Black Velvet (68) (Patreon)

(Mixing the old with the new is harder than you’d think!  Trying to keep the nostalgic scenes but changing them to fit the new direction❤️!)

—

Tobias' invitation comes with more relief than I thought it would, and in the days following, I turn into a daydreamer.  More so than usual.

Tobias texts me.

He texts me after his shifts in Huxley, before bed, and throughout the day — just simple, here and there things, and a sporadic text occasionally comes late at night.

I sleep in until nearly three this afternoon, having spent too much time obsessing the night before over the fact that Tobias' morning ritual each weekend seems to consist of making sure that I have a hot chocolate in hand, and his nightly ritual each weekday is a simple,

How was the day?

Ms. Martin closes the bakery for this weekend with an impromptu text about an oven repair. So, even though it's Friday, and I could readjust my schedule for the following days to function as a member of daytime society, it's only natural that my body has registered night time as mealtime — and I'm searching for food late enough to be recruited by one of my parents for a spur of the moment grocery run.

It's nearly midnight when my mom realizes she's out of coffee creamer. Which is super unreasonable, I think.  I vaguely suspect that she's sending me on another mission to town, so I don't overhear her and my dad in post-marital bliss, which I'm more than thankful for,

because ew.

Mom approaches when I'm in the process of trying to retrieve a pop tart box from the top shelf.  I'm half crouched on the counter with a spatula in hand and wondering why our cabinets are arched so damned high in the kitchen anyway.

This is where she corners me.

"It's not like you're going to bed any time soon anyway,"  She pushes, "I can hear the intro to that space show you watch upstairs."

"Cosmos, Mom.  It's Cosmos. I've already told you the name of the show. It's literally one word." I frown, "if you and dad were uh, going to bond or something, I could just turn it up."

My mom cackles,

"Watch it.  Toby must have told you about last time, didn't he?" She sighs, leaning against the counter, "He's a snitch."

"Where's your guilt?" I sigh. "Calling him a snitch. Ma. You probably gave him nightmares for a week."

"Uh-huh.  A whole week," she huffs.  "Poor thing.  Don't worry; your dad had Chinese takeout.  I'm not going near him."

"Ew, Mom."

"Mm. Don't mom me. Just go to the store. I'll be so happy to see you leaving your dungeon for just a little bit," My mom twists her hair up into a bun, opens the fridge like the light from it will spawn something desirable to eat, "we were getting worried about you. Where's Charlie-Anne been these days?"

"Internship.  Sucks up 90 percent of her free time."  I wrinkle my nose, finally knocking the pop tart box onto the floor,  "anyway. I never leave my room. Like, well, since I was like — six.  Never been cause for concern."

"That's why it's the dungeon."

"It's hardly a dungeon. It's upstairs for one and has lights. Who lives in a pastel green dungeon?"

My mom snorts, closing the refrigerator and leaning against it. She crosses her arms,

"There's a difference between wanting to be in your room and hiding out." She hums. "I can tell that lately, you don't always want to be there; therefore, it's now known as 'the dungeon.'  You know that we don't lock you up there, right?"

"I know."

"That means you can come and go as you please, just like Nic.  You can make friends.  Secretly party.  Join an underground convent, or whatever it is kids do now."

"... Mom,"  I rip open the top of my pop tart box, fishing out an aluminum wrapped pastry,  "you never make sense.  You make about as much sense as Nicolai. I feel like it's my duty to tell you that."

Nic is home visiting, again, under his college's pretense of more online learning. But his shoes have been missing from the front door since around nine, although his car keys aren't. It's a sure sign that he's partnered up with one of his bros and migrated off in search of the nearest Jameson party,

"Hmm.  Nic and I are smarter than you think, and don't think because you're hungry and uppity that I won't soap your mouth."

I frown, hesitating mid-bite around a pop-tart because I forgot to rear back the sass in the wake of my roaring stomach.

Mom isn't too bothered.

