Pull Over - a short story

Epilogue

Pull Over

Epilogue

⇆⇅⇄⇅⇆⇅⇄⇅⇆⇅⇄

"You look good tonight," he whispers in my ear.

Wedding season. I loved it at first, liked it again last year, but this year has been heavily crowded with them. Colleagues and classmates from school, Elliott's coworkers, and the friends we've met in just our few years here. Everyone seems to be tying the knot, and we're invited to all of them.

"Thank you," I whisper back. He sets his hand on my knee just underneath the table cloth. "Not so bad yourself." He laughs, kissing my temple, and we both turn to face the head table when speeches begin.

In all of the weddings we've attended, Elliott makes sure to sneak in one comment about marrying me. We've talked about it, because we wouldn't be us if we didn't make some sort of plan.

I told him that he could propose, but not until I know my residency placement. It's convenient that I finish school next month, and in typical Elliott DeMarco fashion, he is being astoundingly stubborn about it. He won't tell me anything – when, where, the ring. I know he has it, because I noticed when the small gold ring I wear on my right ring finger went missing for exactly thirteen hours one day. It disappeared as he left for work, and it returned after Elliott got home from 'grocery shopping' that evening. I know he took it to get sized.

As the speeches roll into dinner and cake-cutting, I listen to Elliott chat up the guests at our table. He's always good at that; making even more friends. He works with a few of them, so it helps the conversation to flow, but I tend to stay quiet. Elliott squeezes my knee twice when he's trying to ask if I'm alright. I bounce my leg once for yes, twice for no. "You sure?" He'll whisper when I answer yes, to which I smile and bounce my leg again.

We've never been ones for dancing. I'm not quite sure why, but we end up sitting for most of the reception. We'll get drinks, talk to friends, and we usually try to head home early just in time for a movie before the two of us fall asleep on our couch.

"We'll have to dance at our own wedding, you know." Elliott's voice is soft, but somehow loud enough for me to hear over the music.

I let out a small laugh as I rest my head on his shoulder. "There it is."

"I'm sorry?" He raises his eyebrow.

"You always bring up our wedding."

There's amusement on his face, mixed with a fake look of accusation – like he doesn't know what I'm talking about. "I have no idea what you're talking about." I read a lot of books, but Elliott DeMarco is my favorite one.

"Like clockwork, DeMarco." I close my eyes, comfortable in his proximity. He wraps his arm around my waist, and I feel his breath against my ear.

"It'll be your name, too, Pacey." I immediately gasp and smack his chest, trying to pull away as he holds me tighter. "No use, JP."

"Can't call me JP if they're not my initials anymore." I use my arms to push against his chest, but he only laughs. He's been working out a lot with his coworkers.

Once I stop struggling, I huff out a long breath. He kisses my forehead as I lean into him and accept defeat. "I can call you whatever I want," he whispers. A chill runs through my body, because sometimes I really do forget that Elliott DeMarco is mine. He has been mine since the day he asked for that pencil, and I'm lucky enough that he waited six years for me to need one, too. "Tired?" He asks after I don't talk for a minute.