Lies We Tell Ourselves Read online

  “So you want to tell me why you brought me here, or do I need to start guessing?”

  As soon as the question leaves my lips, there’s an instant shift in the lightheartedness of the moment, one we can both feel. I place my drink back in the cup holder, and then wait for it. This is the moment when Micah will deflect, will try to claim ignorance with verbalized statements like What do you mean? or I don’t know what you’re talking about. If I were wearing a watch, I could set my clock by his reaction. Instead I pick up my phone to check the time; 3:41. He should start protesting in five, four, three, two—

  “What are you talking about? I asked you to come because I wanted to hang out with you.” His drops the peanut shell to the ground. I step on it with the heel of my sneaker and look up. Like clockwork.

  On the field, number seventeen catches the ball and takes off running. He makes it nine yards before number twenty-three from the other teams sacks him. Not even a first down. All that running got him nowhere. I know the feeling.

  “I’m talking about your sudden attentiveness. In the four years you’ve lived in Atlanta, this is the first time we’ve done something besides eat out. Breakfast, lunch…but never ballgames.”

  He shrugs and reaches inside the bag again. “Because I hate ballgames. You said so yourself.”

  “Which you flatly denied like the liar you are.” What is it about Coke and peanuts? Someone should package the two together and sell them like Lays flavored chips. Chicken and Waffles are a thing. Pickles and Ketchup are a thing. Why can’t this be a thing? Someone needs to get on the Coke and Peanuts bandwagon before some other chick at a stadium thinks of it first.

  “I’m offended at that,” he says.

  “I’m waiting.”

  He sighs. “Why does there always have to be an ulterior motive for you?”

  Once when we were on our way to last period in tenth grade, Micah realized he forgot his English assignment; he’d left it on his bed at home, shoved under a pillow so that no one would find it and make fun of his questionable lack of talent. The assignment was a poem. We were to perform it in front of the class as part of our final grade. At the time, I was clocking in with an A-and desperately wanted an A+. Once a word nerd always a word nerd, I suppose. Micah was barely hanging on to a D and desperately wanted to pass. In a rush of panic, he asked to see my poem for inspiration. It seemed he had completely forgotten the words to his own poem and had to start from scratch. Of course I relented and handed it over. He spent five minutes scanning the words and making a few scribbles on a spiral notebook while I sat in a chair next to him in silence. Just as he handed my poem back to me, the teacher called his name. Class had just begun, and he was the first to go.

  He stood up and recited my poem word for word.

  I stared, hurt and confused and more than a little angry.

  Micah got an A that day. I got a C for my pitiful attempt at last-minute rhyming. His grade rose to a D+. Mine dipped to a solid B. I refused to talk to him for a solid week, not until he told the teacher what he’d done and my grade was raised. Micah was given another shot to complete the assignment, albeit only for half-credit. Still, his grade rose to a C, so telling the truth didn’t entirely work against him.

  The memory still stings sometimes, though I quit talking about it a long time ago. Bruises won’t heal until they stop getting poked, and he did apologize. But right now, I’m pressing the heck out of that old one.

  “Because there’s usually an ulterior motive with you. Remember the poem? Remember the dance? Don’t get me started on that one.”

  He scrubs his mouth and growls behind his hand. “I apologized for the poem, and when are you going to stop bringing up the dance?”

  I sigh, because he’s right. “Look, you’re my best friend. I could read you like a book if the book were turned upside down and I started flipping pages backwards. Now, why did you bring me here?”

  Silence communicates a lot of things: anger, indifference, sadness, resignation. But in this case, it communicates guilt. It’s a silent scream radiating off every pore in his skin. I consider sliding a few inches away but don’t. His screams tend to vibrate and echo in the tiny space between us, and somehow I’m the only one who ever gets hurt.

  “I want things to get serious with Mara, but I’m not sure she’s comfortable with our friendship.”

  “She isn’t. She hates me, but I’ve already told you that.”

