Black Velvet (49) (Patreon)

(A/N: don‘t worry, things get happier.  The angst won’t drag on as it did in previous versions.  Oliver is not the type to be ignored 😂 and Tobias doesn’t really want to ignore him, anyway.)

—

Tobias spends the week up front, in plain view of the customers but away from me. Ms. Martin makes it clear that she disapproves of our friendship, and the girls up front shy away from him like they always have.

Tobias doesn't peek into the back like Shelby does to greet me in the morning. He also doesn't make eye contact when he brings the dishes to Melanie to be washed.  I touch my lips.  I try to remember what it felt like...

But — I don't reach out to him.

I don't really know how to.

—

Charlie-Anne comes to visit on Saturday. She arrives first to Nic's large grin, her second knock thwarted by his grand welcome into our living abode, and then to a pristine living room.

Thanks to me, of course.  I stress clean.

It's my only good trait.

Joseph has shoved himself back against the couch, far enough to resemble an uncongenial cushion.   I sigh. I try to summon his less than polite self with a wave, and he narrows his eyes before he rolls them.

"So, Charlie-Anne,"  I jut a thumb in his direction, albeit reluctantly,  "this is Nic's friend.  Don't mind the surliness; he's a construction worker.  And this — well, you know Nic, my brother."

"Everyone knows me,"  Nic winks, "for whatever reason.  Probably because I'm not surly."

"The reason is that you're loud."  I simper,  "and typically drunk or supplying the drinks."

"Absolutely not.  It's because I'm bubbly."

"You're thinking of the drinks."

Joseph stands, only to take the pizza from Charlie-Anne's outstretched arms.  He stares at her, considering, and I glance towards Nic.  My brother has busied himself in the cabinets, unaware of the awkward foyer meetings.

"M' Joseph."  Joseph's voice is a bit gruff, and the redhead cranes her neck back a bit to look up at him.  His coldness is nothing short of startling to her, and she blinks, uncomfortable.  Joseph sighs and places the pizza on the counter, "Do you like bein' called Charlie or what?"

"It doesn't bother me."  She says,

"Do you like being called Joseph?" Charlie-Anne tacks on but then seems a bit regretful when she thinks about her contribution to the conversation.  Joseph snorts a bit at that.  His brown skin, coarse with a five-o'clock shadow, splits with a wry smile as he nods back at me.

"Nic bought pizza. I'm in charge of sodas; I'll be back." His smile falls when Nic spins past him, playfully hip-butting him aside.

"We brought out the fancy paper plates, just for Charlie."  Nic waves them about like fans and flutters one all the way into Charlie-Anne's awaiting hand,  "see? Floral print."

I cringe.

Charlie-Anne laughs.

—

Floral goes from a blessing to a curse quite quickly.

Tobias has the same flowery bag from over a month before thrown over his shoulder — his mother's bag when he calls out sick Thursday morning. I hear him from his porch when I leave, the words family emergency cutting through the air with his breath on cold air.

His broken expression sits thick in my throat, like a sob.

Ms. Martin questions me about it, but I tell her I don't know — because, this time, I really don't.

I try to call him.  He doesn't answer.

—

"I don't know what's got into him,"  Nic seems fretful in his ignorance later that afternoon, and even more so when Tobias cancels on him for the first time in years, their friendly Sunday baseball match left without a pitcher.  My brother's complaining in the living room loudly, trying to rope Joseph into stepping into his spot.  "... A fight?  That's why you're telling me he blew me off?"

Joseph slides him his phone over the kitchen island, and I lean in my barstool, peering over Nic's shoulder at the message screen.

Incoming message (Blake Ragsdale):

Dude Toby just fucked Lyle up

Incoming message (Blake Ragsdale):

Man took a pool stick to the face and just kept swinging.  Dude is mad as hell

"Last night, my phone started blowin' the hell up.  Dude isn't even my friend.  Blake's a fuckin' menace."

"...He fought Lyle?" Nic's teeth grit for a moment. He sighs, and suddenly, he doesn't look like himself. "Surgeon dad. Second house on Adeline hill, Lyle?"

Joseph bites a cold bite off of a two-day-old breadstick and shrugs.

