Lies We Tell Ourselves Page 5

  “Are you going to eat that?”

  Without pausing in conversation, she ripped the burger in half and handed me the bigger piece. “Did you even hear me? Look at her.”

  “Look at who?” I frowned and removed the lettuce from the sandwich before taking a bite, then swept my gaze around the cafeteria once again. The only thing that stood out to me was Jeff Woods singing a terrible rendition of My Heart Will Go On to Lucy Kennedy right behind us. He’d had a bad crush on her all year. This wasn’t likely to garner him any extra points, not unless he invested in some serious singing lessons. Could he not hear himself? His voice cracked on the chorus but he kept going. I’d never understood people with his confidence level; nothing could ever make me stand up and sing in front of a crowd, not even to impress a girl.

  By the time I looked back at Presley, she had her chin propped in her hand and was midway through a very dramatic eye roll.

  “Brooke.” She pointed with her head. “Over there.”

  I turned once again and finally spotted her, my pulse tripping a couple times because Presley was right, Brooke was beautiful. A year older than us and even prettier than Presley, though I would never admit it out loud for fear of getting punched. Brooke was the kind of girl you dated just to say you could. For bragging rights, to win cool points, to make yourself look better in everyone else’s eyes…if not your own. Brooke came with advantages. Be seen with her once, and all the other girls would want to be seen with you indefinitely. Still, the only thing she was doing right then was eating an apple. Presley’s point was hard to find. But of course I had to ask.

  “What about her?”

  “She’s a snake. If you scrubbed all that makeup away—what fourteen year old girl needs that much makeup anyway?—you’d find a cobra. Sharp bite and willing to kill.”

  “The only thing she’s biting right now is an apple.”

  “Last week she cheated off Jill Larson’s math test, and then Jill got a zero when Brooke claimed it was the other way around. How is that fair?”

  I ran a fry through ketchup. “How do you know it’s true?”

  “Because Jill told me, and she’s average like me.”

  Her logic made absolutely no sense, but there was no point in arguing. I’d done that many times, and each one led me down a black hole that was really hard to get out of. No girl wants to listen to rationality when madness takes over her personality. Presley was no exception. She could hold a grudge like no one I’d ever met. Except maybe my dad. I push him out of my mind, because I’m at school. Here, I can pretend he doesn’t exist.

  “So in your mind, all the pretty girls are liars and all the average girls tell the truth?”

  Presley shrugged. “The average girls don’t have anything to lose.”

  Suddenly I was mad, but couldn’t explain why. “The average girls have a lot to lose, especially when they’re so judgmental.”

  “I’m not judgmental, I’m just saying—”

  “What about the average guys? Not all of us stack up to your theory. Some of us have a lot to lose. Some of us have lost a lot already and can’t really stand the thought of losing anything else.” I picked up my carton of milk and looked at her over the open spout. “Everything isn’t always so cut and dry, Presley.”

  She was uncharacteristically quiet for a long time, her face sobering as the fight left her expression. I’d hurt her. I’d lumped her in the average crowd, completely negating what I’d said earlier. Worse, I think I did it on purpose.

  “Maybe my thinking is a little off,” she whispered. From the look on her face, I knew I’d landed a punch. Even that knowledge didn’t temper my anger.

  “Maybe it is.”

  She sighed. “She still lied about the test though.”

  I pushed the milk away and leaned toward her. “Some of us lie more than others.”

  “What do you mean, you hate reality shows?” Mara asks. “They’re a staple on American television. That’s almost like saying you don’t like baseball or hot dogs.” She practically barks this at me from her spot on my sofa as a piece of popcorn flies across my head. It’s cute, but at this I take exception. I toss her a look.

  “Do not equate Hollywood Housewives to the greatest American pastime. Quick, cross yourself and say a few Hail Mary’s before lightning strikes. You could get us both killed with that sort of rhetoric.”

  Mara laughs, something she’s been doing all night. Laughing, teasing, yelling. All in fun, and I’m having a lot of it. If this is a hint of things to come, I’m already looking forward to it. I refill our wine glasses and return the bottle to the kitchen counter, then rejoin her on the sofa. If she notices that I’ve moved a little closer, she doesn’t say anything.

