Lies We Tell Ourselves Read online

  Why does he keep her around, anyway? He’s like a loyal little puppy dog who can’t bring himself to run away from home, even though he’s cooped up in a tiny apartment and there’s a hundred acre farm right next door. I’m the farm. Why can’t he see that Presley is the run-down apartment?

  Give it time. He’ll learn to see it eventually.

  In the meantime, where she’s concerned I’ll start on a positive note. I have no problem switching to negative if it’s what the situation requires. That quote about how dimming someone else’s candle won’t make yours shine brighter?

  Complete and utter crap. I’ll dim Presley’s flame into blackness and pour ashes on top if that’s what it takes.

  Right now though…it’s too exhausting to think about Presley when I have to work so hard on Micah.

  He has my blouse almost entirely unbuttoned and his hand is on my bare waist and I’m wondering how far to let this go. Last time we were in this position, Presley rang the doorbell and saved me from the unimaginable. I acted put out. I’ve always been a drama queen. Inside I was doing backflips and mentally high-fiving myself for dodging that very fast-moving bullet. My need for revenge has never required me to lose all respect for myself. I’ve never let it go that far.

  Not to say I wouldn’t.

  Bradley is going to pay. Micah is going to help me collect the proverbial interest fees and lock them inside a vault for safe keeping. If I have to sleep with Micah to make that happen, I will. Of course I’ll need to swallow a roll of Tums afterward to settle what would surely be a very queasy stomach, but as long as this ends with Bradley begging me to come back, I’ll buy stock in the antacids and chew them faithfully.

  For now though, I have an agenda to stick to.

  “Want to go to a movie?” I ask. It’s random and clearly very bad timing, but I haven’t thought this through and so I blurted the first thing that came to mind. Not nearly as creative as that blasted game of paintball that left me bruised for days, but hopefully somewhat enticing. Besides, the bruises weren’t all bad. Afterward, every time Micah got a little handsy I claimed some form of pain, effectively putting a stop to whatever he had in mind.

  Micah pulls his mouth away from my neck. His lips are swollen and he does not look interested in seeing anything but me. It’ll take work to convince him we should leave the apartment.

  “Tonight?” The word is breathy, slightly incredulous.

  I force a laugh that I pray sounds amused. “Yes, tonight.”

  Reaching for my phone, I make a show of checking the time. Giving a little gasp of fake shock, I sit up straight. “It’s already six o’clock, and the movie starts at seven. We’ll have to hurry to make it on time. Care if we drive through and grab food first? Or we can just get popcorn. It’s really up to you.”

  Something else I’ve learned: Give people a choice between two things you really want to do, and they’ll start to think the planning belongs to them. Want ice cream? Don’t ask someone if they want it too, ask them if they want Ben and Jerry’s or Haagen Dazs. That way they feel empowered in the decision-making, often forgetting that they didn’t want ice cream at all. It’s the 101 on getting your way. Ask my mother. I’ve employed this trick since my fifth birthday when she hired a clown instead of the Barney impersonator I requested. I hate clowns. Despise them. She never made that mistake again. Not after the fit I threw which resulted in my broken left arm and an impromptu trip to the American Girl Doll store. I came away with a Like Me doll and enough outfits for a seven-day switch up.

  Micah still hasn’t answered me, so I bite my lower lip and blink up at him a couple times. I’m not used to waiting this long for someone to agree with me. For such an ambitious guy, you’d think he could take some initiative here.

  “Sure,” he says. He doesn’t mean sure, but that’s okay. He doesn’t have to like my suggestions to go along with them. “We can get dinner. I just wasn’t really planning on going out…”

  “We can stay in if you want.” I say the words slowly, making sure to put the slightest sound of disappointment in my tone. Sliding up on the word in is the key. That’s another trick. Hesitate on the word that describes the opposite of what you really want to do. I want to go out and away from this apartment, so I focused on the word in. I see Micah weighing my words, I know exactly the moment he sides with me.

  “No, no, we’ll go out. If that’s what you really want.” He’s standing up and tucking in his shirt and thank God in heaven because I couldn’t have taken much more of this. “What do you want to see?”

