Lies We Tell Ourselves Read online

  When they don’t leave my office, I look up again and sigh. If I seem annoyed, it’s because I am. “Was there something else?”

  They glance at each other again, unsure of what to do. “Um…we just wanted to know your breakfast order? I’m going to call it in and have it delivered in the next half hour or so.”

  Food. And they’ll get it for me. I decide to ditch the vendor’s stand and let the kid take care of it instead. I’m in no shape for small talk right now anyway, and that guy likes to talk.

  “Right. Just grab me something from McDonald’s down the street.”

  The kid looks at me like I’ve grown an extra head. “You sure?”

  What is wrong with this kid? “Yes, I’m sure. Why?” Right now I’d pay him a hundred bucks to get me three sandwiches and a cupcake across town as long as it meant he would leave me alone. I glance at my computer screen, thankful I’m the only one who can see it…all my insecurities on display for the world to see if the world is this kid Jonah and his gum chewing sidekick. “What’s wrong with that?”

  He shakes his head quickly. “Nothing. It’s just that you always order a yogurt.”

  Oh. He’s right, I do. Well from now on, yogurt is for wimps. For the weak and indecisive. For the unsure and questioning. I’m not questioning anything.

  “I’m sure. Make it a bacon and egg biscuit, extra cheese.”

  His eyebrows knit together, but he wisely nods and backs out of my office. I hear the girl’s bubble gum pop when they round the corner and roll my eyes. I should have ordered a yogurt. Bread sits heavy on my stomach when I’m anxious. Maybe I should call him back and change my order.

  Here I go again, questioning myself.

  I focus on my computer screen, willing a little determination to start flowing through my veins. I’m Micah Leven. I’m nothing but determined. I’m well-respected. A celebrity of sorts. My billboard is on freaking Times Square right now, little white lights flashing in a snake around my image. Me. The newest anchor on Good Day New York. I have an apartment on Fifth avenue, my own personal driver, make three times as much money as I ever earned in Atlanta, and just last week interviewed Paul McCartney before his sold-out show at Madison Square Garden. I’ve finally hit the big time. Take that, Dad.

  And just like that, my confidence wavers. I haven’t had that thought in a long time. Months. Over two solid years of counseling have taught me not to go there. My father was my father and I am me, and the two could not be different from each other. If you want to be better in life, then you have to change your aspirations. I used to aspire to be my dad; I now aim to be the exact opposite. Kind. Considerate. Soft-tempered. Confident. Confident in myself, not in my desire to be better than everyone else.

  But right now, my confidence stops wavering and full-on fizzles at my feet.

  Not because of my father, but because of the stupid decision I just made.

  Without taking my eyes off the laptop screen, I reach for my credit card and slowly slide it into my wallet. I have a show to tape in four hours, and I need to be ready. Two hours after that, I have a plane to catch.

  American Airlines. Business class. A straight flight to Philly. It’s been over a year since I discovered her new city; it’s been six months since I found her address. I’ve sat on the information all this time, too nervous and afraid to do anything with it. But I needed to work through my issues before trying to fix things with Presley. I wanted to make sure this time I could be the man she deserved.

  Now I’m ready. After two years of working on myself, of remaining single and dateless and spending most of my time alone in the off hours since moving to New York—I need to see her. I have to see her. She owns me. She always has. There was no point in entertaining the idea of other women when my heart belonged to her.

  It’s always belonged to her.

  But the rub? The girl I’ve been waiting for…the girl who owns one-hundred-and-ten percent of my heart and every other square inch of my body too…might not want me anymore. She might not even speak to me. Why would she? If I were her, I wouldn’t.

  I’m going to be sick.

  What a stupid, stupid decision.

  Presley

  I’m out of avocados and there’s a Phillies game on television in thirty minutes, and you can’t watch baseball without chips and guacamole, everyone knows this. So I’m headed to the corner store to buy a few groceries, plus a Diet Coke. I figure I can get there and back in twenty minutes and still have time to catch the pre-game highlights. Funny, I hated the Phillies growing up; raised a Braves fan, always a Braves fan. But the Phillies have grown on me. No doubt it helps that I’ve been to over a dozen home games this year alone and now know the names of all the players and their stats by heart. I’ve adapted to this new city almost as well as I’ve adapted to my new job. I’m proud of the way I’ve grown. The life I once barely held together by layers of Band-Aids and Scotch tape has now mostly healed. I feel freer than I’ve ever felt before. These days, I hardly think of my old life or the things I left behind. Really, there’s nothing I even miss. Not a thing.

  No one at all.

  I tell myself this every day. A Mantra. A vow. I once read that if you say something enough, you’ll eventually start to believe it. One of these days my belief should kick in. It might have been easier if I had never found that paper the day I moved out of my old apartment—the paper now taped to my refrigerator door as a daily reminder that not everything is as you think. Some things are so much better.

  Not that it changes anything. Even after I made a few phone calls, even after I checked receipts and timelines and discovered that Micah had done everything the paper pointed to him doing…I still couldn’t call him. I still couldn’t reach out. He was as bad for me as I was for him. That reality hasn’t changed.

  I tell myself that every day too.

