Black Velvet - 26 (Patreon)

"You've been spending a lot of time out of the house lately," my dad says, sliding me the other half of a toasted bagel.  He pushes his glasses up on his nose, using his reflection in the microwave to adjust the collar of his button-up, "work must be running you dry, huh?"

I reach past him for the fridge door, passing him a jar of strawberry jam. He hums in appreciation.

"Ah, not really," I frown at the near-empty jar of peach spread, forlornly twisting the lid open, "I've just been out and about. Work has actually been pretty slow; I'm thinking of getting a second job at the groomers."

My dad's face twists like he's just found a fly on his food,

"...Out and about?" He bites into his bagel but makes no effort not to talk with his mouth full. Crumbs spill against his otherwise tidy outfit, "Second job? Three sentences?"

"Dad. That's three questions." I scrape at the bottom of the jar as well as I can, "— and I said two sentences."

"Since when do you go out and about when Toby and your brother aren't bribing your soft heart with their drunken safety?"

"Oh." Toby. "I met this girl at one of their parties," I turn, searching for a napkin to wipe my now sticky fingers on, "not girl — I mean, she's a woman. But that sounds weird. I met this woman.No. It still sounds weird."

"What's her name?" My dad smiles, eyes lit with mischief.

"Charlie-Anne."

"That's a mouthful," he considers it for a moment, "Charlie- Anne. Cha-cha. Annie. Nah, too typical..." he swallows, "I've got it. Just call her Ca."

"That sounds terrifying. Caw? Like a bird?" I raise my brow at his terrible sense of humor, "I don't think she'd appreciate that. Though, she does like birds. No nicknames — and Charlie is a no, as well."

"Well, nobody likes being called Anne, so that's out." My dad winks at his approaching wife, who is, of course, Anne. "Such a gross name."

"I don't want to hear it, Graham." Mom is less than flattered, searching for her purse behind the island counter.

"Don't you start."

"I will. You have the name of a cracker," she glares, "and then you wanted our sons to carry your weird, floury name."

"What's wrong with archaic vanity?"

"I looked it up; it means grey home. Grey cracker. That's you."

My dad guffaws, turning towards the window in mock hurt.

"Sounds moldy," My mom rolls her eyes, "... why do you love picking fights?" she snickers, giving him a parting kiss to the cheek.

"For passion. I'm the trophy husband. You're the smart one, I have to remind you sometimes how easy I lose arguments, or you'll lose interest in me."

"Hm. Anyway. You," she tells me, finger pointed menacingly in my direction, "don't stay out so late. More sleep. I'm glad you're breaking out of routine, but sleep deprivation is a no from me."

"Mom." I sigh.

Who said eighteen meant freedom?

"I'll kick both yours and Charlie-Anne's butts the next time you creep in here three hours before work."

My dad has stopped pouting, sending a look over his shoulder,

"I'm I the only one who didn't know about this Cha-Cha?"

"They lounge in the front yard half the day. Where have you been?" She grumbles, "Do not give her one of your nicknames and scare her off."

I briefly think that there's something important that's supposed to happen today, but I can't put my finger on it.

I don't ask, just in case, it's a chore.

Incoming text (Charlie-Anne):
My friend Amy is going to come with us today. Is that okay?

On my way out the door, my dad touches my shoulder,

"So," he pauses, gusting crumbs from his top, "do you have a crush on her?"

—

No.

The thought has never even occurred to me, and watching Charlie-Anne now — the epitome of tenderness and prettiness, I find myself fretting. She's laughing with Amy, both squealing as the soap bubble forged around them pops with heavy suds. Charlie-Anne's eyes are pretty; her hair is soft; her voice is warm and kind.

Everywhere she walks, every time she laughs, eyes are drawn to her. She reaches for my hand.

I don't feel anything.

There's a dark pool of black sand and water at the station just beside them, and I touch it gently. Charlie-Anne stares along-side me, fingers curled against mine, commenting on its eerie color. The water is hardly disturbed, thick, and reflective of the fluorescent lights above us.

I think of Tobias' eyes.

And that's when I feel them...  Not with Charlie-Anne's hand, or her loveliness or her voice; when I think of Tobias —

That's when I feel butterflies.

I realize then that I spend most of my day wanting to talk about him, thinking of him, even in an Imaginarium of all places, and after some thought about that fact in particular...

I come to the petrifying conclusion that —
this is definitely a crush.

I'm in the middle of a crisis when I step out of Charlie-Anne's car.

I know I've been worrying my hands in the backseat the whole drive home. She sends me a worried wrinkle of her nose through Amy's unrelenting chatter, and I try to communicate via eye contact that we would meet without Amy, later, to discuss it.

"Talk to you soon," Charlie-Anne says, on the edge of pointedly, and Amy coos at that like we've shared a secret code. I smile nervously, waving to both of them. The door shuts, but it sounds distant.

I'm barely up to my lawn, pulling at my shirt, brain on over-drive with the impending pessimism that there may be just one more thing that sets me apart in Jameson.

--

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