  I button my own blouse and shrug., wishing I had time for a shower at my own apartment. I smell like Micah’s Gucci Envy cologne and sweat, and both scents make my stomach turn. “Whatever you want to see. There’s the new Marvel movie out with Chris Hemsworth. Or there’s a new Nicolas Sparks, but he might not be your thing…”

  “No, we can see one of those. You pick.”

  I turn away to hide my smile and pick of piece of lint off my shoulder. “How about the Nicholas Sparks one?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  I turn back around and let my smile loose. Sounds good to me.

  My ideas always do.

  It isn’t that Micah is a bad guy. It isn’t even that he’s unattractive or impersonal or even untalented—he’s the opposite of all those things. All you have to do is watch the nightly news to know that he has charisma in spades and the unquestionable ability to draw the female viewer in to the point that—I would venture to guess—leaves them fantasizing all sorts of things they could do with him after the credits roll. I’ll admit I might have fantasized myself a time or two, and I’ve already made out with the guy. No, it isn’t that he’s a bad guy.

  But he isn’t Bradley.

  Bradley. Last name Reynolds. As in Reynolds & Hayworth, only the most prestigious law firm in the country. Anyone remember the #ThatsMe lawsuits from a few years back? That Reynolds and Hayworth. He’s the man I’ve been in love with since college and planned to marry from the moment I first laid eyes on him during early registration, when he reached for the last slice of chocolate cake on the Northwestern cafeteria buffet line at the exact same I reached for it. I convinced him that vanilla pudding was more his style and wound up getting the cake myself, and that’s when I knew. We were perfect for each other. He was a yes man to my no girl persona. He bent while I stayed rigid. He knew what he wanted while acknowledging that I knew what was best for him. He had dreams that complimented mine; more importantly he set his aside to focus on me when I asked him to. He believed in me as much as I believed in me. And that’s an important characteristic to find in a man.

  It didn’t hurt that aside from being one of the best attorneys in the country, his father owned half of Chicago, including two buildings on Michigan Avenue and part of the Chicago Cubs. Bradley comes from money and power and status and all the things that matter. I knew this before the chocolate cake incident. I’m not stupid. I did my research. There were exactly three men on my radar that day; Bradley was the first one I accidently on purpose bumped into.

  With me, things are never ever random or happenstance, not even when I have people believing otherwise.

  Which brings me back to Micah.

  I didn’t entirely arrange my meeting with him, but I did arrange my need for a new job. When a girl gets semi-publicly jilted a week before walking down the aisle, sometimes she needs a location change. Or a job change. Even an image change. Just before moving here I lost twelve pounds, bought colored contacts that turned my eyes into a heavenly but unnatural shade of periwinkle blue, colored my mousy brown hair platinum blond, and added six-inch extensions to give myself an early-eighties Christie Brinkley look. Have you seen her photos from back then? More importantly, have you seen them now? The woman doesn’t age. I have her photo taped to my bathroom mirror as a reminder that the most important rules for a girl to live by are to rarely eat and always smile, even when you’re smiling at people you can’t stand. Not an easy fea
t, but it’s doable.

  I glance at my popcorn and set the bucket on the floor, then wipe oily fingers on the napkin lying across my lap and sulk. Must everything in life be a disappointment? I’ve probably put on five pounds in butter alone since we sat down.

  I focus on the screen, completely unaware of what’s happening. Maybe a movie was a bad idea. It’s hard to be entertained when thoughts of retaliation crowd your brain.

  Anyway, off to Atlanta I flew with nothing but a briefcase and five checked suitcases in my possession. Thank God my new apartment was furnished, although it was necessary to ask for an upgraded leather sofa and a stainless refrigerator. The previous one was white, can you even imagine? The only people who use white appliances nowadays are people with no taste, which sums up Georgia in a nutshell. So backwoods. So…southern. In movies they portray it as charming; in real life it’s absolutely dreadful. Thank goodness I won’t be sticking around long. Micah might think otherwise, but he isn’t really the issue here.

