Lies We Tell Ourselves Page 15

  As for Micah’s statement, I know the real reason behind it. Might actually go somewhere is code for maybe then you’ll be good enough for me. It’s always been there, that belief. Not because he actually prescribes to the theory.

  But because he can’t get the words of his father out of his head.

  In Micah’s mind, you’re never gonna amount to anything has morphed into the belief that the only things good enough for him are the unattainable. The perfect look. The perfect job. The perfect income. The perfect girl.

  Maybe then his father will be proud.

  It breaks my heart to watch Micah look everywhere for approval. It breaks my heart even more that in all the searching, he consistently overlooks me. He’ll realize his mistake someday. Any other possibility is too hard to entertain.

  “Presley, are you even listening to me?”

  I startle at the sound of his voice breaking into my daydreams.

  “No. Frankly, you’re boring me to death. What did you say?”

  “I said, are you in the mood for breakfast? I’m outside your office right now.”

  My heart gives a little flip at the words, which I resent. I have told my heart to give up on Micah over one million times and can continue telling it the same thing every single day until I die, but it won’t listen. The heart is another thing that never does what it’s told.

  I pull into the parking lot across the street and maneuver into a space. Looking up, I spot him, and he waves. Why does he have to be so good looking? It would make my life much easier if he were ugly. Just another way life is unfair for the little guy. Or girl, as the case may be.

  “Hurry up. It’s hot out here,” he yells as I climb out of the car and close the door. I push windblown hair out of my face and yell back.

  “That’s your fault for showing up before me. You shouldn’t be waiting outside anyway, pretty boy.” I cross the street and fish keys from my purse. “You’re going to ruin that five-thousand-dollar suit you’re wearing.” I flash him a look of mock disdain.

  He tugs at the ends of my hair, a Micah-move that I learned to adore the first day I met him. “It was less than a thousand. I bought it on sale.”

  “Perfect,” I said, inching the door open. “It only cost slightly more than my rent.”

  “I’m thrifty, what can I say?”

  The door bangs to a close behind us, and I feel around for the light switch. The room is illuminated to a soft glow that reveals just how much I need to organize this place.

  “You’re a pig,” Micah says.

  “Says the man who’s actually dating one.”

  “Lay off Mara. I didn’t come here to argue about her.”

  I bite back a reply, knowing it will just wear down the edges of our relationship. Right now the lines are sharp and well-defined…except for the times we’ve crossed them and wound up kissing. But I respect him and he respects me. I want it to stay that way. And the best way to make that happen is to keep comments to myself. I change tactics. I’ll tell him about the drug thing later.

  “I know. You came here to buy me crepes. Let me answer this email, and we’ll go find them.” I power up my Mac desktop and sink into a chair, then open Gmail and search for the right one. Finding it, I open the file and scan the cover.

  “Crepes again? I want bacon and eggs. A man’s meal for once.”

  Smiling at his comment, I hit approve and send a quick reply, then close my email and stand up. “A man’s meal, huh? Eggs are the main ingredient in crepes, and you can get them with a side of bacon.” I lightly backhand his stomach, trying not to notice how close we’re standing.

  “Why don’t I ever get to pick?” he asks, looking down at me. The whine in his voice is counterproductive to the teasing glint in his eyes.

  “Because you love me and want me to be happy,” I say, winking up at him.

  When he pulls me into a hug, I know I’m right. He doesn’t have to admit it.

  This is enough for now.

  SIXTEEN

  I’ve always known. Deep down, in that place you keep to yourself and only poke at when something truly horrible happens. Like when your mom burns you with the newly lit end of her cigarette butt. Or when your date for prom tells you he wants to pick you up for a romantic dinner beforehand, and you wind up fighting him off in a back alley parking lot when he wants payment ahead of time. And my personal favorite, when your father leaves before your first birthday and calls you on your sixteenth only to ask for money. That’s the only time you analyze the wounds. The only time you allow yourself to wonder if maybe…just maybe…you’re worth more than everyone tells you. Worse, more than you allow yourself to be treated.