  “Nothing is going to strike us. Not me, at least. You on the other hand, need to broaden your horizons. I love reality television. My two favorite books are even based on reality shows. In this first one, this girl had to get married for money and make the marriage last for six months in order to—”

  “That’s garbage. Clearly the author had no imagination. Besides, you should stick to non-fiction or at least read something besides romance. Makes the mind sharper.”

  She gives me a look. One eye narrows, the other one rises upward in a warning the way a mom might look at you when you’re ten. Normally I could blow this off. Mara is not someone I like to think of as a mother.

  “My mind is already sharp, thank you very much. Besides, my world is dull enough already. I deal in numbers and figures all day. Why in the world would I want to read about them in my off-hours?”

  I shrug. She has a point. “Touché. Maybe I’ll watch a show and see. It’s possible I’m wrong…”

  Mara clutches her chest and rolls a bit on the sofa. “Micah Leven admitting he’s wrong. I realize I’ve only known you for a week, but something tells me this is monumental.”

  I laugh and watch her. I like this, Mara with her hair down. Literally and figuratively. I’ve only seen her put together and poised, always beautiful; she’s even prettier in bare feet, a relaxed smile, and a carefree laugh. I’d blame it on the wine but I like to think it’s just the way she is when left to herself for a bit.

  “It is monumental, so don’t forget it. Only happens once a year or so.”

  “I’ll write it down.” She pretends to scribble imaginary words on her wrist before I reach out and grab it. Once I have it in my fingers locked around it, I’m not sure what to do. There’s a hard and fast line in my job—don’t date coworkers—but occasionally it’s much like a line in the sand. People draw them, but they can be washed away by the tide as though the line never existed in the first place. Of course coworkers have hooked-up at work, but no one talks about them…everyone turns a blind eye. It’s easy to pretend the reason for the business lunch or after-work drinks is all about, well, business. Easily explained away, quick to dismiss. But this is new.

  Mara’s uncle owns my job.

  She’s his niece. Not a distant third cousin or a step-daughter from four marriages ago, but a niece. The repercussions aren’t lost on me. The only thing worse would be if she were his daughter. As it stands, I could get in a lot more trouble than an under-the-table slap on the wrist. I could get fired for this. Or worse. Or…she could help take my career to the next level. For more than a few tense seconds, I weigh the consequences of both options in front of me.

  Until Mara takes them out of my hands. Man, I love forceful women. Who cares about consequences?

  She lets out a deep breath, and then she’s there. Lips on mine, hair brushing my cheek, hands pushing against my chest to hold me back, then gripping my shirt to pull me closer. Her fingers trace my jawline, my neck, my abs, doing all sorts of things to my skin. She grips the back of my neck, and I lose my balance in a way I never have before. I’m sitting down, lying down, so why is the room spinning? My hands find her waist and circle it. It’s so tiny…fits right between my palms like they were made to go together. This makes me happy. I reall
y like her waist. Which makes me think I might really like her—

  “Is this okay?” she whispers, her breath hot against my neck.

  “It’s more than okay.” My words are strangled, tight. She smiles, finding it funny. Then her mouth is on mine again and I feel a thud.

  This could be it.

  The dream I’ve always wanted. The girl. The career. The life.

  The thing that would finally—

  I shove it away, that thought. Not now. Not here. I kiss her and command myself to only think of this, right here right now.

  It isn’t a difficult task because this woman. She’s perfect for me. Her mouth is perfect. Her legs are perfect. Her hair is perfect. The way her breath comes in short little gasps is perfect. Everything is perfect. We are perfect.

  She wraps her legs around my waist and I stand supporting both of us, my hands gripping the backs of her thighs as I walk…where? It seems too soon for the bedroom, but then she isn’t saying anything to stop me. I head down the hallway, knocking us both into the wall in a clumsy effort to get us there. Mara laughs in my ear, then picks up where she left off.

