshirt.
I came back with a red flannel and a storage bin containing all three seasons of the original series and Next Generation on DVD. Oh, and the movies starring Chris Pine.
I've been made to take a vow of silence—no talk of his guilty pleasure outside the walls of his home or mine. So, suffice to say, I'm surprised at the reference.
"No, dick jokes. I thought I made that obvious, Bennett. Learn to keep up."
I snort derisively. "I'm sorry all I know about Star Trek is the whole live long and prosper thing. I'm not fluent in alien."
"Vulcan," he clarifies, rolling his eyes. "Spock is a Vulcan—you need to be more specific."
"Fine, I can't speak Vulcan. You can untwist your panties now."
"What if I don't want to?" he asks, turning his head so I have an unobstructed view of his pout.
"It's your wedgie; do what you want with it."
We both fall quiet as a breeze picks up. The few leaves that have survived the cooler weather rustle and some finally give out, floating to the grass below. Several leaves already on the ground are blown across the open field opposite the walking trail I traveled with Enzo.
I sit up and zip his leather jacket all the way.
Damon follows my lead, though I had been expecting him to make some flippant remark about how I should get my own outerwear (which we both know I have hanging in the back of my closet), but there's something about Damon's… the way I swim in it, the feel of the leather against my skin, it's warmth, the fact that it smells just like him.
How he's become so used to my "forgetfulness" that the first thing he does when we step outside is to hand the garment to me, smirk in place, shaking his head. Always lamenting about how I'm slipping up.
I wasn't happy when he insinuated, in the middle of the science room, that he thought I had pregnancy brain. Granted, we were the only ones in there, but the door was ajar. Anyone could have overheard our bickering as they walked by.
Now, it's an unspoken joke between us and it's kind of endearing.
"You liked the movie," he reminds me.
"No, I liked Chris Pine's eyes," and not because they resemble a certain lovable asshole's pale blue irises.
He cracks a wistful smile. "I didn't like them at first, but my mother and Aunt Ruthie got together and watched the whole thing from beginning to end. After Mom died, Ruthie would come over with Mehri and we'd sit on the couch—Stef and I—making jokes about it, but then it got interesting… well, it did to me. Steffy swears on his giant, broody forehead that he doesn't like Star Trek. And after a while, I started thinking I could share it with one of my kids—I mean, Stefan's future gremlins. I didn't think I'd settle down. Too much moving around in the military."
"Well, you kind of screwed that plan up." But I don't know if I believe that.
"My after high school one or the one about the gremlins?"
I play with a loose thread hanging from the old blanket we spread out on the grass. "The gremlins… maybe. It's not like I know what to do about it, but sometimes I wonder if we could…"
"Keep it?" Damon raises an eyebrow questioningly. "I considered it when you found my DVD collection."
"Really?"
"For a second, but… I could end up on the other side of the country… it's not an ideal situation to be in."
I nod solemnly. "No, but… does that make it impossible?"
"Not impossible. Dumb, difficult, and selfish maybe, but not impossible."
"I kind of want to," I admit, my voice a whisper. Part of me hopes he doesn't hear what I said. That he'll stare at me in confusion and I'll be able to take it back.
The way the sunlight hits his face is mesmerizing. I am trapped in his gaze. I try to avert my eyes, so I don't have to wonder why his jaw is set, his expression pensive, what is making him so emotional.
Because he's probably thinking of ways he can let me down gently.
And then, in the same quiet volume, "me, too, Bon Bon. But I don't know if I can."
He's right. Logically, I can recite the list of reasons to not do this, to give up the daydream and let someone else binge-watch TV shows with a blue-eyed toddler, but… for every no, my heart comes up with a yes.
And it's pretty hard to be realistic when you get carried away with the potential of a dream.
"We can think about it, though. It is our choice," I say desperately.
"Spoken like a true rebel," Damon echoes. "Yeah, we don't have to do anything yet. We can still consider our options."
"Exactly," I chirp, a little too forcefully.
"I like having options," he goes on, rolling with his idea. "I'm good with options."
The sky is tinged with pink and orange streaks now, the sun dipping behind the line of trees, streaming through the cracks in the branches. It's also noticeably colder and when I see Damon shiver, I begin to take my oversized outer-layer off.
He stops me, fingers curling around my wrist. "Wear it, Bennett. You're incubating the future president of the Star Trek fan club. That's a huge responsibility."
"And if the said future president isn't in our care?" My hand finds the zipper and pulls it up again.
"He or she will just love it without knowing why." He shrugs as if the answer should be obvious.
"I'm not sure that's how interests are formed," I reply in a skeptical tone.
"Well, then we have some options to weigh, don't we?" he stands, offering me his hand. He lifts me without much effort—an impressive feat considering I've gained a few pounds recently.
