Thank You, Elliot (A Short Story) | BL | Completed

Elliot (One)

"Don't fall down, tonight, you're alive, and so am I. Hold on, we might hotwire this old car, and drive."

-cavetown, everything is temporary

Elliot.

Four days before Thanksgiving.

I can't stop replaying last night in my mind.

We weren't sure what was going to happen the next morning, but right then, we could care less. The night was still and pleasant, just the perfect temperature, and the two of us were both excited and a little nervous, not to mention tired, considering how long the drive had been. We walked side by side into the vacancy office, our insides buzzing, unsure of the future.

But let me start a little earlier, as we made our way to the hotel, because that's when it really started, in a way. I had fallen asleep for most of the ride, embarrassingly enough, but I woke up when he had taken an exit into town. I was confused, but I said nothing, because I was angry at myself for being such a terrible co-pilot. He was driving slowly, and the music was playing low—some sort of pop song— and I was looking straight ahead into the road, completely aware of his side-glances, but trying not to make eye contact. It wasn't that I didn't want to—I did—but I was afraid of how his eyes might look, what feelings they'd reflect. And what would he see in mine? What was I feeling? I searched myself and felt through the turmoil of emotions within me, like poking a stick in a flowing river, and tried to identify what its contents were. Happiness, sure. But also fear. Soon those two contenders would have to battle to the death, for only one could truly thrive. I just hoped the latter would be the loser. God, I really hoped it would.

I was watching the passing streetlights cast shadows on the radio, thinking it would probably be wise to start a conversation right now—because it was my duty to make sure he wouldn't fall asleep—when he finally spoke up, clearing his throat. "Hey. So. Tomorrow. I was thinking." I had to hold a That's unusual joke back, for he didn't sound like he was joking, and because I knew that he, no matter what, always thought every smallest thing through. Because people like us have to be careful, maybe. There are risks, probabilities that only a small mistake could trigger. I wish I were more like him, sometimes, because I know I could be a little reckless. Distracted. It was something my own mother used to condescend me for, when she still talked to me. But now I had to think for myself, for the most part. There was James in this picture now, and, like the driving, he'd do that for the both of us sometimes. It was a little terrifying that I was beginning to rely on him now, making myself vulnerable. What would happen if—no. Living in the moment. Look where we were headed, for goodness sake.

"I think we should go visit my mom," he finished. That made me turn, but he wasn't looking at me. He was turning on the blinkers, steering left. "She's been asking me to visit. And there's Thanksgiving coming up, so I told her I'd try and go."

He made a mistake, I'd realized. He didn't mean to say we. "Well, that's nice," I said quietly. "Tell her I said hi."

He still wouldn't look at me, even though the light turned red, and it was bathing him in the color, lighting his eyes up, softening his features. The car vibrated underneath my feet, and sometimes, when I'm overthinking, I remind myself that only a couple of feet beneath me is moving ground, and I am only being supported by a sheet of metal. It's worse when I'm on the highway. More even when I'm driving. So I let James be my chauffeur. Always a little more emphasis on the French.