Black Velvet (51) (Patreon)

(Oh my goodness! I’m so sorry for the two sad uploads! We’re in a sad spot in Black Velvet but don’t give up! We’ll be through it soon enough, and Tobias and Oliver have so many more happy moments planned ahead and plenty of time together! I promise. Tobias is in a really rough spot, so please be sympathetic with him! Bonus: yes! Oliver’s dad is from Huxley!)

—

Tobias' eyes lift behind me, and he blinks, pressing his palms against them when they close.  I follow to what's taken his attention and realize Richard is parked at the mailbox near our homes.

"...Tomorrow,"  Tobias says.  I don't have any reason not to believe him, and I'm worried that if I push, he'll crack.  "I'll — I'll talk to you tomorrow, okay?"

"Okay."

—

The talk doesn't come, and Tobias doesn't come home that night, either.  He doesn't contact me.  I spend most of the morning of my next shift in a daze that won't lift.  I'm unsure whether I'm worried or upset, and Tobias, still bruised and irascible, arrives an hour after me.

He's forced himself into nonchalance and is as quiet as ever.  I clench my jaw, reaching to turn the volume up on the radio above us.

"Tobias.  Put your gloves on," Ms. Martin is impossibly early, foot tapping as she instructs Tobias towards the back, "don't want you bleeding all over the baked goods. This is my last warning, because honestly — you're incorrigible. Scaring off my loyal customers, no sir, you won't be."

Incorrigible.

It's a word that I spend most of the day internally mocking Ms. Martin for, or rather, I need to. If I didn't, then the day would go on just as horrible as it has been — silent and awkward, the hum of the oven and barely-there bustle of customers up front the only company that I have.

Tobias refers back to the recipe books — and only really communicates to let me know when he's carrying something hot or sharp behind me. He runs through my jumbled errors from the morning and quietly corrects them, disposing of each mistake without a word passed between us.

I can't bring myself to look at him as easily as before, at least not at first.  I don't want to know how battered he is this time.  I can't tell if it's guilt, concern — or the sharp sting of discomfort that I'm not sure if I deserve to feel.

Tobias turns in his two weeks that afternoon.  He doesn't tell me, but I overhear Shelby complaining about losing her Sundays off from the espresso counter.  I feel my heart sink, again, unsurprised but disappointed.

Everything has been quiet, and in that quietness — I've allowed myself to hope that things would go back to normal.  I hoped that, in that quietness, despite his packed bags — that Tobias would stay.

"This is Mari Niamh from Jameson's weather channel, bringing you today's forecast,"

From behind him, I can see that there's a fresh new bruise along his knuckles, torn skin on each ridge of bone that matches the skin of his cheekbone.

"Our dry spell just may be ending, with some slightly cloudy weather today and a forty percent chance of snow.  What a whirlwind it's been."

He's applying food-safe gloves to cover the scabs of his hands.

"And if this supposed snow turns out to just be rain, we suggest you carry an umbrella!  Remember, don't open them indoors!  That's bad luck!"

I reach without thinking, pause when I do, and pull back into myself.  Tobias turns, and I meet his eyes.  He shakes his head as if he's retreating from a question that I haven't asked.

"Enjoy the sunshine until this afternoon because that's when the clouds come to play."

It's so quiet that I almost forget how much I had grown to think that I knew Tobias.  I almost forget that he said his feelings are the same as mine, once.

I almost wish that I could.

The air around us has become heavier, and he seems intent on avoiding letting me any closer. There are new scrapes and bruises, and Ms. Martin spends a lot of time whispering up front with Shelby.

The difference now is, I don't think Tobias cares as much — not anymore.

—

It's silly, the things that make you cry when you're sad, to begin with. In this case, a vehicle. My car breaks down the following night, not any sooner than I do.

My dad, originally grumbling about inconveniences, stops when he sees my poorly hidden tears.  It's frustration mixed with timing, and a shitty car is what sets me off.

My dad and I avoid the subject, and I curl into his passenger seat, unhappily as ever.

"What is it, buddy?"  My dad prods, hand on my shoulder. The radio is playing Irma Thomas, and I think of Tobias humming softly to it. I shudder out a sad note to it, though I try to hide it by becoming smaller, turning into myself,  "is it the car?  It's a piece of work. Too much work if you ask me."

I shake my head.

"I'm taking it in today to get it fixed while you're at work, so don't worry, okay?"  He waves at nothing in particular, one hand off the steering wheel,  "I've had a car make me cry a few times too, in my teen years.  Teen cars suck."

I want to tell him that next year I'll be twenty.  I wonder if he knows that, or if he'll always see me as a kid.  I want to say that I feel stupid, crying to my dad about an unreliable car.

"... No," I croak out, nose feeling stuffy from shed tears, "it's not the dumb car."

"Was it me?  I'm not really mad — I'm just not a morning person." He sighs, fidgeting about aimlessly,  "Um.  Did Cha-Cha do something?  Are you sad that Nicolai's about to leave?"

"It's not you — or Charlie-Anne," I swallow a sob and watch Tobias' porch light. It stays on, like his mother is welcoming him back. Everything feels a bit emptier at that.   "or Nic."

Everything is quiet for a few moments, and he nearly gives up, the strain of thoughts evident in his expression.  I feel guilty at that.

"... Dad?"

"Oh— uh,"  my dad seems startled by my voice, "Yeah? What is it?" His hold on my shoulder turns to a pat. Nothing comes from my question, except another swell of tears. "I'm here.  You know that."

Like an idiot, I can't help but feel like everything is sudden.  That this is Tobias' rock bottom — but it was too a quick fall from the top — abruptly shoved from a height too perilous.  Looking at that house, I remind myself — it's been years.  Years of falling.  Years of a hope for a net that no one threw.

"... Have you ever let someone down?" I feel like a blubbery mess, palming at my eyes, "not in a small way — but in a big way."

"What do you mean? What kind of big way?" His lips twist downwards, and he reaches to adjust his glasses. He glances towards me, worried and out of his element.

"Have you ever let a friend down — by not noticing something? — in a big way?  And it feels like you messed up their life?"

"... Ah, Christ." He whispers,  like he's praying, and a few moments pass to nostalgia. "... Well. Yeah. Everyone felt that way, at least at one point, where I grew up." He seems lost for a moment, then taps the steering wheel, "but Jameson doesn't have those problems.  It's not like Huxley. So I'm sure, whatever you think you did — it's okay.  It'll sort itself out."

Something in my chest clenches at his false sense of security — of the thought that nothing bad happens in quiet, suburban cul-de-sacs.

It's quiet again, and I lean my head against the window.

"... Oh, Buddy. I swear, that Todd Barnett is a liar and a thief," Dad continues to grumble, and I sigh, breath fogging the glass. "Only thieves and liars sell cars like that piece of junk of yours. Now my son's crying.  A car does that to you."

"Dad, I told you, it's not the —"

"It's a piece of shit car. I'm going to leave him a bad review.  I'll tell all the boys at Nic's next game —"

I smile at that, laughing a little despite myself.

"... Are you really that mad at Mr. Barnett, or are you mad that it's three am?"

"Well, both. Also, I know that you find me hysterical when I'm sassy." Dad snips.  "And no shitty car makes my son cry and gets away with it."

He slaps the center console for good measure.

--

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