"That we do," I agree, brushing invisible dirt from my jeans.
He picks up the lime green throw Grams gave me for my fifth birthday and folds it in a neat square. "We can discuss things over onion rings," he says suggestively.
My stomach signals its need for food with an odd-sounding gurgle. "Damon, that's a brilliant idea."
"You can say that again."
"Very funny," My sarcasm is blatant.
"No, really," he insists with an innocence that has to be faked. "Say it again."
"In your dreams, Damon."
Talking through our problems like adults is much easier said than done when the "adults" in question are Bonnie Bennett and Damon Salvatore.
We started by constructing a pros and cons list, papers pushed to the corner of the booth so we could make room for our order of onion rings and milkshakes.
Our discussion devolved into a race to see who could blow bits of their straw wrapper across the table the fastest when the bad bullet points began to outnumber the good.
"I say we revise the rules. You have an unfair advantage!"
"How can someone have an advantage in a completely pointless, made-up game with arbitrary parameters?" Damon questions, eyebrows raised in amusement.
"Simple—you have more lung capacity."
"You have to be joking," he replies flatly.
"Nope."
He rolls his eyes so far that back that I'm shocked they don't get stuck there. "You're the baby; not me. Ever heard of losing gracefully?"
"I- I am not a baby!" I sputter.
"Are, too."
"Am not!" I insist rather pathetically.
The triumphant look on Damon's face tells me I proved his point. I shift away from him, and slide my glass over, creating minimal but clear distance between us.
"Bonzo, don't be mad—I'll still buy an extra order of onion rings."
"Humph," I grumble, scooting back to my original spot. "I'm disappointed you think you can buy my happiness with fried food."
"Can't I?"
"Well… yeah, but you're not supposed to be obvious about it."
"My bad," he says in a way that makes me think he is going to continue doing what I tell him not to do.
The bell hanging on the door chimes and I look over to the entrance, the idea being it will distract Damon from his current teasing.
In walks a girl who looks to be our age, maybe a year or two older. And, by the looks of her profile, she's pretty. She has long, jet black hair, tied back in a braided bun. When she makes her way over to the dining area, I realize that she's far more beautiful than I first thought.
She's tall and slim, willowy, with tanned skin and warm brown eyes that remind me of Elena's. Her style is very similar to hers, too. Simple. Minimal make-up and a casual long-sleeved shirt, jeans, and gray sneakers. There is a small stud in her left nostril and several gold-and-red bangles on her wrist, which gives her an edge that Elena's wardrobe doesn't possess.
She senses me watching her and turns her head. And her face lights up like a Christmas tree.
For a split second, I think it's me she's happy to see. However, that would be absurd because I've never seen her before in my life.
And then she's in front of me, propping herself up on the blue vinyl seating directly behind Damon.
"Damon!" she squeals, wrapping her arms around his neck.
I'm scrambling to collect our papers as he groans, an action that is undoubtedly accompanied by that trademark eye-roll he's always giving me. I fold the lists in half and stick them underneath my half-full milkshake glass.
"Mehri. I'd say it's nice to see you, but I can't actually see you."
She releases him and stands next to our table. "There. Now, since you can see me—" she punctuates her statement with a smirk. "You can introduce me to your girlfriend."
"Don't you have somewhere else to be… college, maybe?"
"I just finished an accelerated course, smart-ass." She puts her focus on me, completely shrugging off Damon's jibe. Then, she thrusts her arm in my direction. "Since Damon forgot what manners are—I'm Mehri. His cousin."
I find myself letting go of a breath I didn't know I was holding, taking her hand and shaking it. "I'm Bonnie. Nice to meet you! You're Milly's granddaughter?"
"Yup," says Mehri, smiling with pride. "She's amazing, isn't she?"
"Spectacular," I agree.
She nods, and then her brows knit together, and she studies me with a puzzled expression as if something doesn't quite add up. "Wait… your name is Bonnie? Stef told me your name was Rebekah."
"Oh… I'm not his girlfriend," I explain sheepishly, tucking a curl awkwardly behind my ear. "We're just friends, good friends."
Damon jumps in before his cousin can respond. "She means best friends. And you thought I couldn't find someone willing to put up with my bullshit."
"I'm not willing to put up with your bullshit," I shoot him a dirty look. "Someone's got to check you on it."
"You must be an angel," Mehri quips.
"Anyway, I knew you and Stefan had an anti-Damon text thread."
"It's not an anti-Damon text thread. He's just better at keeping in touch. And we were planning a double-date. Me and my new boyfriend, Greg, and Stefan and Elena."
"You didn't want me to come?"
"Well, Stef said you had a lot on your plate right now. And he mentioned that you and Rebekah were more like friends with benefits… but then I saw you and Bonnie… and I thought maybe he didn't see you guys acting like… well, you get my point." She looks at me apologetically.