  She’s kissing my neck. My chest. When did she unbutton my shirt? Why does it matter?

  It doesn’t matter. I smile into her mouth.

  The doorbell rings.

  I startle and pull back just a fraction, sure I heard it wrong. When all that greets us is silence, I smile at Mara, picking up where we left off. Within seconds she’s breathing heavy again, and I can barely breathe at all and—

  It rings again.

  This time it’s followed by pounding.

  “Micah, open up! I know you’re home because your car’s out front!”

  We both freeze. I look at her and she looks at me, her eyebrows pinched together in a question.

  “Don’t worry,” I assure her. “If we stay like this, maybe whoever it is will go away.” Any guilt I feel is negated by the fact that she has the worst timing ever. Couldn’t she have waited ten more minutes?

  The pounding sounds again. Presley isn’t leaving.

  “Micah, come on. I’m freezing out here!”

  I groan into the wall.

  “Who is that?” Mara whispers, her expression a mixture of confusion and annoyance. How am I supposed to answer that?

  “Don’t make me bust the door down!” Presley yells. The words are distant, but her voice is clear.

  I come up with a marginally plausible response and say it before I can stop myself.

  “It’s my sister.” Guilt hits me in waves the second the words are out. I don’t know why I lie, but it’s easier than it should be. Saying It’s my best friend that I sorta have feelings for seems like it might not go over well. I don’t want Mara to be mad.

  I don’t want Presley to be mad either.

  “I didn’t know you have a sister,” she says.

  I peel myself away from Mara.

  “I guess it just never came up.” I quickly and button my shirt, then gesture for Mara to pull her skirt down and maybe fix her hair. All this communication happens with a frantic swirl of my finger, but she manages to get the message. She’s up and pulling herself together just as I exit the hallway. I make it to the living room and pause, waiting for Mara to join me. Presley cannot see her in any part of the house but this one. She would draw her own conclusions.

  That never ends well.

  I breathe a sigh of relief when Mara sits back down on the sofa, looking like she just arrived, looking nothing like we were just making out in the hallway.

  Presley bangs on the door again. “I have a hammer and I’m not afraid to use it!”

  “Your sister seems real nice,” Mara quips.

  I roll my eyes. “Super nice. She doesn’t even own a hammer.” With a sigh, I open the door and feel my eyes widen. There’s a hammer poised above her head.

  “You really have a hammer? And you were going to use it on my door?”

  “What took you so long?”

  Presley glares at me and returns the weapon to her purse. No big deal. She’s just psycho. She steps into the living room uninvited. This might annoy me, but I do the same thing at her house. What’s hers is mine, what’s mine is hers, and all of it blends together at this point. She’s wearing my old leather jacket to drive the reality home.

  “I was changing my clothes.”

  “Well next time change faster. I need you to—who’s that?” she asks, her gaze frozen on Mara. She takes her in much like one might take in a rabid dog. Will it sit there and growl, or will it pounce? When Mara does neither, Presley crosses her arms and turns back to me, flicking her eyes in Mara’s direction. Come on jerk, I dare you to introduce me. I really don’t want to. How do I get myself into these situations?

  “Presley, this is Mara. My coworker. And Mara…” I swallow, thinking that first part was a little iffy and knowing this part won’t go over well. “…This is Presley. My sister.”

  Both women gape at me. One in a question. Coworker?

  The other…

  Like hell I’m your sister.

  …no doubt mentally reaching for that hammer.

  FOUR

  “I need you to come with me brother,” Presley says, arms still crossed, stretching out that last word much more than was required, a dare you to say no glint in her eyes. “I need help.”

  An immediate wave of suspicion rolls through me at this. Presley never needs my help. The last time she asked for it, we were in high school. A date got a bit too handsy with her, so she called me in to pretend to be her older and super-handsome big brother—funny how we both fall back on that excuse when backed into a corner. I rescued her and took her home, where we proceeded to make frozen pizza and watch a movie well past midnight. I couldn’t tell you what movie; I spent most of the night wondering if I should kiss her or not.