  Because here’s the problem with little girls who turn into teenage girls who turn into newspaper-owning women who should have more confidence by now—you know all these people are treating you like crap. The reason you know it? Because you watch it and analyze and feel the heaviness of it as the weight of rejection settles in your gut.

  And you keep allowing it.

  I’ve always known that Micah doesn’t need me as much as I need him.

  And for some reason I can’t explain even to myself, I keep telling myself it’s okay.

  They say the quickest way to lose someone is to continually take them for granted. I think that statement applies to strong people. To women and men who know their worth and demand better treatment from the people who claim to care about them. I’ve never considered myself either strong or worthy. There’s almost zero chance that Micah will ever lose me. But I’m working on seeing myself a little differently. At least mentally. Actually putting it into action takes guts I’m still trying to find.

  “Micah, hang up the phone.” It’s the third time I’ve asked, but this time I point my fork at him and give him a look to communicate I mean business. “Hang. It. Up.”

  Guts like this. There was a time not long ago that I wouldn’t have said a word.

  “Be quiet.” He shoots me a look and slaps a hand over the mouthpiece. “She’ll hear you.”

  Micah might not be on board with this attempt at creating a new me.

  Still, I shrug and spear a piece of banana. “I don’t really care if she hears me. Hang up. You’re being rude, and I’m tired of talking to myself.”

  Micah rolls his eyes and stands, then pushes back from his chair and walks toward the door. He’s halfway through it when he suddenly stops and looks back at me, holding up a finger. Give me just a second. I’ll be right back. I just need a moment. That one gesture communicates all those things. Talking to Mara is more important than talking to you. It also communicates that.

  I reach for his bacon and drag it all to my plate, then pick up the first slice and take a bite. Serves him right.

  I keep letting him do it because to me, Micah is the most important thing in the world. His happiness. His success. His comfort. His ego. His worth. All more important to me than my own. That day on the sidewalk when I handed him the blue chalk…that day I decided I would be the one to change things for him. That day, he became my mission. Little Presley Waterman had a project. I decided right then that every time someone tore him down, I would be there to build him up…that every time someone said an unkind word, I would say something nice. Albeit with sarcasm. Is there any other way to speak?

  It’s a role I’ve never resented too much. Until a new girl comes around; each one taller, blonder, and wealthier than the one before. I’m the quintessential best friend, the sidekick. Every good movie has one. You can’t have Laurel without Hardy, right? I’m Hardy in this equation, except I’m not an overweight, middle-aged man.

  I reach for another piece of bacon and wonder about changing that status.

  I’m halfway through the third slice when my own phone chimes. I reach for it and push a button, my heart skipping a half-beat when I see the name on the screen.

  It’s Nick. Suddenly I’m glad Micah isn’t here to see it.

  I’d like to take you out again. You free
this weekend? We went out a few weeks ago, and Micah got mad about it. What do you mean you had a date?, he had asked, as though it were unbelievable that someone would find me attractive. As if I’m supposed to wait beside the phone for Micah to pick up the slack that he himself is feeding me.

  My finger hovers over the keys as I think of a response. Am I free? Of course I am. I move to say yes when I spot movement by the front door. Micah steps through and pockets his phone, then flashes an apologetic smile at me. I give him a weak grin and glance at my phone. I should say yes. I should tell him I would love to see him again. I should shove Micah on the way-back burner and turn off the flame.

  But I can’t. I’ve tried and tried. It never works.

  I flip my phone over and push it away.

  “Sorry about that.” He pulls out his chair and sits across from me again, and flicks a napkin into his lap.

  “It’s okay,” I say, even though it isn’t. I pick up my fork and run it through whipped cream before sliding it into my mouth.

  “Hey, what happened to my bacon?”

  This time I don’t answer.