"No, Stefan's description was accurate," he admits, though he does his best to not let it bother him. "She and I aren't really…"
"Compatible," I fill in for him.
She nods like she gets it, but, judging by the funny look she pins on him, I'm not so certain she does.
"Do you want to sit?" I ask, sliding the pros and cons lists out of their hiding place, casually slipping them into my bag.
"Thank you, Bonnie! I'd love to!" she beams at me.
I make space for her and she sits. I can tell most of her personality comes from her grandmother, with the way she teases Damon but is never mean-spirited about it. She loves him dearly, thinks the world of him… and for that alone, I am glad he has her.
"So, what are you guys working on?" she eyes my hand, which is resting inside my bag, still gripping the pages.
"Nothing!" I sound guilty, though, and it's embarrassing."
Damon gives me a pointed glare. "She's showing me the rough draft of her erotic Twilight fanfiction—based on Brokeback Mountain."
"It's not anything like that," I say, "it's Damon's essay on the War of 1812. He thought it only lasted a year."
Mehri giggles. "Hey… I have an idea! Why don't you bring Bonnie with you to our double date? You two are really cute together—and funny, too. I'm sure Stef and Elena wouldn't mind. Greg would love to meet both of my favorite cousins! The way grandma tells stories about us playing together so often, he feels like he already knows you."
Damon doesn't seem to be psyched about the prospect of a miniature family reunion and I can't blame him. I don't think Elena will be all that happy for us to be lumped together as a pair, and I don't want to create a bigger rift between us.
But she's staring at us so hopefully… I feel a pang when I think of how long it's been since Elena's been avoiding me… maybe this could help us mend our friendship… I can't see her acting anything but civil in such a public setting.
I chew on my bottom lip as Damon contemplates her suggestion.
"Please, Damon? I've missed you guys."
"Fine, but if it gets all sentimental, Bon Bon and I are out. And you admit that I was right about it being a terrible idea."
"Deal," she says firmly. She doesn't sound nervous, though. I kind of feel bad—the level of confidence she has in this going smoothly is way too high. But it's not like she knows that we aren't on speaking terms with Stefan's longtime love, and even if she did, it still doesn't explain the why.
My stomach growls, breaking into the competitive air surrounding us. I grab an onion ring from the basket sitting in the middle of the table.
"I'm going to go ask Frank for another order," she declares.
Damon takes a twenty-dollar bill from his wallet. "Get two. Those things are like crack to her." He jerks his head in my direction.
"You got it," Mehri grabs the money from his outstretched hand.
Frank Vogel is the man who runs the kitchen in Nell's Diner, and currently, he's my all-time favorite person. I've eaten so many helpings of onion rings that whenever Damon comes in by himself, Frank has a takeout box full of them that he makes Damon take back to me.
Of course, the lingering smell of oil and grease sometimes makes me queasy—like now, for example—but I'm able to keep it mostly at bay.
I don't want to ruin a good thing by puking after eating several baskets full of my favorite food.
I intend on living on them for the foreseeable future.
"Are you going to barf?" Damon asks. "Because I can't follow you into the bathroom to hold your hair back."
"No, I'm not—I hope." I shove another one in my mouth.
"Maybe you should—just to be on the safe side. You're looking pretty green and I don't want my leather seats to be in the line of fire."
"Good looking out," I mutter.
"My poor baby can't take that kind of trauma," he reiterates.
"Yeah… the car is your baby. That's reassuring."
"You can have multiple babies, Bennett. I figured that out when my mom and dad stopped paying attention to me and started showering a loud thing wrapped in a blanket with love that was supposed to be mine."
"Damon, you were two—if that, when Stef was born."
"And? What's the point?"
"The point is your brain can't recall what happened that long ago with any reliability."
"Whatever—do you really want to go out to dinner with a group of horny couples?"
I sigh. "Yes and no, but—"
"I get it," he says, holding his hand up. "We'll go, pretend that we didn't fuck our lives up, eat, and go home to watch The Bodyguard."
I perk up a bit. "Really? I thought you were tired of it."
"Eh, it's not so bad. It grew on me—like a fungus—but the result is the same."
"You know, I'm beginning to think you're not as much of an asshole as you make yourself out to be."
"Goodput that on our list of pros."
The butterflies resting in my stomach begin to fly around. The sensation of hope and/or joy is so strong that tears begin to form in my eyes.
None of them fall, however, because Mehri is walking back over, a basket in each hand. I nearly jump out of my seat to help her carry them to the table. Man, maybe Damon isn't exaggerating my love for fried food. He knows me way better than I'm willing to give him credit for.
I consider telling him this later on when we are alone once again, but then I realize such a statement would be unnecessary.
Mehri had already vocalized it, after all.