Lies We Tell Ourselves Page 11

  “I don’t need to. I’ll meet you outside in a minute.”

  I silently congratulate myself and walk out to my car. Five minutes later, she walks out in denim cutoffs and a tiny white tee. My caveman confidence slips a little when my pulse trips. Fishing with Presley might have been the best idea I’ve had in a while.

  But telling her to change clothes was absolutely the worst.

  “I don’t think you’re doing it right.”

  It’s like someone bought a scratched record that keeps catching on the same line of an old song. Not doing it right, not doing it right. I want to slide her back and forth like a DJ to unstick the words. Instead, I flick the fishing line on the water again and watch as a few bugs dart away.

  “I’m doing it exactly right. It isn’t my fault the fish aren’t biting.”

  She stands up and holds out her arm as though she’s waiting for something. When she waves her fingers, I realize she wants the pole. My pole. That isn’t going to happen. It’s brand new and she can’t catch the first fish while using it.

  “What are you doing?”

  I watch as she props her fishing pole against a rock so that the line is still cast, then slips both shoes off and begins to walk toward me. “I’m going to show you how to do it right.” She steps barefoot into the water and wades in my direction until the water laps against her bare thighs. I swallow hard at the sight and look away.

  “You’re not wearing waders. You can’t fly fish without waders, everyone knows that.”

  “Well you’re wearing them and it’s not working for you.” She slips the rod from my hands and pulls the line. “Just because you dress like Brad Pitt doesn’t mean you are Brad Pitt, Micah.”

  Brad Pitt starred in the movie. He also died in the movie. I think about pushing Presley under water before remembering that not all deaths end with people happily fishing in a brand new river.

  “Now, what you’re doing is this,” she says, casting out the line in three quick motions. Water splashes, flies jump, it all looks familiar to me. “See how that isn’t going to work?”

  No. I don’t see the problem at all. I just stare at her until she sighs.

  “You’re doing it too hard. Every time your cast hits the water, it’s loud. It’s can’t be loud or you’ll scare the fish.” She pulls in the line and prepares to cast again. One, two, three. Quiet as a whisper. And boom, what do you know? She has a bite.

  “How did you do that?” I ask. The question sounds harsh, like a demand for answers. Two demands in one afternoon, and only one works in my favor. “That isn’t fair, sometimes I watched the movie without you. I should know more.”

  She glances back at me with a wink. “Sometimes I watched it without you too. And I do know more.” When my jaw drops, she shrugs. “I had a thing for Brad Pitt in his long hair days, what can I say?”

  I suppose she can say whatever she wants, because she did in fact catch the first fish.

  “Can I at least help you reel it in?” I ask. When she nods, I step behind her. Without another word, I wrap my arms around her and take the rod from her hands. When she leans into me, it’s all I can do not to drop the line and spin her around. Instead, I listen to the uptick in her heartbeat and try to keep myself in check. There’s value in just enjoying the moment, and I intend to enjoy the heck out of this one.

  “I hope it’s a big one.”

  It’s the wrong thing to say at the exact wrong time. She’s talking about the fish of course, but that’s isn’t where my mind goes. My mind takes a dip down low and swims around in the sludge at the bottom of this lake.

  “I’m sure it’s huge.” I’m a guy; I can’t resist. “Giant. The biggest thing you’ve ever—”

  “You can lay off the innuendo, dude. I doubt it’s that impressive.”

  I laugh. So she did mean it the way it sounded. Suddenly my mind swims to the top and pokes it’s head out. Interesting.

  “For your information, you’ve never seen anything more impressive.”

