Black Velvet (25) (Patreon)

I don't know who deserves an apology more.

I change the time that I leave my house and avoid Tobias at the bakery.  I leave written instructions on the dry erase board, as respectfully as possible, just to have his desired, minimal contact.  I feel guilty for what I've said and wonder if he does too. In my own way, I try to placate that guilt by giving into what he wants;

To leave him alone.

Or maybe I'm selfish.  Maybe — maybe he did get to me.

The spaz next door.

This year I've been doing better.  That's what Nic says, at least.  I've made tentative friendships amongst my coworkers; after nearly three years of working at The Sweet Spot, I lifted my eyes from my cellphone at my brother's parties.  I even made a friend.  Those all felt like monumental changes for me, overly broad steps in the hopes of self-fulfillment.

Did I really think that I was changing?
—

Tobias sends me wary looks when I forget to laugh at Shelby's jokes. I worked with her for two years before talking to her anyway — so part of me thinks she shouldn't be too surprised.

Shelby only frowns a few times, looks a bit hurt, and stops visiting the back room as often as she used to.  Joseph doesn't swing into the back to wave on his lunch break from the construction site nearby.

And I retreat back into my shell.

The spaz next door.

So what, I would tell myself — when I was younger, who cares what strangers think of your interests, motormouth, and tics? And, that's what I try to tell myself, now; that it's no different.

— but Tobias, Tobias noticed. Tobias noticed, and, suddenly, I'm very self-aware.

... Your head is in another universe because you don't fit into this one.

I set down my new issue of Calypso & Cosmos with more force than necessary, eyes flickering over this year's unfinished finished science project. It's a halfhearted attempt at most, and it shows, the moss curling lazily, dull and uninspiring.

Is that true?

The themes of my projects are typically space orientated, but I can't think about space without thinking of Tobias.  I can't think about the stars without thinking of him on the walk back from my broken down car; him standing under them, looking raw and open, despite the blood that had caked his face.

I can't stop thinking of his despondency, of him drunken on that stupid porch swing.  It must have been his escape. Every little thing means something different now.  Every observation comes to a different conclusion, and it makes me feel sick to my stomach.

I palm my eyes angrily, standing only long enough to throw myself into the comforter on my bed.

He was right. I've always been prodding at him.

When we were younger, I always checked his bandaids.  Always asked about his bruises, wanted to tell him how to heal them, how to keep his scrapes from scarring, and anything bloody from becoming infected.  I had never noticed that I was digging into a deeper wound, one I couldn't see, but I suppose I've always, always, subconsciously carried the stain of worry for Tobias like crushed petals in my fist.

I've always hoped that someone could heal him, even when I didn't know the source of his unhappiness.  I stare at my door that's barely been left ajar, light flooding in from the hallway.

Why can't he reconstruct a rose's bloom from just the remnants of its petals — why does it have to start with thorns?
–

"These are beautiful, Toby," Ms. Martin's eyes light up as she speaks, dragging over the pastries that are set out before her. "They look almost as good as Oliver's. He must be an excellent teacher — and you, of course, an even better student." She's practically gushing. I shove another apple slice into my mouth, rudely, just so that she doesn't talk to me — doesn't add me into the conversation.

His talents aren't because of me.  Tobias is a natural, just like he is at everything else. He's smart, focused, and precise; has already figured out what recipes suit each day's crowd the best and what altercations needed to be made to the ones that don't — knows how to roll the dough quickly before he proofs in the bakery's unrelenting heat, how to prep the sheet pans — and when it's all said and done, how to plate them prettily to suit Ms. Martin's tastes.

Ms. Martin is the only one who speaks kindly of him now, so I roll my eyes heavenwards and let him enjoy her praise.

"Thank you."

Tobias laughs wholeheartedly at her silly jokes, lends his ear like he's genuinely interested as she talks about the dog-show she just participated in, doesn't lose focus as she goes on about her award-winning Pomeranian.  He offers prayers when she strays into her family problems and nods appreciatively when she invites him to a bible study at her home.

