Black Velvet (23) (Patreon)

I call Charlie-Anne.

I feel like a top-secret investigator, too much melodrama attaching itself in my quest for validation.  Tobias isn't violent, wasn't violent. He's all empty threats and built walls — sad eyes,

but I think of him curling inside of his porch swing, too big for it, hanging out the edges like a puppy that's been scolded — or too tired from the summer heat.  I thought of when my dad caught him taking my old science magazines from the recycling bin — of his poorly hidden love for my mom's cooking.

I think of every time I saw a man so strong and tall flinch from a noise too sharp and quick. Knowing is curdling into guilt — this sense that I should've always known.

—
"I'm so surprised that you called me,"  Charlie-Anne whispers over her tea, her voice hushed — even though we hadn't even begun to speak about anything private.  "I was thinking of calling you too, but I didn't like, want to be weird, you know?"

"Why are you always...?"  I smile at her, an odd affection blooming in my chest.  I like this friend, with her nervousness and straightforward words, soft music — I really like this feeling of camaraderie. I feel inclined to tell her that, at some point, "Why are you so worried about what I might think when I never think it?"

Charlie-Anne's hand is curling around her dyed strawberry blonde hair, such a contrast against her dark honey skin, eyelashes fluttering as she peeks up at me.  She startles slightly, inhales a bit too quickly, and I startle too.

"Why are you looking at me like that?"  She asks, the tips of her ears red as raspberries, "do you? No — do I?  Uh... Do I have mustard on my face?"

I snort and shake my head.

"Oh.  Then.  What are you thinking?"

"I guess I just thought — that I'm happy we met," I say. My friend's blush deepens, and I sink in my seat a little at that, wondering if most friendships held so many pauses in conversation. I guess I wouldn't really know. "Anyway.  Why would you have mustard on your face...?"

She looks miserable for bringing it up at all, so I change the subject as quickly as I can.

"Oh, uh.  Sorry." I frown a bit, "Okay, so.  Weird, but... Did you hear about the fight at Wicker Pub?"

"Oh. With Toby?" Charlie-Anne says it too quickly and then catches herself, "Whoops,"  she sighs and glances behind her quickly,  "yes.  But I hate gossiping unless I'm drunk."  Then she adds, curiously.  "Is this gossip?"

"Yeah. I think it will be."  I frown,  "I hate gossip too...  Everyone in my house is always gossiping.  And I — I feel dramatic for calling you to meet me. But I'm worried about him.  I'm so worried that I feel sick."

Charlie-Anne leans back in her seat, something flinching across her features that register to me as maybe... Shock?

Maybe it's at my nosiness.  It's true that it feels like churning the rumor mill; it's so true.  It's a total invasion of Tobias' privacy, I feel — awful.

And as much as I say I hate the Jameson gossip, I seem to be very interested in hearing a different side to Shelby's convincing story. There are a lot of things that the Amadeus man hides, but something like that —

It's not it.

"Is this what you were upset about the other day?"

Charlie-Anne's words are careful.  I nod.

"Okay, well.  Let's get straight into it.  You saw him too, right?  Tobias was with a guy at the party. Like, with. He was obviously trying to pick him up," Charlie-Anne sighs, "I — I don't know. It seems like he's good at keeping things to himself."

I saw much more than that; I saw Tobias with his tongue down another man's throat. It's two different things entirely.  One confirms the other.

"Uh,"  I chortle dryly in confusion, "but that's different than picking a fight in a bar — or being violent. It's not on the same wavelength; it's not the same level of hidden."

"Yeah," Charlie-Anne shrugs,  "I don't really know Tobias.  I think my ex-boyfriend kind of does, but Tobias never really hung out with anyone outside of school too much.  Except for Nic.  But — he was so popular.  Everyone — they just loved Tobias."

I briefly wonder when he became the ex-boyfriend but forget to ask.

She's right.  Tobias has only ever been close to my brother. To everyone else — Tobias was like a salesman building rapport with a customer. The occasional dinner or drink, coffee grabbed quickly and kindly, and then over — false smiles and little favors. To win hearts, to convince hearts.

"I'm just confused,"  I pick at the plastic lid on my drink and quirk my lip downwards,  "I mean, you thought the same thing, right?  This isn't Tobias?"  I'm whispering now, too, even though the bakery is completely dead — except the exception of Shelby and the elderly man who is showing her pictures of his dogs. "He's not violent. Just — can look the part of he tries hard enough."

"I don't know him.  I trust what you know of him."  Charlie-Anne gives an earnest nod that sends her hair swaying forward onto the table. "So if you say he isn't like that, I believe you. I don't know if anyone else will, though."

A few minutes pass, and I stare at the table, tracing lines with my fingertip. Her tennis shoes kick across mine under the table now and then, and she finishes her tea quietly.

"You know? Tobias... I always just assumed he was straight."  I say, offhandedly. It's not the reason why we're here — and it's a stupid thing to say. That's a natural assumption; I don't usually go about dissecting other people's sexuality — but for some reason, I want to say it out loud. "...and I never thought about the alternative. He's not straight."

"Oliver?"

"I mean.  Isn't that something?"  My nails are chewed down to the beds.  "He kisses men."

I find myself tracing a heart that's carved against the grain of the wood. Charlie-Anne looks disquieted, suddenly a bit upset as she watches my finger.

It melts away, and she touches my hand.

"... Can I pay for us?" She whispers, "then we could go walk the park?"

"Oh yeah? Of course. I can pay, though. You don't have to buy me." I snicker, an attempt to shake the fog of uneasiness that comes from an unknown feeling inside my throat. Charlie-Anne looks sad as she digs through her purse,

"Don't I?" She says, but it's spoken away from me.

--

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