  In the end, I didn’t. Part of me has regretted it ever since.

  “Help with what?” It’s an awkward situation, standing in your own living room with your date on the sofa and your best friend slash lifelong crush slash fake sister staring at you from the entryway. For one second I imagine the women in a duel over who likes me best, but then I remember this is Presley. She loves me, but she would never fight over it.

  Plus, she isn’t all that needy. In this relationship, that would best describe me.

  “I have a flat tire. You need to help me change it.”

  That suspicion rolling through me? It grabs the back of my shirt and slams me against the wall. I give her a look.

  “You know how to change a tire, Presley. You’re the one who taught me.”

  Her gaze flicks to Mara before landing back on me. That’s when I realize it. She knew Mara was here and came here on purpose. Her tire probably isn’t even flat, or if it is there’s likely a knife sticking out of the bottom, plunged through the middle with her fingerprints all over it. I reluctantly let her in and close the front door. Behind me, Mara rolls her eyes.

  “Hello, Micah’s sister. You have wonderful timing.”

  I pause and turn to look at her. She plucks a piece of lint off her skirt without glancing up. The words sound bitter, slightly rude considering Presley is supposedly family. If Presley notices, she doesn’t say anything, just keeps talking as though Mara hasn’t spoken at all.

  “I’m already late to a meeting with an advertiser, Micah. And you’re better at changing a tire than me.”

  Two things about her statement: it’s true, I am better at it. And faster and more efficient and entirely more capable. But the other thing? Presley is tugging at her gold hoop earring; a dead giveaway that she’s lying, breaking one of the ten commandments like a wicked little sinner.

  “You have a meeting with an advertiser at…” I check my watch and layer on the incredulity, “eight-thirty on a Friday night?”

  “Yes. At Staplehouse. And I don’t want to be later than I already am. So could you help me? Please?”

  It’s the way she says that last word. On anyone
else it would sound like begging, but on Presley it sounds…vulnerable. She isn’t the vulnerable type, and it tugs at my heart. Makes me wonder if she’s being sincere. I can’t say no.

  “Where’s your car?” I ask her.

  “On the next block.”

  “Got a spare tire in the trunk?”

  Presley rolls her eyes. “Yes, dad. I might be a girl, but I’m not stupid.”

  Behind me, I hear Mara laugh. It isn’t an amused sound. It’s a This-Girl-Is-Ruining-Our-Evening laugh. I think of her pressed against me just a few short minutes ago, her long legs locked around mine with no plans to set me free. She might be right, our night might be over. But maybe if I work fast enough…

  “Can you wait here for a few minutes?” I ask her. “It’s a little known fact that I hold the world record for speed-tire changing. Ten minutes—that’s all I need.”

  “Ten minutes is all you need for most things,” Presley mutters to herself. I glare at her. Not funny.

  I focus on Mara again, desperate for her to stay. When she smiles, all the stars align and my pulse speeds up. Ten minutes might be a little ambitious, but I’ll give it my best shot.

  “I’ll stay,” she says.

  I set myself an internal timer and push Presley out the door. When I hear it latch, I begin to count. One, two, three, seven…

  “Lead me to your car, and hurry up about it.”

  “Yes sir,” she says.

  This dad bit is getting old.

  “You asked Brooke to the dance? Of all the people you could have asked, you asked her?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with Brooke.”

  “Exactly. That’s what’s wrong with her. She’s perfect. At least she wants everyone to think so. And here you are, buying into the act.”

  If I hadn’t known better, I would’ve thought Presley was jealous. But Presley was tough, she never got jealous. She was also my best friend, so why would she care who I take to the dance? She already had a date with Josh Evans. She didn’t even tell me before saying yes. For a second I was irritated. With her. With me. But mainly with the nerdy guy who was suddenly my enemy. He better be nice, or he’d have me to deal with. Some might’ve called me small for my age—the some being my father on a near-weekly basis—but I knew how to hit and I knew how to chop someone into bits using words alone. You learned to do all sorts of things when you had so much time to yourself.