  He gives me an impatient look before starting up again. “She doesn’t hate you. But as I was saying, I want to take it to the next level with her. I even looked at rings last night and—”

  “Are you out of your mind?” I turn to gape at him, knowing the answer to my own question. He isn’t. Micah knows exactly what he’s doing—playing me and wooing her like we’re both stuffed animals in a child’s claw game. Drop in a quarter and win a prize—preferably the big pink poodle at the back, but we’ll settle for the small gray elephant if it’s the best we can do.

  I’m tired of being the gray elephant, so to speak.

  “She’s crazy, Micah.”

  “Will you stop calling her that? The incident at the bar was an accident. Bad alcohol, that’s it.”

  “Bad alcohol.” My voice sounds defeated, tired. The voice is an extension of the mind, apparently. “Except you were drinking soda. Coincidence, I assume.”

  “Complete coincidence. It had nothing to do with Mara.”

  Nothing to do with Mara. We’d both slept twelve straight hours that night, me fully clothed across my bed and Micah half-naked on my sofa. He claims my house was so hot that he had to strip. When I pointed out that sweating is a sign of overdose, he told me to mind my own business.

  “What about the picture?”

  “What picture?”

  I clench my back teeth. He knows exactly what I’m talking about. “The picture of my apartment. The one she posted to Instagram.”

  He shrugs. “I’ll ask her about it, but I’m sure it was just a coincidence.”

  “Why do you always do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “Try so hard to see the best in everyone, even when the answer is obvious.”

  “That’s a bad thing? I’m trying to see the best in you too, even though you’re overreacting right now. I would ask her about it. Can’t we just drop it and enjoy the game?”

  I nail him with a look.

  “Sure. I’ll drop it.” Then without another word I stand up, snatch the bag of peanuts off his lap and the Diet Coke from my cup holder, and move around him. He catches me on the thigh, but I manage to shake free.

  “Presley, where are you going?” He says the words softly. It’s a plea for understanding, a frustrated curse that I won’t cooperate.

  I don’t turn around.

  Today, I’m determined not to give him one more minute of my time.

  Hopefully this time, that feeling will stick. It probably will. I think it will. I hope it will.

  I know it won’t.

  Still, of all the times he decided to tell me his plans, why now when I was actually enjoying myself? Why now, when the day was so pretty and the moment was so perfect? I should have known there was more to just wanting to hang out with me. There’s always an ulterior motive with Micah. Like always, I choose to ignore it in an unrelenting belief that it might one day change.

  Surely someday it will change.

  I walk out of the ballpark, dumping my drink into a trash can and swiping angry tears off my face as I go. For the first time in all the years I’ve known him…

  I wish Micah had kept the truth to himself.

  SEVENTEEN

  He caught up to me before I made it to the car. Just once in my life I would like to be allowed the curtesy of completing a dramatic exit.

  “Presley, wait.” His hand lands on my arm for one second before I spin around and slap it away.

  “For what? So you can lie to me again? Feed me another line about wanting to spend time with me? And don’t a
sk me what I’m talking about because you know darn good and well that’s what you’ve been doing all afternoon.”

  “I did want to spend time with you!”

  “So you could drop a bombshell in my lap about getting engaged? You always do this. Butter me up before going in for the kill.”

  He grips my wrist lightly enough, but when I try to shake him off it doesn’t work. Stupid man and his stupid strength.

  “I never go in for the kill. You’re my best friend. Why is that so hard for you to understand?”

  “Because it isn’t true. If I were your best friend, you would treat me better.”

  His jaw drops like he’s been slapped. I’m sad I missed the opportunity. “How do I treat you badly?”

  “You come around just to make sure I’m still available. You call me up when you’re bored or have no better option. You get mad when I date anyone else. You kiss me when you are on a date with your trophy girlfriend. That’s how.”

  He looks like he wants to actually slap me back. I’d like to see him try it.

  “Don’t ever say that to me again. It isn’t true.”