  She laughs and leans into me a little more. “I’ll have to take your word for it.” I realize then that I’m not trying very hard to reel this fish in, going slow, dragging the moment out as long as I can, and I know the reason. Not because I love the feel of Presley’s body pressed against mine. Not because the scent of her perfume has always made me dizzy with every memory of having her by my side. Those things are true, but the real reason is because I’m never more calm or feel more like myself than when it’s just us, with no one else around. Presley doesn’t demand anything from me, doesn’t have any set expectations, just accepts me for me and it’s enough for her. She’s been that way from day one; she’s the same now. From sidewalk chalk and birthday gifts to standing half-naked in a pond letting me take my time just because I feel like it, she’s present. She’s here. She just is and lets me be the same. And sometimes that’s the best gift you can offer a person.

  She’s the only thing that makes me perfectly and completely happy.

  “You’ve always been obsessed with water,” she says, bringing me out of my reverie. “I’m surprised we haven’t done this before now. Remember how it was always the thing you drew on the sidewalk? Me with my butterflies and you with your water. I wanted to fly, and you wanted to float.”

  An interesting way to look at it. “Actually I wanted it to carry me away. I never knew you wanted to fly.”

  She nods, a stray strand of hair tickling my cheek. I nuzzle a little closer and pull a little more on the line. The water ripples a few feet from us as a fish fights back and forth.

  “I still want to. It’s just that sometimes I’m afraid of going too high.”

  “You should go as high as you want to. Especially since—if you fall—you won’t land all by yourself.”

  She turns around then and looks me in the eye. We’re close, but not close enough. “Are you going to catch me?”

  I don’t break eye contact. “I’ll always catch you.”

  I look at her and she looks at me and suddenly it’s hard to breathe and I’m wondering if I would breathe a little better if I searched for air inside her mouth. I glance at her lips and swallow, then inch a little closer. I’m going to kiss her again. We’re going to kiss and excitement is consuming me and nothing has ever felt more right than the two of us in this moment.

  Just before our lips touch, Presley yelps and darts backward.

  “There’s a fish between my legs!”

  “What are you talking about?” I look down and sure enough, the water is splashing wildly between us, and my line is lying slack. The darn fish decided to swim to freedom, but he went the wrong way. “Can you grab it? Reach down and try to catch it!”

  She’s jumping and flailing and won’t stand still and tepid water is sluicing down my waders. So much for dry clothes. “Fishing was your idea! You catch it! And hurry up before it bites me!”

  “It’s not going to bite you. Stand still. You’re getting me all wet.” I pull frantically at the line and try to reel the thing in, but Presley grabbing at my neck and trying to climb on my back makes things a little more difficult. “Presley, calm down.”

  “You calm down. It’s swimming up my shorts!”

  The mental image that creates makes me laugh as I reach under the water and pull the line up, brushing against her thigh with the movement. She wasn’t kidding. One more second and things could have gotten pleasantly awkward. She might have had to strip. My bad timing strikes again.

  “I got it,” I say, pulling the fish out of the water. “You can stop thrashing around now.”

  “I wasn’t thrashing.” Her loud protest dies in a fit of laughter when she looks at my hand. Unsure of what has her amused, I smile and simply say:

  “What?”

  She points at the fish. Or maybe she’s pointing at me. It’s hard to be sure from this angle. “Your fish. It’s exactly what I thought. Not huge at all. It’s tiny. The smallest thing I’ve ever seen. Nothing impressive about it whatsoever.”<
br />
  She’s right. I’m holding the smallest fish in existence.

  But she isn’t talking about the fish.

  I raise an eyebrow and crouch low, entertained by the way she suddenly stops laughing, looks at me with wide eyes. and screams. She kicks and flails and tries to get away, but it’s futile. I pounce, laughing at her helplessness.

  No one calls my fish tiny and gets away with it.

  There’s nothing she can do but sink when I hook her around the knees and toss her underwater.

  EIGHT

  “Why did you tell me she was your sister?” Mara asks.

  I’ve waited for this question all weekend, but on Sunday afternoon I’m still not prepared to answer. After the day I spent with Presley yesterday, I’m not sure I want to.

