Black Velvet (33) (Patreon)

(Wicked Boy is next on the update schedule! ❤️ Enjoy a fluffy and slightly angsty chapter.)

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Ten years ago

"Six dollars? You've got to be kidding me, no one likes butternut squash enough to spend half an hour's worth of pay on it."   My mom had frowned, disappointed with the spike in organic produce prices, and let the squash roll from her palm and back into the pen. "Ridiculous."

"That's what you wrote down, Ma." Nic sighed, adding a practiced roll of his eyes for good measure. He was on grocery list duty, held the dog-paw printed piece of paper in one hand and a pencil in the other.

I wasn't jealous... Except that I was.

Tobias was next to him, hands shoved inside his pockets. He had a sweltering bruise above his left eye, another near the top of his temple — ones he insisted he received playing catcher without his protective helmet.

I wanted to hear the story, persistently bugged him from the house and all the way to Ellis Mae's, but the dark-haired boy dismissed me with a flex of his jaw and heated look.  Nic had been less than happy to drop the topic, annoyed that Tobias played baseball without him.

"The recipe says butternut, but we're getting green," My mom wrapped the two up in a Ellis Mae's produce bag and shoved it into my awaiting arms, "how bad could it be?"

Terrible.

I had my hands on a National Geographic magazine, trying to pick apart the larger words without much luck, and the squash was an unwelcome change. I sighed, tucking the magazine back into place,

Squash holder — much less regal than the grocery list keeper.

"Oliver, keep up. I just watched something on the news about a six-year-old getting abducted in Missouri." Ma snipped, readjusting her ponytail.  She always had a penchant for being overly cautious, and coddled me as no other parent had coddled before.

Thinking back, she probably also traumatized me a bit with her paranoia — because I huddled closer to Nic and Tobias each time she spoke of the abduction.

My brother, like the sweet sort of boy he was, shoved the grocery list on my forehead with his palm, trying to gain personal space,

"Do you think they'll take a seven-year-old?" He whined,  "— because Tobias is an only child and doesn't have to share anything — and he can do whatever he wants.  I want to be an only child too."

Tobias looked less than enthused to be included in the conversation like he always had — and created a little space between himself and my family as he eyed the History magazines near the check stands.

"I'm eight." I hissed, hands curled around Nic's wrist to try to shove it off my head, "I have been for almost ten months!"

Nic ignored me but skipped closer to where Mom was standing next to the cases of Roma tomatoes — like she was on some sort of top-secret investigation, glasses out and peering down at each package she turned over.  I named the red-framed spectacles her grocery glasses because it was the only time she ever seemed to wear them.

"Mom, do you think they'll take eight-year-olds?" My brother poked at her arm when she failed to respond,  "Mom — the abductor? Is eight too old? Oliver doesn't even look eight, so maybe I could lie —"

"Nic,"  she glared at him pointedly,  "I'm going to give your brother the grocery list if you keep bothering me. I'm trying to find the newer batch of tomatoes. Tobias, keep up — I don't want to lose you either!  Your parents will have my head."

Something worn and bitter traveled Tobias' features when he turned back to face her, a face I hadn't seen him make before, but a look I'd grow accustomed to over the years. It was the one that said he didn't believe then, just as now, that anyone gave two shits about his well being.

He didn't respond, only rolled his shoulders a bit in defiance as he turned around, but he took careful steps in her direction anyway.

"Okay, what's next, Nicolai?" Mom situated her groceries under her arm, looked tired from work when she addressed her oldest son. Our combined talent was exhausting her. "Come on, come on, we're on a time crunch.  I need to make dinner before your dad gets home."

"Okay, uh, next is...  Poster board!" Nic cheered, eyes lit up, "You guys are making me a sign for our baseball game Sunday, aren't you?"  He wiggled his eyebrows; paper clutched in his hands as he sprung up onto his tiptoes, "Huh, Ma?"

I don't know why he asked.  Nic always had a sign.

Always, I made it with glitter glue and sharpies and it wasn't out of affection — it was just the only time my mom would ever let me touch the craft supplies. I got to hold it at the game, waved it above my head when he was called off the bench and onto the field.

He said he played better if he had one, that it was good luck.  He still does to this day when I go to the Jameson Wolves' League games. I always thought he was lying because Tobias played the best — and every kid had a sign, every kid but Tobias. I wondered just how well he could play if he did have one.

"Two," Nic corrected himself slowly, eyebrows furrowed,  "It says you guys need two?  Why do you need two?"

"Oliver wants two," Mom shrugged, apparently forgetting that I was right there with them, "They're only a dollar anyways. Tobias, let's get you something for that bruise. Remember, in sports, the ball is your face's enemy. Dodge."

"Okay, weirdo," Nic scoffed at me, eyes flickering back to meet mine,  "What do you want with a big piece of paper?"

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