Lies We Tell Ourselves Read online

She thinks I’m her savior. But I know I would destroy her.

  You think you’re better than me? You’re nothing. I know you’re nothing. Your mother knew you were nothing. You can try as hard as you want to, but you’ll never amount to anything. Eventually you’ll be back in this town and in this neighborhood, and I’ll be laughing from the grave.

  It’s the memory of my father’s words that makes me walk backwards.

  “I’ve got to go. Mara is waiting on me at home, and I can’t just leave her there.”

  Presley’s eyes turn downward, she focuses on the pavement without saying a word. One nod is her only response. A single movement that tells me everything.

  You’ve done it again.

  Stop using me.

  You’re such an incredible jerk.

  Why am I not good enough?

  It’s that last question that I can’t bring myself to face. It’s that last question that hangs between us, the elephant in the room, the bronze medal dangling between your fingers when you trained so hard for gold.

  She asked me about it once. Why am I not good enough? And I lied. Told her that we had different goals and dreams, that I couldn’t lower my standards for someone who wanted to stay small-town and small press. In truth, I couldn’t let Presley settle for someone like me. Someone that no one liked for long. Eventually she would wake up and leave too.

  But if I never let her get too close, maybe she’ll never grow tired of me. Maybe she’ll never see the truth of what I really am. A mistake. A burden. Maybe then she’ll stay.

  More than anything else—more than love, more than sex, more than any physical thing that could ever happen between us—I want Presley to stay. If she stays, maybe then I might feel worth someone’s time. If she stays, maybe that would prove my parents were wrong.

  “Presley, you know how much I care about you, right? That I would do anything you need me to?” It’s the only thing I can think to say; my standard fallback. I’ve said it so much at this point we could both write the script. But this time, Presley doesn’t recite her lines. She doesn’t say yes.

  She just looks at me, her mouth tilting upward on a sad smile.

  Then without another word, she climbs into her car, closes the door, and quickly drives away—gravel kicking up the pavement in little clouds of dust. My eyes dart back and forth, much like my pulse. I ignore them both and watch her go.

  “I’m glad you knocked on my door,” I whisper to no one, feeling the weight of my own disappointment settle around my shoulders, pulling me lower until I’m sitting on the curb with my head resting in my hands.

  Why do I keep doing this to us?

  When did my words start to become untrue? I swallow, hating myself just a little. And then like the driven, purposeful guy I am, I straighten my shoulders and look at the situation rationally.

  Three days. Three days is all it ever takes for her to forget. Three days is all she ever needs to forgive me. By then she calls. She always calls.

  My Presley. She’s a clock that never runs out of batteries, a phone that never dies. Dependable. Solid.

  There. Always always there for me.

  After a few long moments where I sit collecting my thoughts, I stand to head home. Mara is waiting. I promised her I’d be gone ten minutes, but it’s been fifteen. Another broken word spoken to another waiting girl, and I need to make it up to her. With one last glance toward the now vacant road, I walk home. Three days.

  Clock’s ticking.

  Tick.

  Tick.

  Tock.

  FIVE

  I gave up on the hope of three days a long time ago.

  It’s been six, and there’s no sign of the standoff letting up any time soon.

  She hasn’t called. She hasn’t texted. She hasn’t even liked a single one of my Instagram photos, which I’m embarrassed to say matters to me. I’m fifteen with an anxiety attack and checking social media every ten minutes in the hopes of alleviating it. Where is Presley? Why won’t she call? Where is my Xanax? Why don’t I take Xanax?

  I’m calling a doctor and demanding some the moment I get off work.

  Presley once told me that I can sometimes be a neurotic head case. I’m starting to think maybe she was right.

  “Hey, you.” Mara walks up to the news desk and drops her hands on the desk in front of me. We’re on the air in ten minutes, and I just sat down to review my notes. Most anchors wait until the last minute, but I like to be prepared. I sit here under the lights and sweat, then let the makeup artists powder me a few times before show time. It annoys some, but I don’t care. I need a minute to get into television mode. Some anchors do breathing exercises, I visualize. It works for me and always has.

