Being Wrong | ✓

Part 7

Travis noticed Charlie watching him the next morning in math class, but as soon as Travis met his gaze, Charlie looked away. Well, so much for that potential friendship. Travis folded his arms on his desk and rested his chin on them.

It had been such a brief thing, but Travis really had hoped they could be friends. Besides being ridiculously cute, Charlie was also quiet and liked music. While Travis had been playing him that first song, he'd felt like the ideal friend. If Travis were honest with himself, though, he knew very little about Charlie and what he was actually like. Charlie kept so much hidden that he'd been mostly a blank slate for Travis to project his ideal friend onto. Travis probably would have ended up disappointed regardless.

Even so, he couldn't help but mope a little. All he wanted was one friend who he could just have over to chill with, someone who could provide him with the company he lacked while living alone without complicating things too much. He shushed the part of his brain that reminded him that wanting to plant kisses all over Charlie's cute little face was totally a complication, whether or not Charlie would have been amenable to that.

And sure, Travis had friends. Several of them. He'd just... never really fit comfortably with them. It was fine at school or when there was a planned activity, but there was nobody he meshed with well enough to just hang out with without any real plans.

All Travis wanted was someone to chill with who wasn't his cat, but nothing was ever that simple.

#

Charlie desperately wanted to go and sit outside Travis' door that evening and listen to his music as he usually did, but he didn't dare. Things were different now. Somehow Charlie had messed things up. Was there something he'd been supposed to say after Travis came out to him? Charlie still couldn't puzzle it out.

The prospect of the weekend had sounded appealing when he was at school, but now that it had actually come around Charlie found himself looking forward to Monday. When the school week started again Charlie was sure he'd change his mind again, but just then any escape from his grandparents sounded appealing. Why couldn't they just ignore him like his dad had most of the time? Everything Charlie did seemed to end up being the wrong thing. There was no point in trying.

On Saturday Charlie's grandparents tried to get him to help with gardening, but they didn't have spare gloves for him. His job was weeding the garden beds, and his hands quickly got covered in dirt and plant juices. Charlie wiped his hands on his jeans, but the feeling of discomfort couldn't be so easily brushed away. It was under his fingernails. Charlie sat back on the paved footpath leading through the front garden and grimaced down at his hands.

"Come on, chop chop," Charlie's grandpa said, his tone jovial. "You've still got five more garden beds to go and you're not even finished with that one yet."

Charlie stared around at the rest of the garden. Five more, and the one he was on now was the smallest. At the feeling of something tickling his arm Charlie looked down to find an ant crawling on him and made a face as he flicked it off. It was hot outside and he had started to sweat.

Charlie's grandpa knelt down beside him. "The garden looks nice, doesn't it? We've all got to do our part to keep it looking good. It won't take long if we work hard."

Charlie felt his throat tightening and he shook his head sharply as his shoulders hunched. He wanted to do his part, he wanted to be good, to be useful. He didn't want to get in trouble again. He just couldn't. He'd reached his limit and now he just wanted to wash off all the uncomfortable feelings flooding his senses. How could he communicate that when he didn't even feel like he could speak without crying?