Black Velvet (71) (Patreon)

(Big ol’ chapter. We need this development for the coming chapters, hehe. Warnings for: discussions about domestic abuse. Talk about sex. Nic being embarrassing. I think that’s it.)

—

"... Ma?"

I've always had a good relationship with my mom. That's what makes sitting at the kitchen island next to her for thirty minutes, while she irritably organizes her way through drawer after drawer, more than mildly painful.

My mom sighs, lips pursing. She walks her way towards the fridge, throws it open, glares at the offending coffee creamer, and slams it shut.

"...Every town has a heartthrob." She mutters. I blink, both uncertain and curious. "But he moved! Doesn't moving take him off the heartthrob list?"

"... Are you pining over a former flame?" I lean my cheek into my palm, seizing another bite of pastry. "This isn't another Ben Baxter, mid-life crisis monologue?"

"Mid-life?"  My mom sputters, abruptly returning to earth. She huffs, "do you miss the taste of soap, Oliver?"

I frown, insulted, pointing a finger at my mother's general direction,

"You dubbed it the Ben Baxter Mid-Life Monologue."

My mom considers that as she taps her foot before finally conceding with a nod. Then, the upper cabinets become her next organizing victim.

"...Mom?" I inhale. I think of the creamer, groaning before I squeeze my eyes shut in preparation. "Uh... Well. Could this be... Is this about last night?"

The sound of clinking and sorting continues. It continues for a very long four minutes.

"... I try to be the cool mom." My mom grumbles, scouring through the kitchen's coffee mug cabinet, likely in search of the chipped mug my father forbade her to dispose of last week. "Because I do think that I'm cool, for the most part."

"Alright. This is an unexpected debate about coolness."

"I don't think that I need to remind you that, unlike half of the middle-aged population here," she gives me a pointed look, "I don't wear reflective metallics, blue eyeshadow, peasant tops, and," she wiggles her cupped hand in front of her forehead before swinging it back, "I don't do that thing with the bangs."

I nod, albeit slowly.

"... Ah-huh. Have you thought that maybe you should? As a stress relief?" I pick the sprinkles off the side of my poptart, "I hear that a lack of stress really helps with these pesky and absurd monologues."

"... I just want you to explain to me," My mom sighs, squinting at the cabinet in front of her as she releases its door. "What exactly — no. You're not Nicolai, Oliver. You like — obsessing about dinosaurs, then meteors, then space."

"That is correct. Although, I won't be asking for a dinosaur-themed party this year, seeing as how, outside of your mind, I've aged past eight."

"You like astronauts and — and, stars! And unlike Nicolai, you don't stay out all night chasing," my mom makes a sour, pinched sort of face, "romantic recreations. You don't."

"Romantic?" I snort, "Nic is not chasing romantic —"

"Oliver." She scowls. "As the cool mom of two young adults, I choose not to know more than what my coworkers tell me."

"Right." I suck in my cheeks and quiet myself, giving her my undivided attention. "... There was a point being made, and I interrupted the point."

"... I can't just assume that you know the bird and the bees talk because," my mom finds the offending, broken mug and yanks it from its place with an, aha!  Then she turns to me as if she's never been in so much pain from one conversation, "this is more like — bees and bees."

Oh, God.

I knew this was —

"Oh no."

"Don't oh no me. You mean, oh yes.  And you're right. Your next birthday will be the big 2-0, so I'm assuming you've at least...."

"Mom."

"With the internet and,"

"No, mom."  My eyes widen, "I don't have a lock on my bedroom door! When would I be —"

"That did not stop your brother." My mom scoffs, "Regardless. If it comes to that point... with the former neighbor, who will not be named —"

"Oh, he's Voldemort now."

"Yes. If you fool around with my son, in my imagination, you lose a nose — the end."

"Yikes."

"The two of you still need to use condoms." My mom says this quickly, nostrils flaring, and true to what she's said, she has avoided Tobias' name with exceeding effort, "there. I've scolded you and made you just as uncomfortable as I am."

She exhales, tacking on a,

"Well. I feel better."

My face is hot. I avert my eyes from her and to my pop tart.

"Condoms. Safe sex. STD testing. Get my drift?" My mom continues. "Anyway. No still means no. Drunk still means no." She takes another breath, "No, in the middle of sex still means no."

"I know.  It wasn't — we weren't."  We stare at each other, both flushed and nervous. My mom finally averts her eyes.

"... Well." She rubs her eyes.  "I won't ask you why.  Or when — or.... anything else."

I fiddle with the wrapper beneath me for a long time. My poptart is gone, so there's no real reason for me to linger in the kitchen, and also nothing to busy my hands or mouth. The cabinets and the drawers are organized — so.

My mom stares at the chip in dad's mug for the same amount of time; before I finally gather the courage to talk,

"... I want to spend the weekends with him."  I chew the inside of my cheek when my mom's eyes meet mine.

"What?"