  The truth is never a fun thing to face, not even when you have time to mentally rehearse your verbal and non-verbal responses to make sure no clues are given away. We’re sitting on my sofa, feet up, heads leaning back, fingers lightly interlocked in the space between us. Mara’s nails are painted red, tiny little hearts that dance across my thumb and forefinger in slow circles. I force myself not to stiffen and take a deep breath.

  “Because when she knocked on the door, I didn’t want you to get the wrong idea about us.” It’s the weakest response a man can give to a question like this. It sounds like a lie even when it isn’t, like a guilty verdict without the trial. You might think a man who works primarily in words could dig down deep to find something more creative to explain another woman away, but you would be wrong. As far as my relationship with Presley is concerned, there are no right words to explain it. We fit. We work. We just do. It’s a perfectly perfect relationship.

  One I’ll never risk losing.

  “So you thought telling me she was your sister would give me the right idea when I found out the truth?” Mara says.

  Dang. I hate the way her logic sounds.

  “Well, when you put it like that…” I scratch the top of my head and immediately drop my hand. Presley calls the move my “tell,” the nervous go-to when I’m trying to avoid confrontation. I hate it when she’s right. Not knowing what else to do, I try a little honesty. “Presley can be a lot to handle at times. She feisty. Has a biting wit and a temper that rivals an army sergeant. She can make the bravest man cry if she tries hard enough.” I don’t realize I’m smiling at my descriptions of Presley until I see Mara frown. I lose the smile real fast and straighten in my seat. “And it’s hard to explain our relationship. I’ve known her since we were kids. We lived across the street from each other. For years, we were all each other had.” I shrug and take Mara’s hand. “We both had terrible parents…really awful. I’m sorry I lied, but it was mostly true. Presley is like my sister in all the ways that matter.”

  Except when we kissed.

  I leave that fact out of my little speech.

  Right along with the fact that I’m preaching about truthfulness while still blurring the edges of what sounds like a lie.

  “Do you love her?”

  “I do. But not in the way you’re asking.”

  The edges are so blurry I’m trying to see through mud-covered glass. Do I love her? Yes. Am I in love with her? Maybe. Could I live without her? No way, not a chance in heaven or hell or all the planets in between.

  It’s the not a chance that makes me wonder how I’ll ever move on.

  I won’t. It’s the reason I keep her tethered to an invisible string. I’m a puppy who can’t bring himself to leave the yard. A seventeen-year-old boy too scared to get his driver’s license. A dreamer trying hard to live in the real world. A womanizer who doesn’t entirely womanize.

  I dismiss that last thought because I hate it.

  When Mara turns toward me and reaches for my waist, I launch myself out of the rabbit hole I’m falling into and sigh in relief. I don’t womanize. So there.

  “So you’re not in love with her?” she says.

  I shake my head, silently communicate what might be a lie, refusing to verbalize it. I’ll never say I don’t love Presley. In my mind, it would be like denying God. Or worse.

  “Good, because I don’t want to share you, not even with a girl who could be your sister. I like you, Micah. I like you more than I’ve ever liked anyone. I hope you’re okay with that.”

  Her hand cradles the back of my neck and she meets my gaze. I see want and need reflected back at me, and in that moment I don’t want to be shared either. Am I okay with it? Right now, I’m more than okay with it.

  This woman is perfect. Beautiful and smart and driven and exactly what I’ve always wanted. What I’ve dreamed of since I was young and the idea of my ideal woman first formed in my head. Blonde? Check. Independent? Check. Wants adventure? Check. Physically fit? Check. Nice boobs. Check check. A sense of humor to keep me laughing. Check. Isn’t aware of my background? Check.

  Someone my dad would approve of? Check.

  Someone that would prove him wrong? All the checks.

  I mentally go through the list I scribbled and shoved in the back of my dresser drawer all those years ago.

  Check.

  Check.

  Check.

  Mara has it all.

  “You’ll never have to share me with anyone,” I assure her.

  “Does that mean we’re officially a couple?”

  She grins hopefully, her mouth so close to mine it physically hurts.

  I smile back, feeling my stomach drop. Is this what it means?