He may be some of this man he shows and may also be something else along-side it. Maybe he doesn't know which of his personalities is the mask — or doesn't consider the possibility that he could just be both.

"I don't believe what they say about him," Ms. Martin whispers to me one day, "though, for now, we'll keep him in the back."

His features look soft and kind, inviting. The way he stands is tense, though — I can see how he tilts his body from hers, backs up a bit as she leans forward.  I know the knee jerk movement of irritation set in his jaw when her hands come too close to him,

I realize,

I know who he really is, and I still can't stop thinking about him.
—

"He was raised in Jameson's church, and so were you,"  Charlie-Anne is sitting on the hood of my car, a lemon yellow blanket underneath her.  She says the metal burns the backs of her thighs, something I can't feel in my corduroys.  "He probably thinks his best tactic to tick you off would be to spark some internalized toxic masculinity — uh, or homophobia.  Which are, unfortunately, the two most common traits amongst males here."

She's thumbing through the flowers from clovers piled in the lap of her sundress.  She weaves them between each other, eyes not meeting mine.  I stare forward, too, because it's uncomfortable to breach the subject of Tobias' words.

You want to feel less bad about how much you want me to fuck you.

"You sound like a psychologist."

"I know."  She hums,  "sometimes I tell myself the same thing. My mom is a spiritualist — says I can sense people's auras...  Except, I don't believe in those."

"Oh.  But I don't have those things. Toxic masculinity and homophobia; I hope, at least," I shrug, "Nic always says that giving in to those sorts of things is gross. He says, in the end, if you're not hurting anyone — life is just fulfillment of personal happiness.  We're entitled to that, I think."

"He sounds like a hippy. I love it. I think you're right... And he's right," she says kindly, smiling a bit more wistfully. "... I don't think you have those traits — but negative assumptions are easy to make when you're looking to be pessimistic."

"Tobias is pessimistic to a fault.  By saying that to me — you know,"  I pause awkwardly,  "do you really think he thought it'd freak me out?"

"Freak you out or gross you out.  Tick you off or get you to leave him alone, at least. It sounds like he wants you to leave him alone. Then again, it doesn't," Charlie-Anne pauses, hands coming up to cup the sides of my head.  She stares at me fiercely for a moment, tawny eyes unblinking.  I don't flinch, but my eyebrows raise,  "I'm measuring your head, at least, as well as I can — be still."

"I figured that,"

She twists her finger lightly through a curl near my face but then drops her hands back to her lap, knotting more stems of her flowers together.

"You think he might..."  Her sentence is interrupted by a stem that snaps in her hands, and she pauses, sighing loudly.  The wind rustles the Edmond's Lake treetops.  It's not spring — but it smells like spring.  "Have you ever considered that he might... like, I don't know?  Do you think he might be attracted to you?"

I snort, hard enough, and abrupt enough that it burns my nose.

"Uh, no."  I pull my leg up, picking at my frayed and untied shoelaces.  My frown feels ever-present lately.  "... that's?  I don't know.  No, that's not a possibility; he's just trying to spook me.  I think it worked."

"What do you mean, 'not a possibility'?"  She uses air quotes quite viscously,  "because, yes, it is.  Everyone loves the Abernathy boys."  She says this part simply, almost ironically, shoulder leaning into mine.  Her grimace doesn't fit her summery air.  "It's not that hard to believe."

"Abernathy boy.  Everyone loves Nic... Or back in the day, my dad.  But not me.  I'm pretty at best and — well, I don't know, I don't want to know what I am at my worst. I think he told me."

"Did he mean it...?" She pauses again,  "You tell me that I'm self-deprecating,"  Charlie-Anne huffs.  "Look at you."

I huff too.

"Anyway, formal complaints about the folly of genetics and personality aside,"  I groan,  "I was so pissed at him for what he said that I was just as bad back.  His — thought process — I can't believe he thought he could get me to hate him through flirting with me? I can't believe I told him he was just a drunk who can't solve his problems.  Ugh."