  You know what else works for me? Mara and her sweet, sweet smile. One look at it makes me almost forget about what’s her name who hasn’t contacted me yet.

  “Hey, yourself.” I smile at her, and I mean it. She really is beautiful. And kind. And everything I’ve ever wanted in a woman. My heart tugs a little. The feeling isn’t unwelcome.

  Mara slides her hands across the desk and looks me in the eye, a tiny flicker of uncertainty pulling at the corners. “I want you to know that I’m really sorry about the way I handled things last weekend. I just—”

  “You don’t need to apologize anymore. I shouldn’t have left my apartment so quickly, and I certainly shouldn’t have stayed gone so long.”

  “Can I make it up to you?” she asks. “Tonight?” She looks hopeful, likes she’s afraid I’ll say no. I won’t. Of course I won’t. I pick up a pen and roll it between my fingers, leaning forward.

  “Absolutely, even though there’s nothing to make up. Can you leave right after work?”

  She smiles. “I can. In fact, I already have something in mind.” The way her eyes brighten makes my chest fold in half. My breath catches and I feel it…anticipation.

  “Can I have a hint?” I say. I’ve never liked surprises. What’s fun for most people can be scary for others.

  She gives me a playful look. “Absolutely not.”

  Some of my apprehension fades. “Not even a small one?” I start to reach for her hand, but think better of it and lean on my elbows. Not here, not now, bad idea.

  She shakes her head, a mischievous look in her eyes. “Not even that. I’ll see you at seven.” Mara spins as though to leave but pauses with a half turn. “Micah? Thanks for not holding a grudge. I promise to make it a night you won’t forget.” With that, she walks away and around the corner. I stare after her, realizing a minute too late that two cameramen and Holly—my co-anchor—are staring at me with curious expressions on their faces. Apparently, my attempt at masking things isn’t working so well.

  “What?” I aim the question at all three, trying and failing to appear innocent. The look never works when it’s accompanied by heat creeping up your face. “Stop looking at me like that. Piper! I need make up.”

  Now I’m sweating, and it’s one minute to air time. I completely lost track of time, and I’m still not prepared.

  See what women do to you when you’re not paying attention?

  “Does it hurt?”

  I flinched and locked my fingers around her wrist without thinking. She looked at me but didn’t blink; I didn’t blink either. “No, I rather like the feel of my skin swelling, especially on my face. It makes me feel like Bruce Banner when he starts to turn into The Incredible Hulk. If only I had some green paint…”

  She pressed the cold cloth against my skin again, ignoring my hand that I still hadn’t moved. “You’re a hundred pounds soaking wet. Hardly the Hulk.”

  “I’m a hundred and twenty-two completely dry, thank you very much.”

  Her mouth twitched, and suddenly my face didn’t hurt as much. “My bad. Consider me impressed.”

  “I knew I’d make you like me one day.”

  “Yep. As soon as I make your eye better, I’m going to jump your bones right here in this chair. Get ready.”

  I tried to
think of a retort, but came up empty. We play this little game with each other when no one else was around. I liked to call it Who Can Make Who The Most Uncomfortable In Ten Seconds Or Less. Presley called it Hot and Bothered, but I liked my title better. It made me less…hot and bothered. Except for right then. I was a sixteen-year-old boy who’d never had sex and thought about it all the time even while asleep. Especially while asleep. As for Presley, she had never even been kissed. It was a dangerous game for two amateur best friends making up the rules as they went along. I squirmed in my seat at the same time I heard her breathy laugh.

  “Nothing to say to that? I guess that means I win.”

  “Be quiet, Presley. You don’t win anything. And stop laughing. You have bad breath.”

  To retaliate, she opened her mouth wide and breathed right into my nose. There was nothing I could do to stop her, for two reasons. One, the cold washcloth felt too good against my throbbing eye and I didn’t want her to take it away. And two, the exact place she was standing provided me with a nice view straight down her shirt, and I didn’t want her to move. Other than the swelling eye and what felt like tiny razors blades slicing the inside of my brain in crisscross shapes, these things were a win-win for me.

  “I don’t have bad breath. Take it back.”

  “Okay, you don’t have bad breath. But I’m not sure that red bra should be worn with your purple shirt. You might want to rethink that next time, even though the lace is a nice touch.”