  “Yes, we’re a couple.” Not agreeing to her proposal would ruin the moment.

  Mara claps her hands together, then throws her arms around me with a squeal.

  “I’m so happy! Quick, let’s take a picture to commemorate the moment.” She reaches for her phone and aims it in front of us, pressing her face to mine. This woman and her pictures.

  “Ready?” she says.

  I nod, liking the way our heads move together.

  And I am. Ready. I think.

  Swallowing my apprehension, I allow myself to contemplate the future.

  Maybe someday I’ll propose to this girl. It would lead to the life I’ve always wanted. Not to mention it would be the opposite of everything my father always said. You’ll never amount to anything.

  But I would.

  I would amount to me. With Mara. Two kids and a dog. A job in New York. A respected place in society. We would go to the best parties and rub shoulders with the most famous people. Our kids would attend the most prestigious private schools. Best of all—I would finally be happy.

  I just need to figure out how Presley fits into that new life.

  Mara takes three photos before she gets an acceptable one. She posts it to Instagram and Facebook, reminds me to like them both later, and then I kiss her.

  I kiss her the rest of the afternoon.

  Do I love Presley? I have for most of my life. That’s not the problem. The real question is can I give her the kind of love she deserves.

  Could I love Mara? Maybe. She and I want the same things. I can see myself proposing to her someday. I can see it in the way I sense I’m on the verge of getting the life I’ve always wanted. I probably couldn’t have planned it better myself.

  I see my future in front of me, and the colors are blonde and red.

  PART TWO

  Mara

  NINE

  We’re kissing and his hands are in my hair and his skin feels like fire and his pulse is racing and his heart is hammering under my touch and my breath catches in my throat.

  He’s disgusting.

  What do women see in him? I mean, I get it. He’s handsome and all. But come on. His breath smells awful. Like spearmint and Pepsi. His hair is too long and hangs in his eyes. And it’s black. Black. I like redheads and only redheads. Ron Weasley? Perfect. Prince Harry? Even better. Everyone knows this about me, or would if they cared enough to ask. All Micah thinks about is himself. He’s never asked once.

  I’m two seconds away from throwing
up or pushing him away or both.

  But I don’t. I keep kissing him and letting him move over me. It’s part of the game, and I’m too far in to quit now.

  My name is Mara. I never quit.

  At least not until I get what I want.

  And precisely what I want should soon be looking at the Instagram photo I just posted and cursing the gods of lasting relationships that they ever let him give up on ours. At least I hope he is. I imagine him turning green with envy and then white from loss of blood and then black with rage. Black like Micah’s hair. Black like a witch who’s spent a little too much time underground and finally bursts into the sunlight. Black like hell’s rainbow, shooting straight up from the ground and devoid of treasure. Appropriate. When you’re as callous as my ex-fiancé, you deserve your rainbow to be hot and jagged and missing the gold coins. It’s called Karma. It always comes to get you, just not in the ways you expect.

  Karma has a first name. It’s Mara. Karma also has a second name. It’s Micah, and he’s working out just fine.

  Just like his “sister” said, Mara means bitter and right now I definitely am. I always wondered why my parents gave me that name. When I was ten I looked up the meaning and asked them about it; they claimed they simply liked the way it sounded. On the same vein as Sarah but not nearly as common or mundane. There’s nothing common about you, my father explained. Of course his words were meant to flatter, but nowadays I tend to think they just knew. No one leaves me. No one walks away without a word. No one ever tells me no.

  No one.

  At.

  All.

  One way or another, they eventually figure it out.

  His friend, though. Presley. She could be a problem. She’s been sniffing around a little too much, and something tells me she smells something sour. I make a mental note to buy her some roses next time I go to Whole Foods. It’s a little tactic I figured out a long time ago; if you want someone to like you, all you need to do is turn on the charm, up your sweetness quotient, give a gift or two. And if that doesn’t work, you give people a reason to dislike you and want to stay away.