  “Don’t you have work to do?” Usually he leaves right after dropping me off at the office, but this time he came inside and sat on the corner sofa. Right now he’s thumbing through his third magazine, though he hasn’t read any of them. Flip flip discard, flip flip discard. That’s his entire process, the sound a perfectly played chess game. Jump two times, checkmate. Repeat.

  “I took the day off.”

  Something is off. It isn’t like Micah to hover.

  He tosses a Field and Stream on the table and retrieves an old People. I know it’s old because a famous Hollywood actor and his wife are on the cover, smiling and perfectly happy. They’ve been divorced over a year.

  “Well, I have work to do.” I don’t really, but this is a rare chance to sound superior. “And all your flipping and sighing isn’t helping me accomplish much.”

  He bends the People into a cylinder and grips it between his hands. “Have you approved the layout yet? Is the paper ready for reprint?”

  I frown. When people take an interest in my job, I normally feel flattered. Not a lot of people are truly fascinated by print media anymore, especially not of the newspaper variety. Micah is at the top of that list. When he takes in interest in my job, I know something’s wrong. Last time he appeared interested, he told me about his upcoming move to Atlanta. Only an hour away, but since he’s my only real friend, it initially felt like a move across the country. I raise an eyebrow and creep cautiously toward an answer.

  “Yes. Remember, I gave the approval before we left for breakfast. Why?”

  He tosses the magazine down without opening it and stands up. “There’s a Falcons game here in town in an hour. Want to go with me?”

  Okay, now I know something’s up. “It’s cold today. And you don’t even like football. What gives?”

  “It isn’t that cold. And I like football some. Besides, you like it and I want to spend time with you. When did that become a crime?” His protest would be touching if it wasn’t so flimsy.

  My eyes narrow. “You never want to do something just because I like it.”

  His mouth falls open. “That isn’t true. We ate crepes this morning, and I didn’t even want them.”

  I wave off his explanation with a flick of my wrist. “So you’re nice to me every once in a while. That doesn’t mean you deserve a medal. Why did you take the day off? You never do that.”

  “Because I wanted to hang out with you. And since your paper is finished, and you’re the only one here…” His sweeping gaze around my office only confirms his point. I don’t have much to do, and no one is around to care.

  I roll my eyes and shut down my computer. “Fine. I’ll go. Do you have good seats?”

  “Of course I have good seats. I’m Micah freaking Leven. Nothing but good seats for me.”

  I pluck a magazine off the table and swat him in the stomach. “Only the cockiest men make freaking their middle name. Settle down, dude. To me, you’re still a dorky boy drawing a very ugly picture in blue chalk all over my sidewalk.”

  He crooks an elbow around my neck and leads us to the front door. “That picture wasn’t ugly, for your information.” He laughs softly to himself. “I haven’t thought about that day in years.”

  I don’t respond. I can’t tell him that it’s all I’ve thought about lately.

  The boy under the porch was looking at me from the other side of the tree. I felt his stare before I saw it in the same way you know the phone is going to ring before it actually does, or you have a premonition something will go terribly wrong just before your mother opens the front door and accuses you of stealing the last piece of bread.

  I felt his hot stare on my neck. Glancing up only confirmed it.

  I quickly looked down again. I didn’t know what to say to him. I heard his father’s words, and I already hated the man…an emotion too strong for my own good, as my first grade teacher used to tell me. Your heart is too big, she would say when I would bury my head in my arms in class, upset because my classmates were fighting over something I could no longer remember. One day’s it’s going to cause you a world of hurt. It wasn’t until that moment that I knew what she meant. My heart hurt for the boy across the street. Maybe that’s what hearts do when they spend so much time alone; they latch on to a kindred spirit and slowly wring themselves out in a desperate need for solidarity and understanding. I understood Micah before either one of us spoke a word.