"I told you Toby is no good.  Been changing for the worst right before your eyes, and you're too thick-headed to notice it."  His voice carries no forgiveness on the subject,  "He went there with Seth Halabay."

"... No shit?" Nic turns from us, walking to the kitchen sink to fill his cup with water. He stands there for a long time, his back to me, to drink it.

"Yeah. Anyone who runs with Seth is scum.  No question about it."

"You run with Seth." Nic's voice has a bite to it. It's unlike him, and something turns in my stomach.

"He's my friend,"  Joseph cracks another sunflower seed,  "I can love the man, but he's scum. Toby is your friend. Doesn't mean he ain't scum."

Charlie-Anne's thigh presses against mine, and she plucks a daisy from her braid and places it in my fretting hands.   My leg bounces anxiously, so she reaches to pause the television.

"Do you think — you should call him?" She questions quietly. Neither Joseph nor Nic notices us. I can tell Charlie-Anne doesn't really like to broach the subject of Tobias, "... Seth Halabay really is bad news."

I smile as best that I can, eyes on my socked feet. I touch the petal of the daisy, delicate — almost powdery against my skin.

I think of Tobias' wall, I think,  I wish you didn't feel so safe.

"He wants space."

"... I always feel,"  I frown, reaching to tuck the daisy back into her braid,  "like I'm just pushing. I'm always pushing. What if he gets sick of that?"

"Hm."  Charlie-Anne shoulders me softly,  "Some people need it."

—

Ms. Amadeus comes home alone that night, driven by a stone-faced Richard, who helps her step down from the height of his truck with a heavy frown.

She heaves her flowery backpack onto her shoulder, eyes downcast. I watch them from my car, careful not to start the engine until they're gone — and then, I never do at all.

It's something I just happen to see — I just happen to be ready to drive Charlie-Anne home when they pull around the curb.

I wish things like this had happened earlier, younger — I wish my parents had seen.

"I'll see you tomorrow."  Charlie-Anne pieces the situation together from small bits I've told her quite thoughtfully. "You should — I don't want to overstep, but you should call Tobias."

"I should?"  I shrug back into the seat.  "He won't like it."

"He will."  She taps her pen against the console and then hums, "trust me.  Just do it."

—

I stare at the plastic planets and stars that glow from my ceiling and think of Tobias — at twelve, in my yard.  I think of his broadening shoulders under the Jameson sun, of his cold eyes as my brother laughed warmly beside him.

I lay there, unsettled and sleepless, at the foot of my bed. I'm unable to rest for the few hours I have before my shift, sick with nerves, head throbbing with each stray thought and bare memory — untangling vines with thorns, and searching for the remnants of petals.

'Tears aren't hands.'

I think of Tobias at eleven, aloof and face bruised at the supermarket— the convenience of a budding interest in baseball to cover it. I remember his bitterness that I chalked up to preteen hormones, and later in his teen years — his withdrawal from sports and irritable exhaustion to the number of hours he was pulling at differing jobs.

'Am I ever... Okay?'

I think of him curled on his porch swing, curling over to vomit — or away from a kind stranger's hand at church. I think of his flinch when Nic and I were too loud — too sudden for him.

It's been years, years of something horrible curdling inside of him, building around him — wrapping with barbs and bristles.

I can't help but wonder where Tobias is right now... Or how many secrets his skin carries in its scar tissue — I can't help but wonder how he feels, what he's thinking, and how many years it took him to get to this point.

How long was he just a little kid — holding out for hope before he lost it, and when did he find it reborn, twisted into something falsely light, buried in the darker corners of an alcohol bottle?

—

Tobias doesn't show for his shift.

I use the landline to call Tobias twice after work.  His number is practically memorized by all the Abernathy family, aside from me, but it's still on the chalkboard beside the phone's extension cord.

The first time, it rings twice before it switches to voicemail.  The second, it doesn't ring at all.

"It's me. I mean — it's Oliver.  Can we talk? I think. Uh. We should talk, at least."

The third time it rings, Tobias answers.  He slurs into the phone,

"I'll throw this goddamned thing away if you don't stop calling me, Nicolai.  Fuck off. I don't care about the fucking game. Or Jameson.  Or whatever the fuck you're calling for now. I mean it."

And then the dial tone resonates sharply.  I wonder if he bothered listening to my message at all.

—

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