Lies We Tell Ourselves Page 2

  That’s when I heard singing coming from the other side of the tree.

  “I love you, you love me, we’re a happy family.” The worst song ever written, made nearly unbearable because it was originally sung by an obnoxious purple dinosaur with a predatory male voice. Made even worse by the irony of the moment. I leaned a little to the left to get a clearer view.

  The girl. Sitting in front of the scary old house across the street, the house that was haunted in my imagination because it had been sitting vacant for nearly two years. The last guy who lived there died in his easy chair while watching television, and no one found him for three whole days. He was old—fifty-two according to the newspaper, and died of a heart attack. My dad said he deserved to die, that anyone foolish enough to live in that house alone was asking for trouble. It seemed unfair, but I knew better than to argue.

  The man’s ghost still sat there in that old chair, at least that was the rumor on our street. Although the girl sounded happy. Maybe she chased it away or threw the chair out. We could stand to have a couple fewer ghosts around here.

  Her tangled brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she was skinner than she looked when I watched her from my window. She wore grey gym shorts and a white t-shirt marred with a couple pink streaks from the sidewalk chalk she gripped in her palm. I studied her behind the safety of the tree. She looked about my age; which made her too old to be playing with sidewalk chalk. I smiled a little in spite of myself.

  “Whatcha doing?” I asked, hoping she could hear me. I had to keep my voice low so my father wouldn’t come storming out. When he got in these moods, anything could make him angry. I once dropped a plastic spoon on the kitchen floor during one of my dad’s rages, as I’d gotten used to calling them. I wound up with a black eye that took three days to turn purple and two weeks to disappear completely. School pictures were scheduled for Monday. Another ugly photo wasn’t my goal.

  The girl looked my direction and shaded her eyes. The day was warm but not overbearing, a nice change for a July evening in Gainesville, Georgia.

  “I’m drawing pictures. Wanna draw with me?”

  I didn’t want to draw with her, especially not with sidewalk chalk because the whole thing seemed rather girly. But I did want to sit by her because she was new and her company sure beat being alone under a porch, and this was the opportunity that presented itself. I looked over my shoulder as I walked; if my dad saw me sitting here, he wouldn’t like it. Or her. Not if she lived with evil spirits.

  “Sure.” I walked across the street and sat down in front of her, taking care to position myself so the tree blocked my dad’s view should he look out the window, and careful not to smear the picture she was working on. “What are you drawing?”

  She grinned, almost amused at my question. She was missing a tooth on the upper left side, but other than that her smile was darn near perfect. She pointed to a blob in front of her. “This is a butterfly. I’m going to draw a hundred of them. Here.” She handed me a dark blue chalk, the fat kind that came in a lidded Crayola bucket and sold for a dollar at Wal-Mart, but there wasn’t a bucket or a lid. Just her pink one and my blue one and a green one lying off to the side.

  She nudged me to take it. “You should draw something to go with it.”

  I pulled it from her hand, suddenly a little bit interested. But I really needed brown to make my idea work. “Is this the only color you got?”

  She frowned. “You don’t like blue?”

  I shrugged. “I like blue fine. Just wondered if you had anything else.”

  She sighed, a big deep regretful sigh. “I used to have a whole bucket, but my mom threw them in the fire. I managed to save these.”

  “Fire?”

  She shrugged. “She burned all my toys because I was late.” That’s all she said. Matter of fact. Like burning a kid’s toys was the most natural thing for a parent to do. I hated that it made me like her a little more. I guess that’s what pain looked for…a kindred soul to attach itself to. Suddenly I wasn’t so afraid of ghosts anymore.

  “Seems like a stupid reason to burn toys,” I said.

  She didn’t acknowledge my statement. “Does your dad always call you names? I heard him call you a piece of crap, and I didn’t like it.”

  “He’s drunk, and you shouldn’t cuss.” My standard answer to explain everything. I rolled the chalk between my fingers, blue smearing my hands in the same way it colored my mood.

  “That doesn’t make it okay, and I can say what I want. Besides, that’s not a real cuss word.” She said it with such conviction, like there was no room in her mind for defense or debate. So I didn’t argue with her.

  “Don’t say ‘shut up,’ Micah. That’s a bad thing to say.”

  “Don’t say ‘stupid,’ Micah. It’s practically a cuss word.”

  My mother’s instructions came rushing back. I used to hang on all her words as the Gospel truth, but maybe moms who leave their kids shouldn’t be trusted so much.

  I stopped talking then. I didn’t want to hear about a fire or burned chalk or crazy moms anymore. I didn’t want to hear about bad parents in general. I had enough crazy in my own life, plus I’d long learned to recognize the way goosebumps formed on the back of my neck when anyone said something ominous. I had a sixth sense, as my fourth-grade teacher used to say. I didn’t know what that meant, but I knew I didn’t like this conversation. So I picked up that blue chalk and began to draw water.

  The girl sighed again. “Predictable.”

  “What is?”

  She shook her head at me. “Nothing.”

  I dropped the conversation completely and lost myself in the art. Creating something from nothing is nice; it lets you forget the rest of the world for a while, even if only for a few hours.

