Lies We Tell Ourselves Read online

  “It’s not an act, Presley. Brooke can’t help it if she’s pretty. She can’t help it if all the boys want to go out with her. But guess what? I asked her and she said yes, so I win.”

  She planted a hand on her hip and gaped at me.

  “So that’s what love is to you? A game? Nice to know before I let myself fall too hard.”

  Too hard? For me?

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “If I have to explain it, then it isn’t worth talking about.”

  She turned on her heel and marched away, and I just stared after her like a mute idiot…because girls. They speak in riddles. And then they expect us to solve them like we’re detectives with a hidden clock ticking down to the explosion. But boys, we speak in simple sentences. We’re not complex even when we should be, like in times when we can’t do anything but stand in one place and try to process. Presley is a freaking Rubik’s Cube with a few missing squares. A combination lock that clicks on the number seven and recognizes it as an eight. I’d never process her. I’d never unlock her or figure her out. She was unsolvable. And I was only fifteen. What did she expect?

  I stopped trying to process, because hold up for just a second.

  In the four years I’d known her, she had never once walked away from me. She wasn’t going to start now, not if I could help it.

  I took off running after her, planning to round the corner and go out the door and into the parking lot if I had to. I didn’t. Presley was tucked inside an alcove just past my first turn. I almost missed her, and would have if I hadn’t heard the familiar sniff. I stopped running and turned around.

  “What are you doing?”

  I could see her glare even from the shadows. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

  Her voice broke in the last word, and my anger crumbled. Without thinking twice about it, I joined her in the alcove.

  “Hey, why are you crying?”

  “Why do you always answer a question with another question?”

  It was a fair argument, so I stopped talking and listened to her heart break.

  I hated the sound. I had only heard her cry a handful of times and wasn’t prepared for it now. In our relationship, I was the crier and she was the comforter. It isn’t fun when tables turn, especially when the table tips over and lands on your heart. The heart can only take so much grief, and mine had just hit full capacity. My father’s fist, my mother’s abandonment, my own self-hatred…none had managed to crash through the barriers around my sadness level. But her…one tear from Presley and my eyes filled with them too. I stepped closer until we were encased in darkness and pressed almost entirely together. Other than the times when we huddled side by side under the relative safety of my front porch, this was the closest we had ever been. It was also the first time my heart did weird flips inside my chest at the mere thought of her. I couldn’t explain the sensation, so I decided it was just a fierce need to protect.

  “Tell me why you’re crying.” I searched her face, my hands grasped her shoulders and slid to the back of her neck, both thumbs traced her cheeks. I wanted the wetness off her face, and I swiped furiously trying to make it disappear. “It’s just a dance. I didn’t ask her to marry me.”

  With tears still running down her face, Presley managed to laugh. I managed to keep myself from punching the air in victory and instead went for more. “Do you think she would marry me? Not today, but maybe next year, after Valentine’s Day…”

  “Ask her to marry you and I’ll kill you both.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand and looked me in the eye. “Don’t think I couldn’t do it, because I could.”

  “I have no doubt, you of the butterflies and pink and blue sidewalk chalk. I bet you inhale magic chalk dust when I’m not looking just to make yourself stronger.”

  She laughed again, and everything about my world was set to right. “I inject it straight into my veins too, just to give myself extra powers.” How did I not notice how pretty Presley’s laugh was before then? The thought stumped me, but I hadn’t. I ran a finger across her chin to catch the last tear.

  “Why does the idea of me marrying Brooke upset you?” It was a silly question, one that I might regret asking. But Presley seemed overly upset at the idea, and the question would nag at my mind until she gave me an answer. We’d never been anything but friends—good friends, better than most I would guess because I don’t think most friends hold hands and make plans together and whisper under sagging porches about shared dreams and frightening realities—but friends all the same.

  I might have been fifteen, but I’d learned a long time ago that I could ask Presley anything and she would give me an honest answer. I’d also learned that not knowing the truth was far worse than wondering about it, even if the truth was hard to take.

  She looked over my shoulder even though there was nothing to see but bricks and blackness. Her mouth worked like she was composing an answer. When none came after several seconds, I prompted her again.

  “Presley?”

  Her eyes snapped to mine. “Because you’re going to marry me, that’s why.”

  The words surprised me so much that I took a step back and bounced into the wall. I barely noticed the pain.

  “I am?”

  “Yes, when we’re twenty-nine, I’m a successful editor for a magazine, and you’re living in the city doing whatever it is you want to do. I have our twenty-year plan all figured out in my head. I hope you’re okay with it.”

  At the no-bargaining look in her eyes, I tried not to laugh.

  “Do I get a say at all?”

  She thought for a second. “Sure, you can pick the date.”

  At that, I laughed. No one could make me smile more than her. “Okay then, I guess we’ll get married.” As I said the words, I wanted it to be true. But I knew it was a lie; I would never fit into that perfect family picture Presley had painted for us both.

  She stepped around me and out of the alcove, leaving me slightly cold and feeling a little off balance. I liked being that close to her. She turned to look at me over her shoulder.

