Pull Over - a short story

Chapter Four - The Pencil

Pull Over

Chapter Four - The Pencil

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"I'm sorry."

I don't know what I'm apologizing for – everything, I guess. Being a mess, being too much, leaning forward in bed and having to hear the pleading in his voice when he said please don't.

"Stop it," he sighs. We made it through the night in San Antonio; opposite sides of the bed, never touching once. We made it through our longest stretch of a car ride, eight hours to El Paso. And we made it all the way to this empty bar, at four o'clock in the afternoon, on the border of West Texas.

Elliott wraps his fingers around a beer that sweats through its own glass, and I pick at the label of my bottle. "I can't stand not talking to you," I admit. That makes his head turn, and sad eyes meet sad eyes.

"I," he clears his throat, "I'm sorry, J." His eyes fall to the bar where both of our elbows rest. "It was my fault, you were vulnerable-"

"I asked you to hold me." I interrupt him. "It was my fault." Our eyes meet again and I watch his throat as he swallows.

"I would've held you even if you didn't ask."

The first fight I had with Dylan was about Elliott. I wasn't free the weekend that Dylan wanted to make plans, and it was because I had already agreed to spend the weekend with Elliott and his mom.

Dylan hadn't quite understood my friendship with Elliott yet, and though we weren't living together at the time, I still spent most of my time with my best friend. Dylan didn't trust me, but I only realize that looking back at it. At the time, I thought I was at fault. I thought he was right – that he should take priority over Elliott and that it was weird to spend the weekend with his family.

I still went with Elliott, because that was the plan, but he knew something was wrong. His mom made us dinner, we watched a movie with her, and then she went upstairs to her bedroom. Elliott stayed on the couch with me.

"You didn't have to come," he told me. I felt guilty enough, and that only made me feel worse. I didn't cry in front of Elliot that night, but he stayed on the couch with me. He let me watch a scary movie, and I let him watch 50 First Dates once it was over.

We woke up on the couch together, tucked in the warmth of each other. His mom mentioned it, seeing us on her way to start breakfast, but Elliott quickly dismissed it. And we never spoke of it again.

I don't respond to Elliott, because I really don't know how to do that. But I'm saved by the ringing of a bell, signaling someone else has walked into the bar. Elliott and I both turn to look quickly, and then we look back at our drinks.

"George Clooney," I mumble, picking at my bottle again. "A western."

I slowly turn my head to see a smile making its way onto Elliott's face. "It's the beginning. This is his usual bar."

"He's waiting for someone this time," I add. Elliott takes a sip of his beer, getting another glance at the guy. He nods.

"He's making a deal with them."

"Legal?" I ask.

"Absolutely not."

We work our way through the entire fake movie, through Clooney's sudden death during the duel, all the way to the surprise reveal of the woman he left behind. Everything feels good again, it feels okay, not perfect but okay.