  Besides, I could never get involved with someone who comes from such a questionable environment. His father was arrested nearly a decade ago for gambling debts and spent two years in prison, for heaven’s sake. If you can’t pay your bills, should you even be allowed to exist in society? Of course not, and that’s why they locked him up. Good riddance. If Bradley’s father had been his prosecuting attorney, he would have stayed in prison longer. I’m sure the world—or at least Gainesville, Georgia—was better off without him. Where even is Gainesville, anyway? Atlanta is the only Georgia city I’ve visited, and seeing as this job is only temporary I have no plans in altering that reality. The south is not my thing; nor are its people.

  Southerners. Too friendly.

  “Want more popcorn?” Micah whispers next to my shoulder. I flinch away, unused to the hovering. Of course, I don’t want more. Didn’t he see me set the bucket on the floor just now? First the red hair, and now this. The man doesn’t pay attention to anything but his own needs. He’s asked twice about the popcorn refill already, and I really wish he would stop talking. Who cares that much about popcorn? Movies are one of my favorite life experiences, but it’s hard to enjoy them with someone incessantly whispering in my ear. I pick up the bucket. No, I don’t want more popcorn but yes I want him to leave, at least for a few minutes. He should know this. I like men who read my mind and act accordingly. Bradley did.

  Eventually. After some training. Thank God I won’t be around long enough to train Micah. It’s a tedious process that I would rather not repeat.

  I smile sweetly and hand over the bucket. “Yes, please. And could you add a little more butter this time?” Maybe I’ll eat more after all. If I’ve gained five pounds already, might as well make it an even six.

  He kisses my cheek, blocking my view from half the screen. But I hold my breath and let him finish. “Sure. Be right back.” I watch as he stands to exit the aisle, then release a sigh. Hopefully he’ll stop off at the bathroom or run into someone he knows in the lobby and be stuck chatting for a long while. Anything for some peace and quiet.

  With Micah gone, I dig through my purse and pull out my phone, then check the screen. Still nothing from Bradley. I texted him two days ago, but he hasn’t responded. I practically hurl my phone back inside the bag and lean back. Fine. If he doesn’t want to talk to me, I definitely don’t want to talk to him. I’ll go back to the silent treatment. I’ll post updates online just to get under his skin. That always works. Or at least it has in the past. There’s no way he’s changed that much, not in two short months.

  I reach for my phone again and open Twitter, then start typing.

  At a great movie with the best guy I’ve ever known. How’s your Friday night?

  I hit send and smile. There. That’ll teach him. This should eat at him for days. And if not days, hours. Enough hours for me to take another photo and think of something else to say. That’s how life works nowadays. Want people to think you’re happy and have it all together? It’s easy because no one thinks for themselves anymore. Heaven forbid anyone pick up a phone and talk to a person in real life. Why bother when all you have to do is watch them online? People are simple creatures, I’ve found. Happy with each other and mad at each other in seconds, the pendulum mood-swinging like an unhappy married couple at a pre-divorce counseling session. Everyone observes, very few engage. Normally I might think this is a bad thing. When it comes to making Bradley—and all my self-righteous friends who handed out halfhearted sympathies like white poker chips when he left me at the alter—pay, I’m just fine with it. I saw the smirks behind every well-manicured hand. Those girls delighted in my misfortune. Now they can turn puke-green with envy at my well-plotted happiness.

  “Here you go. What did I miss?” Micah crosses in front of me and sits down, his chair squeaking with the movement. I sigh inwardly and slide him a sideways glance, then fist more popcorn, hugging the bucket to my chest to keep it for myself until he reaches over for a handful. Reluctantly I scoot the bucket a little closer to him. He did buy it, after all. Still, I hope he washed his hands. I lean back in the seat and answer his question in as few words as possible.

  “Nothing.”

  “So nothing major happened?”

  I just said nothing. Can he not hear?

  “No.” I shake my head and attempt to watch the rest of the movie. If he has any imagination at all, he’ll figure out soon enough that a main character died. The guy, not the heroine.

  Obviously, the heroine is the most important part.