  “Fine, take Brooke to the dance. As long as you remember that after it’s over, you go back to being mine.”

  “Fine.”

  After a brief stare down during which neither of us blinked, she walked away. I smiled to myself as I watched her leave. But then my smile vanished.

  “You’ll never amount to anything, son. You’ll live here and die here just like me and your grandpa and his dad. It’s what Levens do.”

  I’d heard those words so many times from my dad that I could recite them in my sleep. I would never amount to anything.

  I might not make it to the city. I might not be successful. I might not live up to my part of Presley’s plan.

  The only thing I knew for certain is that once I grew up, I wouldn’t stay here.

  I would leave.

  Just like my mom with her new husband and new son.

  I would grab every opportunity to prove I deserved more than this. Someday everyone would regret the way they tossed me aside and made me feel like I wasn’t worth anything. They would regret every hand slap and spiteful word and empty promise to come back for me.

  I would do whatever it took to kill my dad’s words and my mother’s lies and prove them both wrong once and for all.

  Rage is the color red. Have you ever noticed that? When you’re angry, it’s the first color you see. If you don’t believe me, try it out next time you feel that hot bubble of wrath creep to the forefront of your mind. Like when you get pulled over for a speeding ticket, or when you finally make the front of the line to a just-sold-out movie, or—unfortunately for me—when you turn on the nightly news. Close your eyes and you’ll see it. Red. Blood red. Rage infested red.

  It’s the color I see right now. I made it all the way down the street and around the corner and boom. There it was.

  “You don’t have a flat tire.”

  Presley shrugs. “It must ha
ve aired itself back up. Strange newfangled technology.”

  “Your car is ten years old.”

  “Don’t insult it. You’ll hurt her feelings.”

  The red is turning purple and threatening to make me color blind. “She doesn’t have feelings. Makes two of you.”

  She startles and I’m a jerk. Doesn’t mean I’m not still mad.

  “Whatever, Micah.”

  “Whatever? You come to my house, pull me away from the first good date I’ve had in forever, and all you can think to say is whatever?”

  “Yep. That’s pretty much all I’ve got.” She examines her fingernails. That, more than anything, pisses me off.

  I take a step closer. “Am I boring you?”

  She drops her hand. “To death.”

  “Speaking of to death, I could strangle you.”

  She doesn’t even blink. “Probably a bad idea. You don’t want to be the headline on your own newscast tomorrow night. Talk about perfect irony.”

  “We aren’t talking about newscasts…”

  “Speaking of boring.” She actually sighs.

  “…We’re talking about your lies.”

  I finally see it. The flash of temper I knew was hidden somewhere. Her eyes go black. Funny enough, black is my favorite color.

  “What lies? I thought I had a flat tire. It was hard to see it in the dark. I guess I was wrong.”

  I throw my hands up in the air and pace back and forth a few times. If I had remembered to count, I would probably be over a hundred by now. Which gives me about three more minutes until I’m supposed to be home.

  “Why would you do that?”

  She shoves her hands in her jacket pockets and looks up at me. “Do what?”

  “Knock on my door for no reason at all.”

  Her mouth falls. “No reason at—? You mean, like when you griped at me last week for going on a date which was the exact same thing?” When I say nothing in response, she visibly deflates. “Because I don’t trust her. What is up with her social media? Did you know you’re all over it?”

  “Yes, I know that. Do you follow her?”

  She huffs. “Of course not. She tags you on everything, so I was accidently stalking her.”

  “That’s weird, Presley.”

  She aims a what do you expect look at me. “I know it’s weird. I’ve never had a reason to stalk anyone before, and I resent it.”

  “Then quit doing it.” Is this even a conversation?

  No surprise that she ignores me. “No. The minute I saw how perfect she is, I knew I had to. Of course she’s beautiful.” She might as well have said of course she has horns protruding from her scalp. Disgust mars her features.

  “What does being beautiful have to do with anything?”

  “It has everything to do with everything. It’s the type you always go for, ever since Brooke in ninth grade and Jennifer in tenth. Did you not learn your lesson back then?”

  Brooke left the dance with another boy and Jennifer stood me up for prom all together. I ended up going alone and didn’t dance with anyone but Presley. Even then, she had a date and could only dance once. Thirty minutes after I arrived, I drove myself home. Ten minutes after that, I was clutching my left cheek to try to stem the throbbing from the glass bottle my father had just slammed into my face. Never surprise a drunk man when he’s relieving himself in the bathroom. My face was covered in blood and my foot was sprayed with urine. Lesson learned.

  “Not all beautiful girls are terrible, Presley.”

  “No, just the ones you go for. You have a knack for choosing the awful ones. Did you know her uncle owns your company?”

  I plant a hand on my hip. “Yes, I know that. So what?”

  “So isn’t that against company policy?”

  “How do you even know—”

  “Because I Googled it. Someone has to take care of you.”

  I soften a bit at this. “You Googled her?”

  Presley gets a you’re an idiot look on her face. “I just said that. I looked her up. Something isn’t right about her.”