  Want to help me color? I called to him as quietly as I could, hoping the man inside the house wouldn’t hear me and come storming back out. I wasn’t sure what he wanted from Micah, but I was pretty sure he wanted money. My mother stole my birthday money once, and another time she raided my lemonade stand after only an hour of selling it. She came home early that day and saw me sitting under an old plastic umbrella at the end of the street, two opened packets of Kool-Aid discarded on the ground and one half-used bag of sugar attracting ants under my feet. She came home an hour early that day, the diner where she worked closing early for no patrons. Who said you could use my food?, she demanded, one hand on her hip and another shaking off the bag. She took all five dollars, the last packet of pink lemonade, and all my hopes of ever owning a stuffed unicorn of my own. All the girls in second grade owned one and named them cute crayon names like Blue Rainbow and Gold Nugget. Mine was going to be called Neon Sparkle; I picked out the name right after I found two quarters in the sofa and rode my bike to Dimes grocery to buy lemonade packets and cheap knockoff Dixie cups. A woman in line behind me gave me two nickels when it turned out I didn’t know much about grocery shopping and the cost of paper goods.

  I figured Micah’s dad wanted money. Isn’t that what all parents demanded from their kids? The woman at the grocery store obviously had no children of her own.

  He walked over to me without saying a word, tiptoeing across the street with both hands in his pockets and looking over his shoulder. Feet running toward relief, eyes darting around knowing the relief would be short-lived. He opened his mouth once to complain about my lack of colors—I only had pink, blue, and neon green. Always neon green. My hope for that unicorn hadn’t yet died. I explained to him that the colors were all I had managed to rescue from my mom’s latest temper tantrum. When he glanced at my forearm, I pulled it back quickly before he noticed the latest burn and asked me more questions. The skin hurt when it scraped across my shorts.

  Three weeks later, he finally asked my name.

  Three months later, he fully owned my heart.

  It didn’t matter that by then I was only twelve. They say you can’t fall in love when you’re young…that your heart isn’t developed enough to understand what love really means.

  Someone…somewhere…forgot to tell that to me.

  “I caught it! I can’t believe I caught it!” I clutch the t-shirt in my palms and roll it back and forth. It’s been two minutes, but the thrill hasn�
�t fully worn off.

  “In all fairness,” Micah says, “I caught it. But you made me give it to you.”

  I roll my eyes. Sometimes Micah is too technical for his own good. He’s also—to anyone standing within a twenty-foot radius—partially wrong.

  “I called dibs when it was in the air. Everyone knows that counts.”

  “It counts when you actually try for something. I’m not sure it counts when you hide behind the person doing all the work and then demand to be rewarded afterward. I think that’s called entitlement.”

  Something washes over me then. Guilt? Shame? I hate entitled people almost as much as I hate cheese, and that’s saying a lot. Cheese is the food they serve in hell. And you know what’s worse than cheese? Melted cheese. That’s why I’ve already taken out my pre-paid Get Into Heaven Free policy that guarantees my entry upon death. Nope, no hell for me. Even though I’m fairly certain that entire train of thought just bordered on sacrilegious. I cross myself and throw up a quick prayer for reassurance, then drop the still-wrapped shirt in Micah’s lap.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Giving it back to you.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re right, and I don’t want to be entitled.”

  “I was kidding, Presley. Keep the shirt.”

  I look at his lap. At his eyes. And back. “You sure?”

  “I’m definitely sure. As long as you stop staring at my crotch.”

  Some girls might get embarrassed when a guy says something like this to them. I’m not one of them. I raise an eyebrow and reach for the shirt. And I might have punched something just a tad in the process.

  “Easy or I’m taking it back!” he cries.

  “Say that again and I’ll punch you for real.”

  We’re both laughing before I finish the last word. I pick up my Diet Coke and take a sip, then reached into Micah’s bag for a couple peanuts. The sun is starting to set in front of us, and it’s reached that point where its brightness is aimed straight at my eyes. I shield them and push my sunglasses up a little higher on my nose. It’s never too early to prevent wrinkles, you know.