"Anyway, I'll kill someone if I don't have creamer in my coffee in the morning,"  She says this dramatically, the same worn line she uses every morning that she fixes herself a cup. Still, it's ten times worse in the middle of the night when I don't want to go anywhere, "you know this, Oliver.  My victim could be a coworker, it could be your beloved father, your brother — or it could be you."

I roll my eyes, hard enough that I'm sure she sees, also hard enough that I've given myself a minor headache in the process,

"Why'd you have kids?  You could've been an actress."  I tell her, swipe my finger through the loop of my keychain.  She laughs when I push my feet into her pink slippers, "could've been able to afford a maid."

"No stretch marks, clean furniture, and gratitude from my adoring fans. I ask myself that all the time,"  She tightens the towel that's wrapped around her head, strings her robe around her nightgown tighter, "Oliver, don't stretch out my slippers."

"I don't know where my shoes are at.  I think that tiny dog down the street stole one."  My mouth is full, but I don't care, and know she understands the gist of what I'm trying to convey,

"Lupo didn't bark?"

"No. Lupo is now too old and lazy to defend our territory; we should get a puppy to do his dirty work."

It's true. Some little fancy uppity-do dog with a crystal collar decided to trek its way over and pee all over Lupo's dog house. I'm pretty sure it took a liking to my tennis shoe as well, and all the while, Lupo continued to nap on the lawn.

Unbothered.

I shouldn't have left them on the front porch, I note, a bit dejected at the thought of a midnight run across town, to the only convenience store that's open all night, in pink slippers,

but my mom kisses my forehead,

"Little dogs are evil, honey,"  She smiles,  "Get a puppy when you move out.  Until then, be safe and very quiet when you come back with my creamer."

—

Night drives are spooky.

I lock my doors at the first stop sign and turn my music down at the red light by Ms. Hartgrove's. I should be used to these, you'd think — working odd shifts at the bakery for God knows how long, but I'm not. They still give the hairs on my arm a rise and have me playing inappropriately peppy music all the way to the corporate grocer on the outskirts of Jameson.

The Sweet Spot's open sign is off when I drive by, and my gaze wanders to the new paint, the difference between it and the old, chalky pink that it used to be.  I mull over how much change can happen in a year and how much change it feels like one month to the next has brought me.

I wonder how I never noticed that I was growing up.

—

My phone vibrates in my back pocket.

Incoming Message (1): Tobias

The only 24-hour grocer is far out on Jameson's edge, closer to Huxley than it really is to home. Jameson doesn't smile upon 24-hour businesses or shops that aren't geared towards after Church breakfasts being open on Sunday.

I think about that, how I've never thought about it before, but — just like anything to do with Tobias, the thought of our forced proximity lingers.

Huxley is just a few minutes out of reach.

Incoming Message:

Still up?

I focus on my phone's keypad instead of the spooky car shadows on the way across the parking lot, which is absolutely ridiculous, seeing as how Jameson has about as much crime as a retirement community.

Outgoing message:

Yes.  I'm on a mission from my mom.  What about you?

After a creaky shopping cart is budged by the wind, sending my heart fluttering, I wonder what the crime in Huxley is like. Then, briefly, I consider moving to Sleepy Birch's actual retirement community and weeding out all fears of dastardly deeds at once.

This is unlikely, though, because I'm pretty sure Sleepy Birch doesn't have any bakeshops, and I have little to no job experience aside from locally-owned coffee shops that sport baked goods.

I think of Tobias again.

I think of Huxley again.  And then, I impatiently wait for his returning text with a ridiculous amount of excitement.

"Good evening, how are ya'?"

There's a flushed middle-aged woman behind the counter when I slide in through the sliding glass doors.  The question is light, like she's not seeking an answer and only taking part in her job responsibilities to greet.

She appears to be multitasking between a couple of drunken customers and throwing a heavy set of candy freight. I can't help but think that they're probably a couple of kids from whatever party Nic is very likely at.

