Black Velvet (65) (Patreon)

(A/N: this chapter isn’t meant to be boring.   Our stupid boys are inexperienced with dating, and the frustration that is stemming from that is important.   Oliver is starting to lose his comfort of the stability/monotony that he’s always had in Jameson, while he’s unsure of where he stands with Tobias.  Basically, this chapter is Oliver not understanding where he fits in everyone’s life WHICH is very important for the upcoming chapters.

Because this chapter is a bit uneventful, I will be uploading another chapter later today/tomorrow morning)

—

Tobias snatches my arm. I try very hard not to notice how filthy it is in comparison to his or how fast it whips me into his space. I glance up, startled, my motor mouth sliced right in half with the raw determination present in his features,

"Will you go out with me?"

I stare up at him, or really, we stare at one another.  It should be funnier, how serious he sounds, or how sudden the proposition is.   Maybe, if someone were watching, my shock would register with equal hilarity.

There's a slightly awkward air of what I assume to be the innocence of my very first crush — or the development of the faint apprehension present in Tobias' expression,

"Yes."  It's a whisper.  I feel like, for once, I don't sound like myself.  We're close enough that I can smell the mint of Tobias' bubblegum, or maybe, to count each of his eyelashes.

We're close enough to kiss again.

I swallow, my free hand fretting at my thigh.

Is this...?  Does this mean...?

Wait — maybe, with my babbling and expectations — does he feel like he has to...?

"But you don't have to date me."  I tack on quickly and perhaps too loudly before I hush myself.  "If — if you don't want to.  I mean, if you were talking about yourself with the whole, um, like that speech you gave was about...."

I inhale, gaze searching his.  I can't help but feel like it's pleading for him not to make me finish that sentence.  Tobias shakes his head, chuckling. The warmth of it is pretty.  His thumb presses into the tenderness of my forearm, and he leans closer,

"It's important."  He murmurs, and his lip snags into the hint of a smile.  I glance towards the tenderness of his touch.  "To me, too.  Alright?"

I nod, dumbly, my eyes following his retreat as he pulls away.  I step closer to him, and he turns towards me again, tutting quietly.

I wrinkle my nose in confusion, or maybe — disappointment,

"...We're at work,"  Tobias leans against his workbench, his brows lifting.  I chew my bottom lip.  Tobias' gaze follows before he winks.   "And Shelby is a gossip."

"Oh."  Something giddy spools through me, threatening to drown out all reason.  I take a step back, even though I've never wanted to do anything less than that.  "Right."

—

I go home that day thinking that the world has turned on its axis, that I might see a cow jump over the moon, or at the very least, something might change.

But — It turns out not being single isn't very different than being single.  What an unpleasant surprise that is.

Tobias isn't great about texting or calling, and we both dance around the subject of actually going on dates.  Granted, I don't text or call him either, but...

Where do we date, after all?  I spend more nights than I want to admit considering this, with his contact open on my phone.  Does Tobias really seem like the dating type — because I, according to Shelby, sure as heck don't.

I sigh.  And like every other night that I think of reaching out, I tuck my phone under my pillow instead and stare at my window.

The idea of it all, maybe, it's a little worrisome, but — with no romantic experience, I'm left to ponder the idea that maybe....

Dating just isn't that great.  Actually, it's anti-climatic.  It feels somewhat awkward, like unwrapping a package with an unending amount of tape and never finding out what's inside.

And to make it all worse — while Tobias has two jobs and a home that I've never seen to upkeep, I have too much time to think about how non-existent our romance seems to be.

Charlie-Anne is busy with an internship, understandably only responding to the occasional text, and Nic is finishing up his courses and exams.  Even my parents seem occupied lately.

The only distraction I have is The Sweet Spot, but the bakery becomes increasingly slower when Shelby starts a two-week vacation, and as Ms. Martin has no one to cover her spot, she fills in instead.

Only, she doesn't make it to most of her shifts.

Apparently, since Ms. Martin is not very good at making coffee or maintaining a schedule, and obviously, since that's not good for business — we're now suffering from a lack of loyal customers.

That means less work for me.

Not only is it lonely, but the baking is more manageable, and boring.  Fewer customers call for smaller batches at work of nearly everything. I wonder if I'll have a job by winter's end because I'm almost positive the shop won't stay open through Christmas without suitable staffing.

I consider what I'll do then.  Where will I work?  What will I fill my days with?

That worries me, so instead of thinking about it — I focus on baking what I can and the Jameson talk show.  Alone.  I'm always alone, until the weekends.

So.

I cut down each recipe by half their typical ingredients.  Ms. Martin had suggested it herself — and today, she drove up unusually early, right alongside me in her little minivan, dog yapping through the car window as I passed her.

"Make as little as you can manage to and head on out.  Tobias is going to help bake, and Jeremiah is coming in to man the front.   That's all we've got for today, so pinch those pennies like they're your own."

Her normal boisterousness was gone, replaced by blotchy skin and downward tilting lips, and I'm at the work-bench again, accompanied by the same talk show as always on a Saturday morning.

I've got powdered sugar on my nonslip shoes, and I'm fighting with the mixing cage when I hear the back door to the bakery shut.

I know it's Tobias because I'd ever so discreetly checked his schedule when I'd checked my own last week, stamped down the bubble of excitement at the prospect of working with him again.

The mixing bowl's cage, not so much.

"Morning,"  Tobias' voice is gruff, a bit dark with sleep, where he stands next to the cafe register, punching in his clock in code.  He loops his apron around his waist easily, watches me watch him.

I don't know what is so different; maybe it's effort, effort that Tobias is twisting into the simplest things — like greetings, that make this feel like it is a step above what we had before.  Or maybe, it's the way he gazes at me so openly, like he did that night at Edmund's Lake.

But — I sort of miss the ease of what to say around him, or maybe, the ease of not expecting anything.  I don't know where my words go, or where they get stuck when my heart beats frantically like this.

"Ah.  Hey — I mean.  Good morning,"  I tell him, turning a bit more earnestly despite the half-hooked cage in front of me.

Tobias has two to-go coffee cups in hand when he approaches, slides one on the counter next to me as he reaches over, and locks the cage that I've been struggling with for the past fifteen minutes into place with a slight shove.

I blink at his offering, taking it curiously,

"Do you need me to hold this for you?"

Tobias snorts, peering down at me with gathered brows.  We regard each other uneasily because dating is very — very awkward apparently.

"You're joking."

My eyes shift to his lips and away.

"I'm not very good at joking,"  I counter, shaking the to-go cup in his direction.  I need to do something with my hands.  "... So, what's this?"

"It's hot chocolate."  He hums, pulls the scale out from behind my measuring bowl.   He levels me with an odd look, and the hairs on my arms stand when his chest brushes my back.  He leans into the dip of where my collar meets my shoulder, "doesn't mean I approve of your habits."

My heart thumps louder.  Every touch feels like the first, and I'm still so nervous.  Tobias lingers there, close enough to touch, but I won't.

But — why won’t he touch me?

I don't know what to do.  It takes me a moment, maybe even two, to register what he's said, as I curl and uncurl my fingers,

"...Thank you," I say.  I cup the paper mug and between my palms.  I glance down at it and back to Tobias, whose back is now turned.

Maybe — if I talk like I usually do, things won't feel so weird.

"Thank you for supporting my poor diet,"  I raise a brow when he scoffs. Butterflies flutter in my stomach at the normalcy present in his reaction, "even if you don't approve."

He turns and smiles.  It's genuine and fond, and I lock the sight of it into a memory that says, yes, this is what makes dating worth it.

"Don't get used to it.”

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