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Chapter 17

STEFAN'S POV

I decide I hate him as soon as I lay my eyes on him. I think I've decided I hate him as soon as I found out he exists, in all honestly.

But when I see him sitting there, the first thing that goes through my mind is that the universe is playing a prank on me, because no matter how hard I try, I'll never be able to reach his level. Is this really the type of a guy Elena wants to be with? He's so.. sophisticated? He probably shits jewels.

He talks as if he has five college degrees, expert in every life area. He's smart, as smart as she is, and with him she can discuss topics she never could have discussed with me. His outfit costs more than my whole wardrobe. How am I supposed to compete with that?

The more I watch him, the more I hear him speak, the more I hate him. He swallows her whole. He doesn't let her think, nor does he let her speak, and she allows it. Why does she allow it? She sits there with her lips sewn shut, her hands on her lap, and she's staring at one spot on the wall, like a doll. I'm angry and disgusted and at one point I reach my peak - I can't stand it anymore, but I don't want to make a scene either, so I just leave.

I walk down the dark, unlit street, trying to fight the urge to walk into the closest bar and drown myself in whiskey.

She wanted to thank me. She wanted to thank me for keeping her secret, for lying for her, because of her, for minimizing the importance of everything we had. I feel sick just thinking about it.

I walk by some wooden, rusty bar. It smells like shit and human desperation and alcohol. I have to remind myself that I don't belong there, not anymore.

I can feel my keys rattling in my pocket as I walk, and the sound is making my head heavy. I've been so foolish to think she would settle for anything else, that she wouldn't find someone far better than me. She leveled up.

I take my keys out of my pocket and shove them into the lock. I could go to the Empire, but then I would have to explain the situation to Caroline, and I'm really not in the mood for that. She would probably try to stop me as well. I'm not in the mood for that either.

I open my front door and stroll into the living room. I open the liquor cabinet and pull a half full bottle of whiskey out of it and I don't even bother with a glass. I push my body down into the worn out, leather armchair.

My father used to do this as well, after my mother passed away. I would find him right here, in this spot, in the middle of the night, sleeping tightly with a bottle of scotch in his lap. The first time I caught him like that I freaked out, because I've thought that he had died as well. With years, I learned not to touch him, but to leave him be, because I've realized that's the only time he's truly happy. When he has more alcohol in his body than he has blood, when he's more dead than alive. Maybe that's the only way he could fall asleep without seeing her face.

Or maybe that's the only way he could fall asleep with her face right in front of his closed eyelids.

I open the bottle and take the first swing. Liquor burns my throat as soon as it comes in contact with it, like I'm drinking it for the first time.

And in a way, I am. I've been taking it in tiny doses and small sips for years. This way is harsher. Harder. More harmful.

But at the same time somehow more pleasing.

I sink into the comfort of my armchair, close my eyes and take another swing.

And another.

And another.

And another, until all I can see is black.

XXXX

After the awkward dinner with my parents, I escort Bonnie and Matt back to their motel. My mother had packed some of her homemade cheddar cheese puffs for Bonnie, so she runs to her room as soon as we reach the motel, giving Matt and me some privacy.