  It wasn’t until I sneaked home and tiptoed into the kitchen for something to eat that I remembered.

  I never did ask the girl her name.

  She finally called me. Right now I wish she hadn’t. We’re not even talking about the newspaper anymore.

  “What do you mean, you had a date?” The pause on the other end gives my jealous meter a chance to ratchet up a couple inches. “Like, a date date? Or just a date.”

  She sighs. “It depends on what your double use of the word date means. I had a date. No big deal.”

  What does she mean, no big deal? Of course it’s a big deal. I don’t know why it’s such a big deal, but it is. Why is she being so evasive?

  “Like, a blind date or a guy-asks-girl-out-and-she-says-yes kind of date?” I pull off a cuff link and toss it on the table in my dressing room, then reach for my lighter. Black. Silver rimmed. Sleek. The kind of lighter a wealthier man might own and pull out at dinner parties to light up a Cuban cigar while talking politics with the bigwigs. The vision I had when I purchased it. I’m still waiting for the opportunity to make the vision reality. I lay it on my desk and undo my top button.

  I’m still at work, and I’ll be here for hours. No need to wear a suit for it, though. As I slide off my jacket and tie, I can imagine Presley wanting to choke me with them. Her offense is palpable, even from her own office an hour away.

  She sighs. “Guy asks girl out and she says yes and oh by the way why is it so unbelievable that someone would be interested in me?”

  Her words come out in one long run-on question, and I chew on a fingernail. I don’t want her dating some guy who might take her away from me. Presley’s mine. Or she would be if I could figure out how to give her what she wants. Maybe someday. Maybe eventually I’ll be able to balance my career and ambition with the small-town life and family she dreams of. But I can’t go back home, not yet. Maybe not ever. Maybe I can talk her into leaving this part of the country with me? Either way, I won’t let her go.

  My insides are a tumbleweed gathering random debris, but I force myself to answer her.

  “Not unbelievable. How did it go? Did you like him?”

  “Yes, I liked him.”

  I pic
k up a notice announcing the new hire and skim through the pertinent information, ignoring the way my pulse trips once and then twice, then toss the paper back on my desk with a sigh. It slides across the desk, stopping before it makes the edge. I reach for the lighter and flick it on, staring at the center flame, at the blue that tempers my nerves.

  Presley with a husband.

  Presley with a dog.

  Presley with a perfect baby. One that probably has teeth.

  Presley with a happy life that no longer involves me.

  Just like before.

  My mind settles on my mother, but I force it back into alignment and ignite the lighter again.

  “How much?”

  “Probably as much as Ginger what’s-her-name that you went out with last week. I had to hear all about her giraffe-length legs and fun things she did with her tongue, remember?”

  “That doesn’t mean I liked her.” It’s a crass response, but it’s true. The silence on the other end stretches until it nearly evaporates. I wipe a hand over my mouth and wait for her to respond. When she doesn’t right away, I start to get agitated.

  “Pres—”

  “Put down your lighter, Micah.”

  I flick it closed and toss it on the desk. “I don’t have my lighter.”

  She laughs, but there’s no humor in the sound. “Why do you always do this?”

  I hate it when she questions me. I hate it even more that she’s mad. Anger always precedes disappointment, and from my experience both are followed by apathy. I can handle all three from almost anyone, but I can’t take them from her. The lighter comes on again, officially making me a liar.

  “Do what?” It’s lame. Lie number two. The most common sign of a guilty conscience. Every therapist knows this. Feign innocence. Act clueless. Answer a question with a question. I do it again so the guilt really magnifies itself. “What are you talking about?” It’s psychology 101. The emergence of that question is on par with a guilty verdict and a judge’s gavel. Presley sees right through me like she always does.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Every time I go on a date—heck, every time I mention that a guy is even remotely cute, you start in on me like you own my thoughts. Like you own me. You don’t. You’ve made it clear many times.”

  “I know I don’t own you.”

  “Then please stop acting like it. Are we dating, Micah?”

  This isn’t the first time she’s asked. Or the twentieth. We can’t date. Broken people break people, and I’m as broken as they come. I would never trust myself with Presley, not if I want to keep her in my life. It’s safer to care less about people, that way you can’t hurt them. I’ve been hurt enough to know.

  As for Presley, it’s too late for me to care less about her.

  “No.”

  “Then don’t get mad when I go out with other people.”

  Really, it all comes down to that. An easy request, but not one I’ve ever been able to manage. Deep down, I know I never will.

  I snap the lighter closed and lean back in my chair. I’m not mad, not really. I don’t own her. I just don’t want her to leave. In my mind, Presley is as much a part of my future as I am. There is no me without her. There are no lines to cross or boundaries to keep in check because they don’t exist with us. Presley is my soulmate, has been from day one. But finding a soulmate doesn’t mean you can just ditch reality. I don’t do commitment, and she knows it. Commitment leads to vulnerability and vulnerability leads to intimacy and that level of soul-bearing will ultimately get you crushed. I’ve been crushed enough by parents who were supposed to love me. I have the scars—both physical and mental—to prove it. I can’t handle any new ones from her.