"Good, how are you?"  I offer. I smile as politely as possible with a half-swallowed pop tart mashed between my back teeth.

"Oh, you know, darlin'."

I don't think most people who work the night shift are entirely happy with the strange set of customers they tend to get, and she's probably not exactly thrilled to see yet another young adult striding past her doors.

Her false smile is answer enough, and I smile a bit awkwardly in return, shrugging my hands into my pockets to make sure I have my debit card.

The creamer is, of course, all the way in the back. I don't understand why they keep the dairy there because, in my experience, I'm always running in for either milk or creamer, or sometimes eggs, and making it to the back of the store is a distraction in itself.

I don't need candy, I think, eye the chocolate-covered pretzels with longing, the cotton candy tubs on an end cap with a hunger pang in my stomach, I also don't need any more magazines,

I can hear laughing over from the liquor store, closely connected to the store entrance, but it has another set of doors altogether to keep minors out.

These doors are the ones that I narrowly avoid as they swing open, a familiar flash of red hair invading my peripherals, along with the door that barely misses my nose,

"Jesus."  I hiss,

"Oliver, I'm so sorry!"

It's Charlie-Anne, cheeks flushed from laughing, and purse slung around her arm,

"I didn't mean to catch you with the door. Are you okay?"

I nod, brain lagging at catching up with her enthusiasm,

"I saw you walk in. What in the heck are you doing here so late?"

It's weird to see someone so excited to see me, and I find myself glancing behind where I stand to make sure that I'm the source of her smile.  She laughs as I do so and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear,

"Me?"  I'm half dodging her side-hug, entirely blindsided by the bodily contact,  "My mom wanted creamer."

"At midnight?"

"Yes.  Midnight.  It's the way she grooves." I wiggle my fingers, and Charlie-Anne snorts.

"I haven't seen you in forever." She snags a bottle of creamer off the shelf, the door snapping back into place loudly. "Ooh. Get her this one. Holiday flavors are the best."

"She doesn't like peppermint," I sigh. Charlie-Anne's face pinches like I've said the most ludicrous thing in the world. "Anyway. What are you doing in the liquor store?  You're not 21 yet,"

"Shh," She covers her mouth with a finger-like somehow that will quiet me as well.  For some reason, the absurdity of it makes me laugh, and her arm swings over my side, "I'm designated driver for Annalise tonight."

"Annalise Egbe?"

"Yes.  Her." She sounds entirely too giddy. "Anna says partying in Jameson is like— well. It's like partying with the Amish."

"Yikes.  I thought the repressed young adults of Jameson were the funnest."

"No."  Charlie-Anne shakes her head.  "That's not a fact.  So, we went to some party out in Huxley, but..." She shrugs, "I don't know. It was too loud for me.  Maybe repressed is like — my thing."

"You went to — you went to Huxley?"

Charlie-Anne nods.

"Yes — and.  Oh.  Why are your slippers pink?"  She taps on with her foot, "they're fuzzy."

"Ah — that's, they're my mom's — uh..."  I clear my throat, tuck one foot behind the other, but Charlie-Anne motions for me to bring it closer.

"It has a face,"  She wrinkles her nose,  "it has an angry face!"

"The pink, fuzzy slippers have nothing left but to express themselves."

"Gotcha.  I think this is the first time I've ever not been sidelined at a party. Anna is magic," Charlie-Anne spreads her fingers in front of her. "You should come with some time.  Everyone knows her. I instantly became furniture instead of wallpaper."

"A step up."  I hum.  "I can't believe you're hanging out with Annalise."

"Guess I'm cool now." She shrugs nonchalantly, then winks at me, "just kidding. Anna is super nice, and she's friends with some people I'm interning with.  Oh — your brother," Charlie-Anne juts a thumb behind her, "Nic."

"Nic?"

"Yes.  Oops.  He's here too. Different party."