"Well, you two were both dicks. And by the way, that's not flirting,"  Charlie-Anne's lifting a floral crown, depositing it lopsidedly on her head and then on mine, "that's him just being him, from the sounds of it, but you don't sound too disappointed by the possibility of him wanting you."

I blush heavily, reaching up to delicately touch the flowery clovers,

"He said I wanted him.  Not the other way around."

"Do you?"

I pause, shifting uncomfortably.

"What are the crowns for?" I ask, derailing the spiral of humiliation.  Charlie-Anne kicks her legs out in front of her, leaning back on her forearms. She squints at the sky and then laughs a little too softly.

"We're the king and queen, of course."

I smile wider, joining her in her cloud watching.  They take no real shapes, look more like misty clumps in the sky.

I like the stars much better.

"... Oh yeah?" I fix the crookedness of her crown, and she smiles — her summer skin glowing,  "There. So... If we're suddenly sovereignty, what is our dominion?"

Charlie-Anne closes her eyes,

"Sad love."

—
Outgoing Message: (Charlie-Anne)
Sorry that I fell asleep on the phone. Hope I don't snore. Want to work on our projects together when I'm off?

That's how I do it.

I might've never known it before, but I know it now; making a friend who has the same interests as you means sleep deprivation. A steady three days of sleep deprivation is what causes my downfall. I'm halfway in my shirt and three steps down the stairs with a constant chorus of,

What the heck, how the heck did I turn off my alarm in my sleep six times?  How does someone manage that?

3:12 am

I didn't have the luxury of parking in the garage this time around, my dad says it's because I stayed out too late with Charlie-Anne, but he seemed more relieved than upset.

I wonder to myself; maybe if I don't turn the porch-light on, then I won't draw attention to myself. Just maybe.

I dart out the door, keys in hand. I keep my sight trained on my car, flashlight on my new smartphone turned on to light the path.

Heroic music should be playing, I think, childishly, if I can't see him, he can't see me.

The panic, of course, is all pertaining to the avoidance of my neighbor.  I think maybe I'm late enough that Tobias already left.

Nope.  He's there, of course, he's there.

Tobias is dressed in uniform as well, keys dangling from his left hand.

"Stay out too late?"  His tone is heavy with sarcasm.  Tobias knows my stance on confrontation, and maybe even being the one to apologize first, and must know that I've left an hour early each morning in hopes of avoiding an encounter on the lawn.  "... Shocking for you."

He moves like he's recently awoke, focused — voice thicker with sleep.  It gives me chills that I wish he couldn't create. His sad eyes are present.

I shrug, directing the light from my phone at the keyhole in an attempt to unlock my car door as quickly as possible.  Instead, I fumble, drop my phone, then my keys when I try to retrieve it from the gravel.  It's loud, and I can't see without my cell, drawing his attention to me.

Fuck.

I'm flustered, embarrassed, thinking that I can't stop being a spaz for five minutes if I tried, and I can't ignore him even though I want to. I want to be less excited that he's right beside me, but — Tobias is in my space immediately, crouching down in front of me.  The weight of his knees against mine is almost enough to topple me over, but he reaches, finds my phone and keys in a singular swipe of his hands against the gravel.

Charlie-Anne's name lights the screen three times in succession. His eyes narrow slightly, jaw tightening.

"Thanks,"  I whisper, taking it as gently as I can from him. I reach for my keys too, and I ignore the way my stomach rolls when our hands touch, ignore that I'd never felt butterflies in my life before him. "Um. We're going to be late... Both of us. Not good."

I wonder how I've never noticed that this might be, these nerves and unfinished sentences, that all this might be a romantic sort of feeling.

Do I want Tobias to want me?

Tobias' eyes are dark, traveling from our hands and back to meet mine.  His brows furrow, just a bit.

"Sorry," I startle when he speaks.  His words carry a strange weight. "For what I said — and sorry that it worked."

Tobias leaves first.  Work is quiet.

--

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