I bounce my fingers on the countertop, chest heaving,

"Um.  He's lonely."

It's quiet.  But — my words are earnest.

My mom looks a little surprised — and then primarily guilty. I wonder if... her quick acceptance of the two of us is more of that guilt than she's letting on. I try for humor,

"He who must not be named... Ah," my joke melts into seriousness too quickly,  "He's — I mean, Tobias. He doesn't have anyone.  Doesn't have — us.  Or family.... He's in Huxley. And. I think he gets lonely."

My mom nods, short — and it looks like she's having a hard time swallowing. She taps her foot again like she often does when we're watching a particularly sad movie, and she doesn't want to cry.

"Shit."  She looks towards the ceiling.

"He's always..." my mom shrugs the tiniest bit. "Well, he's always been the type,"  She sits on the stool across from me, at last, her mug clanking against the counter. "That seems lonely."

It's quiet again. We sit together.  My mom makes coffee, even though it's almost time for bed.  She uses the creamer I bought her.  I grab another poptart and linger next to her because I think she wants to tell me something.

Minutes pass.  And several more.  We catch each other's eyes every once and a while, but neither of us touches our phones.  I try to sort through questions, thoughts, anything, but what comes out is,

"... Why didn't you guys ever do anything?"

My eyes meet my mother's, whose are pink-rimmed and reflective with unshed tears, and I chew my lip — brows furrowing. It's strange to see the recognition there, in her expression, a distinction that says she knows exactly what I meant.

"I'm not."  Judging.  "I mean — I just want to know."

How does such a perfect mom... Not step in?

My mom nods. She nods again and adjusts her robe's belt. I wrinkle another poptart wrapper between my palms. They feel warm and damp with anxiety.

"Mom?"

She chews her lip raw, sitting down her mug.

"... To be honest, Oliver.  It's not the answer you want."

There's another pause, a hesitation...

"Ah...  I mean that — it took a lot longer than you'd think — for me to even notice." My mom inhales.  Her voice sounds thin. "I couldn't befriend Abigail, as hard as I tried.  No one could, and...."

She tips her coffee mug, watching it slosh to the edges.

"Households like that.  It's just — not the norm? I didn't understand it.  That's good, but. Well, then I suspected. But I still wasn't sure. Between baseball and being a kid — you know. Kids are clumsy.  Some wives are introverts."

My mom bites her lip, her eyes on the kitchen window.

"And.  That's a significant allegation against a neighbor — another parent... When you aren't sure. And.  Well. I felt dumb. I could only make so many reports before — Ah. God, no. That's not right. But. I regret a lot." She whispers. Her sentences start and end so abruptly that I get lost between them. She pushes back her hair. "So."

"So."

I don't know what else to say.

"... I just decided that our home was safe." My mom's lips pull into a grimace. "Toby could stay here. He never felt like he overstayed his welcome, I hope. Could... Come and go — when he needed to." She breathes in, long and deep, "but that wasn't really the right step. Looking back, I know that. At the time... I just..."

She swallows again, that same strange lump in her throat.

"I didn't do the right thing, Oliver. Sometimes, there's just — no excuse in the book that could change a decision like that."

—

"This is your fault."  Nic inhales.  "You told Mom, our mom, that Toby is lonely?"

I wrinkle my nose, kicking the side of his tennis shoe with mine,

"Shut up."

"Well.  You've instilled our deeply devout mother with righteous guilt,"  he smirks, a hand out towards Tobias' small front porch, "and look at your weekend date plans now!"

Well.  This sucks.

First off, I never imagined to myself that the first time seeing Tobias' new home, I'd be standing in his corridor with a fruit basket in hand.  Or next to my entire family.

"Oh, hush Nicolai."  My mom is pushing her rain jacket into my arms like I'm the household butler,  "he deserves to have a good housewarming party.  After all, he has a house!"

God, did I fuck up!

There are several people, from my grandmother, to strange faces that I don't recognize.  There likely all from Tobias' job at the restaurant, all probably feeling awkward, kidnapped, or here by obligation, AKA —

Invited by my deranged parents.

"Toby isn't even their kid, and they're so good at humiliating him."

Nic is snickering.

Everyone is gathered around the kitchen's counters — talking and nibbling on cheese and crackers and other little snacks.  Some have wine in hand.  There's a present section impressively crowded with bows and gift bags.

"Ah,"  my brother is smiling smugly.  "Toby.  Embarrassed.  The pure talent."

Yes.

He's probably mortified.  And — to make matters worse, my mom is on cloud nine.  She looks absolutely thrilled, cheeks rosy and eyes lit with laughter at some story Tobias' boss is weaving.

As we step further in, I realize... shockingly, everyone...

Is smiling?

Laughing?

There's no tense air to speak of.  In fact, I wonder if we're late — and everyone is just supremely wine drunk.  That is the level of pleasantness taking place.