  Overcome by a sudden onset of sadness, I shoulder my purse, lock the front door, and head down the front steps. I’m used to the random feelings of sadness now, unsurprised by the waves that carry it in and out of my life, and I know how to get rid of it. Running. Watching baseball. And in today’s case, grocery shopping. Sometimes it’s as simple as using what you have at your immediate disposal.

  I’m almost to the bottom step when I look up and come to a halt. My knees wobble, and I grip the handrail for balance.

  They say when you finally let go…that’s the moment when everything comes back to you.

  I blink, but I’m not quite sure what I’m seeing.

  He’s leaning against a tree across the street, a huge oak with branches on one side that nearly hug the sidewalk. The scene alternately takes my breath and swirls my mind backwards in its familiarity. Him. Me. Pictures drawn from a mixture of sidewalk chalk and fear. For one split second I can’t remember where we are, Atlanta or Philadelphia…the confusion is palpable, the memories are strong.

  It’s been well over three years since I last laid eyes on him. Forty-two long months of simultaneously missing my best friend and cursing the day we met. You can’t miss what you never had, and sometimes I wish I could experience that reality firsthand. I hate missing Micah…I’ve hated it every second of every day since I kicked him out of my apartment. But I’m stubborn. I decided a long time ago that I would no longer fight for him or anyone else. Oh sure, I’ll fight for anything that is mine to fight for. But never again will I fight for a spot. Never again will I fight for my value. Never again will I doubt my worth.

  Maybe it shouldn’t, but my chin goes up right along with every defense mechanism I’ve ever possessed. Hannibal Lector in all his shackles and chains wasn’t shielded better than me. For a long, tense moment I just stare at him as he walks across the street toward me. Then I work up the will to speak. The words come out hard. Then again, after three years of silence, suddenly so is my heart.

  “What are you doing here and what do you want?”

  Micah

  What do you want?

  I’d hoped for better word
s, definitely for a better reaction, but this is all she offers. It’s also all I deserve. Because even after a plane ride from New York and a rental car drive through Philly…even after a new job opportunity that meant nothing and a move across the country that left me feeling empty…even after my father’s death and the subsequent curtain call on my past…even after forty-two months of asking myself what went wrong and how I messed up and why I had let go of the only thing in my life that ever really mattered…

  I still don’t entirely know.

  But here’s what I do know, at least in part:

  I was broken. My pride. My will. My desires. My false picture of what I thought things should look like. Finally, fully, once and for all.

  All the old parts of me were shattered.

  And now I’m healing.

  All the new parts of me demanded I at least try.

  I can’t eat without wishing she had cooked my food. I can’t lie down without wondering where she’s sleeping; worse, who she’s sleeping with. I can’t think about work without thinking about her job. I can’t drive anywhere without seeing her in a passing car, even in another state. I can’t eat at a restaurant without wishing she were sitting across the table from me. I can’t get dressed without wondering if she would approve of my shirt. I can’t check out at the grocery store without perusing the selection of Zippos. Black. Brown. Red. White. I now have one in every color. I can’t tell a joke for wishing she were on the receiving end laughing at the punch line. I can’t film a newscast without wondering if she’ll watch it online. I can’t report on National Best Friend Day without wondering what in the world happened to mine.

  I know what happened to her.

  I made it clear she wasn’t good enough. Never in words—no, my methods were worse. My actions delivered the blows.

  I used her in small and large ways until I got another phone call and ran off to someone I thought was better. I made known my preference for blondes while eyeing her brunette waves. I stood her up in favor of “better” opportunities. I shunned her at school in order to catch the eye of the cheerleader. I let my dad berate her on the sidewalk while I watched from my bedroom window. I let him push her against a wall and hardly fought back. I let her get hurt and never stood up to the abusers. Not him. Not kids at school. Not even myself.

  I never gave her my whole heart. She never fully had my all my attention.

  I could keep going, but I’m too ashamed to admit it all to myself.

  What do I want?

  I want to plead my case to the best person I’ve ever known in hopes that she’ll forgive me. Partially or completely, in whatever way she sees fit, I’ll take it. If she can’t, I guess I’ll learn to live with the consequences. After all this time, I’ve finally figured it out.

  Presley was never the one who wasn’t good enough.

  That shameful honor goes to me.

  What do I want? I want her friendship back, even if friends is all we can ever be. My life—even the successful parts of it—is nothing but an empty shell without her in it.

  With my lungs in my throat and my heart on the pavement in front of me, I open my mouth and tell her all of it.

  Presley

  “And I’m just supposed to believe you? You show up here after three years of nothing, and you say all that to me? What exactly do you want me to do about it, Micah?”

  Did my voice shake? Are my legs still holding me up? I can’t be sure of either, so I say a quick prayer that God will give me the strength to keep standing, because I still have more to say.

  “What about Mara? If she’s no longer in the picture, what about all the other girls that will come and go? The blonde ones. The Barbie doll ones. The perfect sorority-type ones. I’m not a freaking Barbie doll Micah, and I hate sororities. I’m never going to suck up to your friends or give one crap about your pointless social functions. And as for rubbing shoulders, I won’t do that either. I’m not anyone’s puppet, and I’ll never be some light-brained trophy wife, so you can forget….”

