Without another word, she huffed, turned on her heel, and stormed off in an instant—the signature hair whip slicing through the air.
Lucy, stepping out of the bathroom just in time with wet hands, saw Isabella marching away, clearly furious.
Without hesitation but still confused, Lucy followed, and Damon, acting on pure impulse jumped out of his seat and falling to the ground first but getting back up immediately, abandoned the booth—door left open, cash register unattended.
His mind was blank except for one thought: Apologize. How did I fuck up so much in a day?.
He pushed through the crowd, shouting her name, but Isabella didn't turn back. She wasn't running—she never ran—but her stride was sharp, deliberate. Her arms stayed rigid at her sides, her polka-dot dress fluttering in the mall's breeze like she was at a photoshoot. Even in her anger, she looked stunning.
finally caught up, reaching out on pure instincts and grabbing her wrist just as she reached the centre of the second level just a few steps away from the escalator. The entire mall seemed to be frozen in time.
Lucy completely stopped a few steps behind, just watching.
Goosebumps prickled Isabella's skin as Damon, suddenly aware of the scene he'd caused, let her go. He fumbled over his words, nonsensical mumblings, flustered—*her* effect on him, though she didn't realize it and gave him a look like she was done.
Taking a deep breath, trying to get her no to hate him, he steadied himself. "I'm sorry, okay? Today's been… one of those days. But that's no excuse to take it out on you. And again I didn't even know it was you. So… I'm sorry."
It wasn't smooth. It wasn't charming. But it was raw and real and she believed him.
"Well," she relented, finally letting the anger go and choosing whimsical tone, "I did run you over and crush your bike before ditching you. So… call it even?"
Damon, surprising himself, blurted out, "How about we call it even Friday night? Right here."
Her eyes widened. "Wow. Okay."
Damon choked on air, coughing as he tried to catch his breath. Her response had caught him completely off guard.
In his head, why would a girl like Isabella ever agree to go out with him? But he wasn't about to question fate. Trying to play it cool, he spiked up his collar, raised his brows, and said, "Aight, I'll see you Friday at seven."
He started his slow, casual back walk away while trying to not cut eye contact with her—only to bump into someone after just a few steps.
Flustered, he saved face with a quick turn and kept moving. Isabella watched him, shaking her head in amused disbelief.
Lucy, who had been there for entire exchange, finally approached and gave Isabella a playful (yet painful) punch on the arm. She widened her eyes and threw her hands up as if to say, What the hell just happened?
Isabella stayed quiet, but Lucy wasn't having it. "I'm your best friend," she said, pouting and folding her arms. "If you don't tell me, who the fuck else will you tell?" She pretended to walk away, but Isabella grabbed her hand.
"I don't know, okay?" Isabella admitted, putting her hands on her face. "I don't know why I said yes. It just…just felt right. He felt right."
Lucy smirked. "Oh, so now you're getting all lovey-dovey on me?"
Isabella shook her head, but something in her smile betrayed her. The two left the mall without seeing the movie.
Meanwhile, Damon practically skipped back to the ticket booth, happy and giddy, grinning like an idiot—until he spotted Dimitri standing there, arms crossed, with an angry line of customers waiting. His smile dropped.
"Oh, I'm fucked," he muttered under his breath, shoulders slumping and head down in defeat.
Dimitri's face was red, veins bulging in his forehead. When Damon got close enough to smell the vodka on his breath, the man growled in his barely understandably Russian accent, "No pay this week."
The words hit Damon like a knife, but even that couldn't knock him off cloud nine.
Damon finished his shift in a daze, the endless line of angry customers nothing more than background noise to the grin plastered on his face. Seconds turned into minutes and then to hours and finally the clock dawned and his shift was finally over.
Part of closing required checking the theaters—empty at this hour, screens dark, silence thick. But tonight, one seat wasn't vacant.
An old woman with long white dirty hair sat still, eyes glued to the blank screen. Damon hesitated, then tapped her shoulder.
"Ma'am? The theater's closed."
She didn't turn. "Do you love her yet?" Her voice was dry, like dry sandpaper. "Hope you enjoy it. Hope it's worth it—while you have it."
Damon blinked. "Uh… you're in the movie theater. The show's over."
No response.
He guided her out, unease prickling his neck, his eyes kept looking at her trying to hide his fear but more of intrigue. He didn't remember selling her a ticket. But when he glanced back, she was already gone—vanished into the parking lot shadows.
Weird. He shook it off.
Giddy again, he called Caleb on his broken phone. Leaning against the sidewalk curb, he cycled through a million date ideas—dinner? arcade? Maybe a dinner?—so lost in his head he didn't notice the blue Thunderbird idling in front of him with headlights shining directly at him until the horn blasted.
And then followed by a little dance on his way to the car.
"Told you I'd get her!" Damon crowed as he yanked the car door open.
Caleb stared, blank. "Get… who?"
Damon's cool act lasted half a second before his grin split wide. Isabella said yes!" The words exploded out of him, followed by a frantic play-by-play of the entire encounter, complete with wild hand gestures.
Caleb's only response was a slow, deadpan blink, followed by, "So… you're going on a date with the girl who tried to run you over?"
He laughed so hard he kept honking the horn, while Damon just stared at him, unamused. When he finally caught his breath, Caleb smirked and said, "You haven't been on a date in a while. Where do you even plan to take her?"
The look in Damon's eyes said one thing: Oh shit.