  TEN

  Micah’s phone buzzes just as the credits begin to roll. After a quick glance at the screen, he shoves it back into his pocket and stands up to collect his jacket, but not before I see the name. Presley the Bestly. What kind of name is that? No self-respecting man should have a nickname like that for another woman entered into his phone, especially not when he’s dating me. Presley the Cheap, Presley the Dirty, those are more like it. Out to steal my backup plan before I’ve arranged all the details of our fake dating life. She needs to get out of my way. I don’t even know if Bradley has seen the photos. I don’t know if he’s jealous yet. I don’t know how long it will take for him to call and beg me to come back. If she thinks she’s going to dig her sharp claws into Micah’s pliable flesh before I’ve completed my mission, she’s out of her mind.

  I follow him down the row of seats.

  “Was it someone important?” I ask. “Do you need to call back?”

  He shakes his head quickly. “No one important. I’ll call them back later.”

  I flex my jaw at his use of the word they to describe her. They is generic. They screams of having something to hide. They gets under my skin and lights a match. Presley is a freaking her, and I don’t like his flippancy. Presley is also beautiful; anyone with two eyes and a brain that comprehends more than basic addition could see that. Two ocean-blue eyes plus two perfect-sized breasts plus two very toned legs equal six very strong reasons I need to keep him away from her. I could count more, but I don’t want to.

  I saw her flawless features that first night she rang his doorbell. I made a point to stay on the sofa under a blanket because she made me self-conscious, and I’m never self-conscious. Of all the nights to wear yoga pants and a t-shirt, that wasn’t it. Not when Presley walked inside wearing designer jeans, long dark waves that people pay high-dollar at a salon for, and giant gold hoops that swung with her movement.

  “You sure?” I ask. Even with the fake smile I force on my lips, it takes work to keep my tone light.

  “I’m sure. Nothing is more important to me than our date.”

  Good answer, though I’m still mad. I don’t like when people hide things from me. It means I’m lacking control, and I don’t like that feeling even more. I’m always in control, even if I’m the only one who knows it. Still, I stand up and let him help me with my jacket. Chivalry is generally dead, but not with Micah. It’s the one thing I’ve come to like about him. Aside from nearly killing me on
the paintball field, he did step up and take care of me afterward. More men should be like him in this area. I’m all for women’s rights, but some women want to know that a man would bend over backwards for them, so to speak. I’m one of those women.

  Though he did bruise me. I may never forgive him for that.

  His phone buzzes again, and I bristle. Why won’t she stop texting him? Micah walks down the steps and I follow.

  “You know, if you need to leave…”

  “I don’t need to leave. I’m positive,” he says over his shoulder. His words are clipped, his voice tight, almost as if he’s annoyed with me for asking, which means his attitude needs a serious redirection. I’m hardly the problem here.

  “Do you want to go for a drive?” I casually ask as we step outside the theater. The night is cool but not cold, and I for one could use some air. Windows down, hair blowing. Stale indoor air has a tendency to make one’s thoughts stale as well, and my thoughts need to stay fresh. Plotting and planning takes some serious creativity, and I can’t risk any missteps on my part.

  “Sure.” He answers the right way, but his tone is lacking in enthusiasm. “We could see what’s downtown. Maybe head to a bar?” He may as well have said head to the dentist for all the excitement in his voice. This isn’t okay.

  I bump his hip with mine, determined to ramp up my flirtation quotient. “I could use a glass of wine. Maybe three.”

  Micah laughs, the soft sound absorbed by the sidewalk. “I need some food.”

  “Eddie’s Attic maybe, or did you have another place in mind?”

  “Nothing else in mind.” He opens the car door and I climb into the passenger seat. “Drive us there.”

  With traffic, it takes us twenty minutes to make our way downtown and find a parking space. Eddie’s Attic is a popular bar in the heart of the center square, a tiny little dive that doesn’t look like much but made a lot of musician’s famous—a launching pad for the careers of America’s down and out who aren’t so down and out anymore. Ever heard of Sugarland? They got their start here. As did The Civil Wars, Justin Bieber, John—