  “It is true.” I give my wrist a little shake, but it’s still locked in his flesh-colored handcuff. I breathe hard through my nose. “I’m your best friend if. If I act the right way. If I stay inside the careful lines you’ve drawn around your life. If I don’t ask too much of you. If I let you have all the freedom you want while I barely have any freedom myself. If I don’t date anyone, even though you date the entire free world. If I don’t complain too much about your crazy girlfriend.”

  “Mara isn’t crazy.”

  “Funny how that’s the only thing you denied.” I shake free and cross my arms. Technically I think he let me go, but that isn’t important right now. “She’s certifiable, and you’re out of your mind for not noticing. Things aren’t what they seem, Micah. I know it in my gut, even if you don’t want to believe me.”

  We’re locked in a standoff, building barriers in our war of words. Finally, Micah relents a bit. He shoulders sag on a sigh of defeat. “Why do we keep having this conversation? You’ve made your point.”

  “Clearly I haven’t, because you aren’t listening. Engaged, Micah? To her?”

  “Her uncle is the president of my company.”

  Does he even hear himself? “When you get down on one knee, make sure you lead with that line. That’ll make her tear up for sure.”

  “What do you want from me, Presley?”

  “I want the truth. I want the real Micah to come out and play. I’m not sure he’s ever appeared, not even that first day on the sidewalk. I think he’s spent his whole life too afraid to let anyone see him. I want you to let people see you. At the very least, to let me see you.”

  “What if I can’t give you that? What if I can’t give anyone that?”

  What if he can’t? The words bring me more grief than any burn from my mother ever could, because that’s the real issue, isn’t it? What if he can’t? I’m not sure I’ve ever been as sad as I am in this moment. For him. For me. For a world who may never really know how great Micah is, because deep down he’s still that frightened boy hiding silently under the front porch steps. He’s still that boy trying to stay hidden to keep from getting hit…trying to please a tyrant in the hopes that his father might one day be proud…trying to prove he’s good enough to a world that shaped him into believing otherwise.

  Trying to cure his wounds by slapping on Band-Aids and ignoring the festering happening underneath the skin. I should know. I’ve spent too many years doing the exact same thing. The difference is, now I’m trying hard to heal myself.

  What if he can’t?

  “Then I suppose a few years from now you’ll be stuck in your fake life with your fake wife, feigning happiness with a few fake children that never should have been yours in the first place.”

  His eyes narrow. “You really know how to hurt a person.”

  “I’ve had a lot of people in my life giving me some wonderful examples.”

  My phone chooses that moment to buzz. I look at the screen, and it’s as though I’ve been given a gift, a get out of jail free card for a game I don’t even like to play. I bring the phone to my face and type in a response. And just like that, I have someplace else to be.

  I unlock the car door with my fob and climb inside.

  “Where are you going? Who was that?”

  Slipping on sunglasses, I look up at him. Cool as a cucumber, slick as wet pavement.

  “It was Nick. We have another date.”

  He switches from hurt to angry in a single blink. “A date? We’re at a ballgame.”

  I start the car and slide into reverse, keeping my foot on the brake.

  “Correction. You’re at a ballgame. I’m headed downtown. And since you’ll be here alone, this is probably as good a time as any to get yourself engaged. Congratulations, Mr. Leven. Now you have all afternoon to stop looking at rings and actually go buy one.”

  “I’m not getting married!”

  I push the button and roll up the window.

  “Wait, don’t you want to get something to eat?” He walks faster, tugs on the door handle, trying to keep me from leaving. “We could go for a walk,” he shouts. “Get something to drink!”

  I close the window all the way to drown out his increasingly loud list of terrible ideas, then pull out of the parking lot.

  At this point, I’m too fed up to listen.

  There are some people you’re willing to die for. That you would lie down on the tracks and let an oncoming passenger train run you over if that meant they would get to live. For some people that’s their children. For others, their spouse. For a select crazy few, it might be a pet or an imaginary friend. For those of us who have none of those, it’s an actual friend…if we’re lucky enough to find someone that special, that is.