"Seriously? I was wondering where he was." My brows raise, but Charlie-Anne's eyes are bright and happy.  I open the cooler doors to fish out my mom's favorite off-brand of hazelnut creamer,

"Not anymore. Can't hide in Jameson."

"Apparently not." I sigh. "So you like it? Your internship?"

Charlie-Anne nods,

"It makes me feel like a real adult. I get to tell my extended family that I have an internship." She laughs at that, cringes a bit dramatically, "isn't that crazy?  I sound so mature."

I start to respond, but Nic approaches from behind her, head turned in conversation with someone else, someone that I'm assuming to be Annalise,

"Hello, victimized Oliver,"  Nic is already playfully grinning and has his eyes narrowed at me like I've fallen into a deep trap of our mother's making. "Mom send you on a grocery run?"

"Yes. Even though you were already out."

He sticks his tongue out when I glare and shove at his chest.  His words are already the slightest bit slurred, and my eyebrows raise at Charlie-Anne, who looks a bit sheepish,

"This is our second trip to grab drinks. He's been here both times."  She confesses, and in the same breath, mutters a quick sorry to Nic, who doesn't seem too bothered by any of the exchanges taking place.

"I've been out since nine, got a head start on the night."  Nic shrugs,  "wanted to see my best buddy.  Who can blame me?"

My stomach sways,

"Tobias invited you?"

"No, I invited myself." Nic smiles bigger, a false innocence to his admission. "He can't say no to me.  It's like, a thing."

"Charlie-Anne!"  Annalise chirps, voice much friendlier when intoxicated, and slings her arm around my shoulder, nearly dislodging me with her bag, "Hello, Oliver. Want to be the three musketeers tonight?"

"Three musketeers?"  It must be the late hour getting to me because I find the idea of us as the three musketeers downright bizarre, and Nic chimes in with a snort about the same time that I do,

"I don't think the outfit would suit him,"  Nic motions to me drunkenly like I'm supposed to somehow decode the meaning behind the swipe of his hand, "and besides, he can't grow a beard."

Annalise sighs.

"We can't grow a beard."

"No beards.  So — Ah. Where's Tobias?" I ask, hoping that I don't sound too eager to change back to the original subject, but I know that I do with Nic's immediate eye roll, his hand slapped over his heart,

"Oh, Tobias, where art thou!" He ruffles my hair with a laugh, "he's done for the night.  He said he wanted to sleep at his own house for his day off."

"He did?"

"Yeah.  I think he's been laying off the alcohol a bit, so he got toasted pretty fast,"

I inhale,

"Wait, is he drunk?"

"Toasted is drunk, Oliver. Do you really not understand?"

"I know what toasted means, Nic, Jesus. I mean, did you let him drive?" my voice is a little more anxious than I'd hoped it to be, but I'm surrounded by drunken young adults (with the exception of Charlie-Anne), and I can't foresee good decision making, "Like, did you let him drive home drunk or did someone pick him up?"

My pocket buzzed with another incoming message.

"No, no, of course not,"  Nic shakes his head, waves his hand about in front of me, "no, of course, we wouldn't let him drive home drunk — he lived close by to the party, he wanted to walk."

"Dude,"  I try to step closer to her and nearly slip in my mom's house shoes.  I tuck the creamer under my arm, "Did you guys offer to give him a ride home?  Why would he want to walk? It's all dewy and gross — he's going to be itchy as heck in the morning — or, what if a car hits him?"

"You know Toby," My brother rolls his eyes, "he wanted to walk, so he walked, he's in a good mood anyway, and besides, no one could miss him. He's like the size of a tree."

"He is not,"  Annalise giggles, swatting at Nic, "hardly, anyway.  Wait. Is he?"

"I'm gonna go,"  I don't know why I'm uneasy. Still, I am, of course, as I would be with anyone walking on the sidelines of a road in the middle of the night, "gotta bring this to mom before she ends up a homicidal maniac that we visit through the Plexiglas at a local prison."

"Already that bad, huh?" My brother laughs.

--

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