  Even worse, I can’t be the one to inflict them on her.

  You can’t hurt what you don’t allow. I love Presley with my whole heart and soul, but I will never ever hurt her.

  There’s also the fact that we don’t want the same things.

  I’m big-city. Presley is small town. I’m determined to be up and coming. She’s determined to stay back and keep a dying art alive. I’m ambitious. She is too, but not like me. Her ambition has a shelf-life. Mine has no expiration date. And as for shadows, she’ll never be willing to stand in mine. Where everyone else is impressed with my job and my status and my car and even my apartment, she’s impressed with my character. And she’s not shy about telling me when my character sucks.

  Like now.

  “I’m sorry. I won’t do that again.”

  “Yes you will. And I’ll let you, because that’s how our relationship works.”

  I swallow, my throat dry and thick. How do you respond to an accusation when you know it’s true? You grovel and hope to heck the argument is over. I rub my temples and lean my head back against the leather desk chair, then blink up at the ceiling, a familiar possessive feeling coming over me. If I were a different man, one who knew how to let go of the past and move forward like all those self-help books advise you to do, I would jump into a relationship with her without looking back. But I’m not that man, so friends it is. Friends is safe. Mostly.

  “I need to see you. Let me make it up to you tonight.”

  “No. I’m busy. I can’t just leave because you want me to.”

  “Yes you can. The paper has already been sent to the printer. You’re done with work today.”

  I smile just picturing the eye roll she’s giving her office. She never puts up with my whining, and now won’t be the day she starts. I swear I can feel her sigh blow through the phone and fan across my cheek.

  “Stop reciting my schedule back to me. I should have never told you the details of my job.”

  This time I laugh. It’s only a second before I hear her lips crackle in to the phone. She’s smiling. Just knowing I’ve made her smile has me mentally high-fiving all the cameramen who’ve already left for the day.

  “Come have dinner. I’ll meet you at Davenports whenever you say.”

  “Are you buying? If I’m driving an hour to get there, you better be buying dinner.”

  I sit up and reach for a pen, then begin doodling on a piece of paper. I’m four butterflies in before I realize what I’ve done. I toss the pen down and sigh. She would come to dinner if I wasn’t buying. It’s an old argument. Still.

  “I’m buying.”

  “Then I’ll meet you at seven. Don’t be late.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.”

  And I wouldn’t. My day just got a million times better.

  “Micah, got a second? There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”

  Terry, our station manager, pops his head into my office just as I’m pulling a sweatshirt over my head. I run a hand through my hair to smooth it down, worried because the subject of The Word I Said On Air still hasn’t come up.

  “First, is there anything we need to talk about?” I ask, hearing and hating the weakness in my own voice.

  He grins, catching me off guard. “The word? Nah, the seven second delay saved you. Without it though, you’d be out of a job.” When he laughs, I join in. It’s a pathetic sound, so I stop and focus once again on my appearance. It’s so much easier than thinking about the bullets I just dodged.

  Davenports is casual and it’s Friday night. I’d bet money that Presley will show up in yoga pants and a ball cap, her messy hair pulled back into a flawless ponytail that trails halfway down her back. It might sound like I’m complaining; I’m not. It’s a good look on her. The kind of look that leaves me wishing we had done the more things part of our relationship a hundred times by now. Presley is trim and fit and as hot as they come, but no. We’re friends, and that’s the way it has to stay. Still, it doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about her perfectly toned backside filling out those pants.

  Lately it’s getting more difficult for me to convince myself that I’m okay with the way things are.

  “Sure. Give me one second.” I check my image in the mirror and shrug. Presley will look better than me, but I
look okay. Approaching thirty hasn’t caught up with me yet, so that’s good. I rub my palms together in a slow circle and turn toward Terry. “Who is it?”

  And then I see. Blonde. Tan. A body and smile to rival Gisele’s. Quite possibly the most perfect specimen God ever made, right here in my office. My throat closes in on itself, and all I can do is remind myself to breathe. Be cool. I’m a professional. The face of Atlanta news. My mug is plastered across billboards up and down interstate 285 and the surrounding roads. It wouldn’t do to have me behaving like a teenage boy in a sex toy store, fifty bucks in his pocket and no one supervising his purchases.

  Play. It. Cool.

  “Micah, I’d like you to meet Mara West.” I raise an eyebrow at Terry. West is also the last name of our station owner. He flashes a warning glance at me so I don’t reference it. “She was just hired as marketing director. She’s also the niece of Hank West, so make her feel especially welcome.”

  Apparently rules are made to be broken. We have a no-hiring-family policy here, one clearly being overlooked in this circumstance. Deciding I can overlook it with the best of them, I hold out my hand.

  “I’m Micah Leven. Very pleased to meet you.” When her hand slips into mine, I don’t care who she’s related to. It’s a perfect fit; smooth, graceful. I wonder if my father would approve.

  As always, that thought rears its ugly head.

  “I recognize you, Mr. Leven. And the pleasure is all mine.” I mentally stab that thought in the heart and focus on her voice. It’s liquid. Smoky. Warm silk sliding down my neck. And that smile. It’s nearly my undoing.