  For me, it’s always been Micah.

  “Give it back to him right now, or else.”

  Any other person might have laughed at the sight of an eighteen-year-old girl pointing a finger in their face, screaming in a wide-eyed demand for compliance. Not Micah’s dad. His dad laughed. And then he pushed me. I hit the bed and flipped, coming to stop when my head slammed against the wall.

  “Or else what, little girl? You gonna beat me up? Put poison in my drink when I’m not looking?” He returned the child’s coloring box to the top of Micah’s closet and took a couple steps forward. That’s when Micah leapt. He shoved hard, and his dad fell backwards.

  “Push her again and I’ll kill you with my bare hands. Now give it back to me.” He fisted his dad’s shirt and pulled him to his feet as I watched in horror. His dad would swing and wouldn’t stop until Micah was dead. I swiped my tongue across my bottom lip. Blood. I must have bit it on the way down. “I earned it, not you. Give it back.” I pulled on the waist of Micah’s jeans, but he shrugged me off. Nothing would make him give up, not his dad’s threats or me. Someone told him about Micah’s job—inquired about when Micah might be back to mow their yard. His father barged into the bedroom demanding the cash. One minute we were studying, the next we were on our feet yelling all sorts of threats. None of them worked.

  His dad landed a blow to the waist. Micah landed across the room, coughing and sputtering. I ran at the man, and just like that, his arm shot out and I was on the floor again…a crack, a pop accentuating my fall. My ribs cried out in pain. I didn’t need to touch my head to know it was bleeding now too.

  His father stood in the doorway and pointed to both of us.

  “Let me tell you something, you little punks. In this house, what’s mine is mine and what’s his is mine. Got it? Micah ain’t going to college. I didn’t need it. He doesn’t need it either. Now clean up this mess and get out of my house.”

  With that his dad slammed the door, leaving us in a heap of discarded clothes and broken dreams. Micah had saved that money for three straight summers, mowing lawns and delivering newspapers and sweeping floors at a ne
arby hair salon while his dad was away at work. When I asked him about opening a savings account, he said the bank required parental approval—something he couldn’t afford to ask for. Lord knew my own mother wouldn’t have been any help. So he hid the money away, keeping it separate from the small cash jar his father knew about. This one was different. More than three thousand dollars hidden, enough for two years at the community college.

  Gone in one grab of his father’s greedy fist.

  “I’m going to kill him,” I said.

  “No, Presley, let him have it. It isn’t a big deal.”

  Micah’s words made me madder than anything his father just did. “Not a big deal. Micah, it’s your money. How will you go to college?”

  “I’ll figure it out.”

  “How? What will you do?” I was afraid to look at him, afraid to see the weight of all he had just lost on his face. When I finally looked up, I caught the smallest glimpse before he steeled his emotions. I knew better though; his disappointment triggered my tears, and they wouldn’t stop flowing. This wasn’t the first time, it wouldn’t be the last.

  Micah pulled me to him, a boy with lost dreams comforting the girl who still held a few of her own.

  “It’s okay. I’ll make it work. Just please stop crying, Presley. This isn’t worth your tears.”

  He could tell me to stop crying as many times as he wanted to; it wouldn’t work. My eyes burned and my nose ran into his shirt.

  “I hate him.”

  If my words angered him, he didn’t show it. He tightened his grip on my waist. “Sometimes I hate him too. But there’s nothing I can do about it. He’s never going to change. I’ll just have to think of something else. Some other way…”

  His words trailed off, hopeless. Lost. There was no other way for him to keep going to school and we both knew it. My tears kept coming as I thought about me heading off in the fall and him living here. I clutched his hips a little tighter.

  “Please stop crying. I’ll take the next year off and work full time. Maybe get my own apartment. I saw a help wanted sign up at the radio station downtown. Maybe I can get a job there. Work my way up…”