Pitbabe S2, Chapter 11 pg7

 Pitbabe S2, Chapter 11 pg7

   Charlie lets out a soft laugh before planting a kiss on the crown of my head. Every touch of his makes me inexplicably sad. Sure, it’s warm enough to make me feel safe, but that safety somehow makes me feel guilty. I know Charlie has to sacrifice so much for me to feel this way. He trades his sadness, anger, and pain for my peace of mind, even though that goes against human nature. Yet he makes it look so effortless.

   “Charlie loves Babe too, you know.”

   Even Charlie’s “I love you” makes me want to cry.

   “But I bet you already knew that.”

   Of course I did. I’d be the dumbest person in the world if I still didn’t get that all of this is called “love.” Since Charlie came into my life, a straightforward guy like me has started to understand abstract concepts like love a bit better. But I can’t say I’m completely clear on it, because even now, I still don’t understand why I feel so sad when we haven’t even fought. Charlie takes care of me perfectly, better than I ever expected.

   Charlie is so good… so good that I don’t even know how to be worthy of his love.

   

   CHRIS:

   “He doesn’t seem in a good mood.”

   I glance at Charlie, who’s sitting tensely at his work desk, while at the same time trying to make small talk with Charlie’s younger brother. Today, Jeff came to the lab for a meeting about promoting a campaign. I met him once before at the hospital, but we only exchanged a glance, not a single word of conversation, because of the ghost-seeing reactions from the racing crew.

   The race and Pete’s weird stare back then left me in no mood to chat with other humans, and Jeff didn’t seem too keen on talking to me either that day. He was more focused on comforting his Phii Alan (I heard from Charlie they’re dating), who looked totally shocked when he saw my face.

   “I mean Charlie,” I clarified when Jeff looked up from his laptop, his face suggesting he didn’t quite get what I was saying. “He’s been quiet today, brows all knotted up.”

   “There’s just one thing,” Jeff said curtly before going back to his planning. Thinking about it, Charlie and Jeff are more different than alike. Charlie’s a polite kid, caring, always smiling. Jeff, on the other hand, seems like he doesn’t give a damn about anyone, speaks bluntly with no softness, rarely smiles, and doesn’t seem to like interacting with people. I’m not sure if he’s always like this or just doesn’t like me specifically.

   “What thing?”

   “He probably already told you, didn’t he?”

   “That’s why I’m asking which one, cause he told me a bunch,” I said, knowing my words sounded annoying—I meant them to. The more we talked, the more I sensed Jeff wasn’t fond of me. Sure, he’s distant and reserved with everyone, but with me, it’s like there’s an extra wall up, somehow. “Your bro’s got a ton going on.”

   “Then you should probably ask him,” Jeff glanced at me briefly before locking eyes back on his screen the next second. “He tells you everything anyway.”

   “You don’t like that I’m close with your brother, do you?”

   For me, bluntness is the best tool for getting under someone’s skin—it always catches them off guard. People tend to tiptoe around feelings or dodge awkward situations to keep things polite. But me? I love the awkwardness. I love watching their faces shift fast because they’re not ready for my words. That’s probably why most people don’t like me, but I don’t see it as a problem, so I’ve never bothered to fix it.

   “Nah,” Jeff replied flatly, this time with a hint of politeness in his tone. “Charlie can be close with whoever. Doesn’t have anything to do with me.”

   “Or maybe you just don’t like me?”

   “Nah.”

   “Doesn’t seem like it,” I said, squinting at Jeff. I knew my smirk was probably getting to him, at least a little. Personally, I was hoping it was a lot.

   “I just don’t feel comfortable talking with you.”

   “Is ‘not comfortable’ just a polite way of saying you can’t stand my face?”

   “In your case, maybe so,” Jeff said without hesitation, turning to lock eyes with me. This time, it wasn’t just a glance but a bold, unflinching stare. His fierce and resolute demeanor made me instantly decide I liked this guy. He’s got something like me, except he doesn’t revel in making others feel bad the way I do. He’s just ready to speak his mind, as long as the person isn’t in his special circle. In simple terms, Jeff is the good version of me. “I don’t dislike you, but I don’t like your face.”

   “Whoa, harsh much?” I said, clutching my chest, pretending to be shocked.

   “Not really,” the stoic kid shook his head slowly before turning back to type something on his laptop. Unbelievable that he could multitask while telling me, “I don’t like your face.” He added, “I don’t have anything against you personally, but your face makes me not want to talk to you.”

   “You mean my face looks untrustworthy?”

   “No, you just look like him.”

   No need for further explanation—I knew right away who “him” was. The only person in the world who looks like me (as far as I know) is that racer kid who’s already dead. I don’t want to badmouth the deceased, but ever since I stepped into this circle, looking like Way has forced me to deal with his acquaintances’ emotions constantly. Some seem to love him, thrilled to see (my) face, while others act like, Why are you still here? I’m already naturally disliked, but now I’ve got even more chances to be hated, which is honestly sadder. I haven’t even had the chance to unleash my creative flair, and people hate me just for my face. It feels like my talents are being insulted.

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