  “You don’t even know her.”

  “It’s a feeling I get in my gut. Plus I know her type. Perfect body, perfect hair, perfect injected lips, perfect fake boobs.”

  “Are these negatives? Because if you’re trying to talk me out of her, you’ll have to try a little harder.” I try not to smile at her angry expression, but a tiny one creeps up. Presley notices and lifts her chin.

  “Very negative. I didn’t think you were that shallow.”

  I lose the smile. Her words pinch a nerve somewhere around my stomach. It’s an old feeling, one I’ve dealt with for years. I don’t like it.

  “Take that back.”

  She shakes her head, stubborn. “No, because right now you are shallow. It’s disappointing, not to mention you’re better than that.”

  “Maybe I’m not.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Maybe you should be.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “Yes.” Except the word is delivered on a hesitant whisper.

  “Really?”

  She doesn’t respond. We stand toe to toe, daring one another to make the first move.

  Of course it’s me. I can’t help it.

  Her silence unleashes something in me, making me react in a way I never do anymore. But someone needs to teach her a lesson. I reach for her and push her against the car, flattening her back so she can’t run away. A dare? A challenge? It doesn’t matter. She pushes back but only halfheartedly, like she’s trying to punish me but doesn’t want herself to suffer in the process. We both suffer when we’re this close, in more ways than anyone else knows. It’s like a drug; you kick the habit, mark the years sober on the calendar, celebrate with a well-earned congratulatory vacation at the ten-year mark. But all the while, you remember the hit; what it felt like, tasted like, and the euphoria that followed.

  And you miss it. Man you miss it.

  I slide my fingers around her neck and tilt her head back with my thumb. Her breath catches like she can’t decide if I’m going to scold her again, choke her with a strong grip—a tempting possibility—or kiss her. I’ve moved so close that we’re nose to nose, breath to breath. Hers smells like wintergreen gum, my favorite. I trail both thumbs behind her ears and swallow when she visibly shivers. My pulse thrums so loudly in my ears that I can barely hear myself speak.

  “Take it back,” I say again. One last chance. My voice isn’t nearly as forceful as I’d hoped.

  She licks her lips. “No. Shallow is an ugly look on you.”

  I lean closer. “Take it back.”

  Her eyelids flutter. “No.” The word dissolves in the space between us.

  I can’t help it. I’m falling off the wagon and I don’t even care. I press my lips lightly to hers. For a few seconds she’s unsure; I can tell by the way her mouth shudders under mine. But then…then her fists clench the sides of my shirt and a soft little moan escapes her throat. Her teeth catch my bottom lip and my body responds. I’m kissing Presley Waterman for only the second time in my life, and right now I’m wondering why it isn’t two thousand.

  She leans in and our mouths move together. In. Out. Pull. Tug. My mind, heart, and soul are already gone and we’ve barely begun. I press her further against the car and push myself in closer, dizzy from the feel of our bodies this close together. If she feels trapped or confined, she seems okay with it. More than okay. Her fingertips trail my waistline in swirls, leaving hot ribbons of desire in their wake until I think I might combust. When she pulls up on my shirt and tugs it free, then moves her hands up my back, I’m pretty sure I do.

  I lift her onto the hood of the car and slide between her legs. She wraps them around me and draws me toward her. I’m not one to argue, so I go. My mouth clips her ear, her neck, her collarbone. A moan escapes her at the same time my fingers dance up her spine. I’m kneading the bare skin of her shoulder blades, in and out, squeeze and release, moving around to her stomach an
d fighting the urge to go up. My legs feel heavy, my knees shaky, my mind crazy as it tries to process what is happening…what I want…how I feel. I tell it to be quiet and explore her mouth with my tongue. This isn’t the time to analyze. This what I want. What I’ve always wanted. I’ve known it for one minute and fifteen years and all the seconds in between. Presley is my whole world. Always has been.

  I’ve never felt this way with Mara. Not even close.

  Mara.

  Reality bounces me into the sidewalk and I pull back as something breaks. The moment, it shatters. The feelings, they dull. My breathing, it steadies. What have I done? Why did I break? Am I so weak that I can’t have even the slightest amount of self-control? She’ll hate me for sure this time. That’s what happens when you show people how much you really care.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t know what I was thinking—”

  Presley looks at me with wide eyes, her hands still gripping my waist, want and need mixed with confusion. Right before my eyes, the confusion fades and turns to hurt. “Don’t you dare apologize.” Her lashes brim with it, diamond droplets that crack my heart. “I mean it, Micah. Don’t.”

  “I won’t,” I say, putting more space between us and wiping my mouth with the back of my fist, fighting a desire to punch myself with it. I will not hurt her. I will not risk what we have. I will not lose her. She deserves better than me, and I couldn’t live with the loss. “I’m sorry.”

  “Micah.”

  She says my name in a voice so crushing that my spirit breaks in half. I’ve hurt her anyway. Again. How many times am I going to hurt her? How will I live with myself this time? Presley loves me, I’ve always known and never shied away from it. As for my own feelings…they match hers in every way but one.