My dad is the only odd man out — a supreme introvert, attempting to shake hands with the few older men present.  I recognize this immediately as an attempt to find camaraderie in the sea of Tobias' female colleagues.

"Damn, they must think our dad is like —  Tobias' dad or something,"  I cringe.  Something about that feels very bad-wrong, "how did they manage to get this together so quickly?"

"Busy-bodies.  I'm telling you — talent."  Nic takes the fruit basket from my hand in an attempt to look less awkward.  "... God, I feel so old."

Although my brother now has the fruit basket, I, on the other hand, stand clutching my mother's bright pink rain jacket and knock-off coach purse.

My social anxiety is stammering at the thought of adults, older adults who make you interact,

"Oh my God, Nic," I tuck a curl behind my ear with my free hand and close my eyes, "we're adults. We're attending a house warming party!  For someone our age."

"... We have a fruit basket, Oliver.  We've established that we've made our pathetic way into the world of back pain, okay?"  Nic is scratching the back of his neck, eying the room for anyone around our age group,  "Except we have no house of our own — so we're like the pathetic single back pain that still lives at home and can't relate to anyone else here."

"Pathetic?  Nope.  You have almost two years on me,"  I cross my arms over the purse, "you're the pathetic one.  I, however, have two years to become a completely normal and functioning member of society."

"Excuse me?  You have precisely one and a half years."

"Oh sure, whatever you say."

Embarrassment at my big mouth aside, Tobias' little home suits him.  I would've seen it today anyway, and perhaps these are very different circumstances to those that were agreed upon, but...

His house is simple and small, with the southern feel of Huxley embedded into its antique decor.  It's hardly decorated with anything of Tobias' at all.  There's one lone baseball team photograph hanging above the sofa, one potted plant that hasn't blossomed, a small shelf of books —

And it's everything I expected from him; a small start — but somewhere he could grow into.  Somewhere that might evolve with him.

"College is expensive, you asshole, anyway, I won't be home for long.  Joseph said he found an apartment out in Riverside that's in my budget.  Better job opportunities."

"... There's a wildlife conservation center over there,"  I shrug, mood abruptly dampened by the idea of Nic living two hours away, "it's a good place for both your degree and your disgusting animalistic habits."

"I'm offended.  You love animals — so shut up," Nic manages to sound the slightest bit peeved, for the sake of dramatics, but I realize that he's barely paying attention at all.

He rechecks his phone before he looks back up,

"Oh, hey!  Spotted him."

"Spotted who?"

Nic squints at me, perplexed,

"Aren't you supposed to be smart?  I meant, there's your Fabio, lover-boy," My brother jerks his thumb in the approaching Tobias' direction. "Star of the party?  Star of your,"  he bats his lashes, "heart?"

"Have I told you that I hate you today?"

"Yes.  Loverboy.  Look," He points again, and I consider slapping my brother's finger away.  "He wore that shirt to show off his bod for you."

"Oh my God, Nic, stop."  I don't exactly have free hands, so I elbow him, "He wears that shirt all the time,"  I glare, "or like, a variation of it.  Maybe we should buy him more."

"Oh, so you've been checking him out?  You've analyzed his entire wardrobe?"

"You're such a weirdo," I hiss, "what if he hears you?"

The dark-haired man is caught in conversation with an older woman, smiling politely and nodding along to whatever they're on about.  I elbow Nic again as I pass him, just for good measure, and feel satisfied when he grunts a bit in rebuttal.

"Oooh."  My brother beams at the uncomfortable set of my stiff shoulders, and I turn to face him, walking backward, "this is going to be so much fun," he coos.

He toes off his shoes at the door and pushes his hand against my lower back to move me in Tobias' direction,

"You know, I knew, but now you guys know I know, and even Mom knows, so I can make fun of you both, and it'll be great.   What should I tease Toby about?  Hm?"

Nic wiggles his eyebrows, and I wrinkle my nose in distaste.

"You turn into a literal demon at the worst times."

"Does he have any weird fetishes?  Do you wear weird underwear for him — no, wait.  Does he? Does he wear weird under..."

"Shut up.  It's not even like that, okay?  Anyway. You absolutely won't,"  I shake my head, swat at his hand, and push Mom's belongings into his free arm, "unless you want Tobias to murder you seven different ways.  Do you have a death wish?"

"Sometimes," Nic hums flippantly,  "especially during exam season.  But.  You guys love me too much to inflict bodily harm, are you kidding me?" Nic is somehow snatching crackers from the counter, without free arms to gracefully snag them, into his mouth.  The other guests don't look very impressed.

"I love you a tiny little bit.  But, Tobias on the other hand, will smother you."

"I've made it almost twenty-two years without Toby suffocating me in my sleep, and I think I can risk it."

I roll my eyes, turning just in time to not smack into the chest in front of me,

"Shoot!  Sorry about..."

"Hey there, Toby!"  Nic sings, gives a short jerk of a wave as I realize the chest does, in fact, belong to Tobias, "we were just talking about you."

--

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