  I stop talking and say another prayer that God will suck me down a deep dark hole. Even Hell. He can send me there if He’d like, as long as He gets me out of here. What possessed me to say the word wife?

  As for Micah, he just stands there blinking at me, a strange look on his face.

  “Wife?”

  Of course, he would lock in on that. “A slip of the tongue.” Someone needs to chop mine off.

  “You always were good with your tongue.”

  I would laugh, but I’m too close to crying. This feels like a tragedy. We’ve lost three years, and time is about to run out completely. I haven’t cried over Micah in months, and here I am ready to begin again. My resolve is crumbling like it was never really there in the first place. Maybe it wasn’t, not fully. Maybe it was simply a case of pretending something didn’t exist; an easy thing to do when you never have to pass it on the street.

  “Can I ask you a question?” he says, fishing around in his back pocket.

  “Can I ask you one first?” I say.

  He stops what he’s doing and crosses his arms in front of him. “Anything you want, I’ll answer.”

  “You paid for my tuition. To Tech.”

  He closes his eyes for a brief moment and sighs. “That isn’t a question. Who told you?”

  My pulse speeds up. I already knew it was true, but hearing him admit to it stirs something in me. Something I’m afraid of. The feeling isn’t unwelcome.

  “No one told me. I found a receipt in a box when I was packing. How?”

  “From the money I earned at the radio station. Plus, I found the money my dad took from me before he had a chance to spend it all. Took it to the bank and opened an account, like you told me to in the first place.”

  I glare up at him. The attempt is weak. “You told me he lost it all gambling.”

  He shrugs. “You wouldn’t have let me spend it on you if you knew the truth.”

  My temper tries to flare, but it only generates a small spark. I can’t believe he did this. I can’t believe I didn’t know. Still, I’m a fighter and he knows it.

  “That was your tuition money. You shouldn’t have used it on me.”

  “I wanted to, end of story. Besides, I got my own scholarship the next year, so it all worked out for both of us.”

  “That was wrong, Micah.”

  “It was right, Presley. You would have stayed at community college otherwise, and I couldn’t live with that. You’d already given up enough for me. I wasn’t going to let you give that up too.”

  What is he talking about? “What did I give up?”

  His look softens. He takes a step closer brings a hand up to touch my face. “Everything, Presley. Your time. Your food. Your sleep because you spent so much time outside with me. Your dignity when my father shoved you against that wall. Your dance when I went with someone else. Even your sidewalk chalk, when I was too much of a brat to use it without complaining.” His hand leaves my face and goes back into his pocket. “I’ve let you give up a lot for me, but not anymore. Which reminds me. I still haven’t asked my question.”

  “Depending on what it is, I might not answer.” The words come out soft, like my heart. I’ve waited years to hear him say this, and now that he has I’m not sure what to do with it.

  He smiles. “You’ve always been stubborn like that.”

  I smile back. He’s right, I always have been. “What do you want to know?”

  It’s at that moment that the objects in Micah’s hand come into focus. The tears are so close, my vision’s blurry and inconvenient. I can’t believe what he’s holding. I swipe at both eyes in a futile attempt to stop the tears from falling.

  “Will you draw with me?” he says. “I hear you’re especially good at butterflies.”

  Chalk. A small package of four colors. Pink. Blue. Neon green. And purple.

  Thank goodness he brought purple. You can only draw with pink for so long before you never want to use the color again.


  I reach for the box and pull that one out just as the first tear falls. If Micah notices it, he says nothing. Just lowers himself to the sidewalk and pulls out pink. I study the way it looks in his hand, transported back to that first day in front of my old haunted house. In the end, we buried the residing ghosts and birthed a few of our own.

  “I thought pink was too girly for you.”

  He begins to draw. “It used to be a long time ago. But then I learned to associate the color with a person, and now it’s my favorite.”

  A water droplet dots the pavement below me, and I swipe at my eyes. We continue to draw side by side, creating one perfectly blended picture, working from the outside in, the silence occasionally punctuated by my sniffling. After years and years of togetherness, some things just fall back into place no matter how much time has passed. Micah and I are two of those things. Altered and changed, yes. But none of the pieces are missing. Nothing is torn apart. This is the biggest victory.

  “Why did you really come here?” I ask. “Now, after all this time.”

  Without looking up or breaking stride in his movements, he speaks like the words were long-buried and waiting for someone to dig them up. “I came here for you. I came here to ask your forgiveness and hopefully for another chance. I came here because I love you. I’ve always loved you, even when I was trying not to. You’re it for me and will be forever, even if you no longer want anything to do with me.”

  I love you. My heart stops on those words and my ears don’t hear the rest.

  I love you.

  He finally said the words out loud.

  I blink at the pavement in front of me and try to collect my thoughts.

  Butterflies. He’s drawn two perfectly shaped ones, one with closed wings and one in flight. Stay still or soar. Both good options, but only one that opens a new world of possibilities.

  I stare at them, unmoving.

  I’ve always wanted to fly, I remember telling him once.

  I never knew that about you, I recall him responding.