  It was the wrong thing to say. She took a step back and pressed a hand to her shirt, then tossed the wet rag straight at my head. I lurched to the side to avoid the hit, and that made everything worse. My eye throbbed and my head split from the pain.

  “Stop looking at my bra, Micah. Next time you can—” The sound of my pathetic groan got to her, and she stopped talking. Suddenly her hands were back on me, and everything settled. “How bad does it hurt? I swear, I’m going to kill him.”

  “It hurts, but please don’t kill him. You’d go to jail, and then I would be stuck here by myself. Everyone needs a Presley in their life, and I don’t want to lose mine.”

  I groaned again because it hurt so badly. It took me a minute to notice that her hand had stilled. I blinked up at her to see what was wrong, surprised to see that tears had formed in the corners of her eyes. The sight pained me more than my father’s fist ever could.

  “Hey, why are you—”

  My chest tightened when she climbed onto my lap, straddling me the way lovers do. But we weren’t lovers, we were friends. I took her by the hips anyway and pulled her closer, unable to breathe when she wrapped her arms around my neck and settled her cheek against my throat. We stayed that way for a long time, my beating heart and her sniffles the only sound in the room. Presley’s tears usually involved me, something I wasn’t proud of.

  “Are you okay?” I whispered the words, unwilling to break the spell. It no longer mattered that my head was affecting my vision. I closed my eyes and reveled in the feel of her against me.

  She nodded but made no attempt to move. “Thank you for saying that.”

  I frown. “That everyone needs a Presley?” When she nodded again, I shrugged and kept talking. “They do. Lucky me, I got the best one.”

  Her arms tightened around my neck, and she nuzzled against my cheek. “I don’t like it when he hurts you.”

  My breath caught, the weight of our reality spreading over me. She couldn’t stand it when I was hurt. I couldn’t stand it when she cried. Yes, we were friends. But she was mine and I was hers and anyone who stood in the way of that would be destroyed. I made that vow to myself right then. When you have no one at all and God gives you the unexpected gift of a friend who understands everything and accepts you anyway, it’s just the way things worked.

  “And I don’t like it when you cry. So stop.”

  She sat up straight and wiped her eyes but made no move to get off my lap. At that point, I wouldn’t have let her if she tried. I tightened my grip on her thighs just in case.

  “Okay I will.” She scanned my face and sighed. “It’s turning purple already. I’m not sure if you’ll be able to hide this one.”

  I tweaked her under the chin with my knuckle, forcing her to look at me. “We’ll just tell everyone you punched me when I made a pass at you.”

  She rolled her eyes, but her cheeks stained pink. “You didn’t make a pass at me.”

  “Not yet.”

  Presley’s throat constricted on a swallow. “Try it and I will punch you.”

  I didn’t tell her that I planned to.

  I didn’t tell her that I heard the lie in her voice.

  “Oh, that’s not going to work at all.”

  We met at the front door, and Mara is giving me the slow once-over. I would be flattered, but she looks puzzled, disapproving. It isn’t a look I’m used to. I look down at my black slacks and newly polished shoes, gesturing to both.

  “What’s wrong with it?’

  She contemplates my question, her face open and guileless. She doesn’t want to hurt my feelings, so she’s choosing her words carefully.

  “It’s just…do you have any sneakers in your office? Maybe some joggers or jeans? Those would be better for what I have planned.”

  What she has planned. I foolishly assumed what she had planned included drinks, dancing, and fun games at my place. Or at least that last part. It’s all I’ve thought about all afternoon. From the looks of things, I couldn’t have been more wrong if I’d turned right at a Do Not Enter and had to face oncoming traffic. I’m feeling very run over at the moment.

  Even more so when it hits me that Mara is dressed in yoga pants, black hiking boots, and an over-the-shoulder sweater. It’s a great look on her. Mara could somehow wear a Target bag and make it sexy. My look was suave and hopefully irresistible tonight; now it’s clear I should have aimed for college frat boy.

  “I think I have a pair of jeans upstairs. Not sure about the sneakers, though.”

  Mara backs toward a bench and casually lowers herself to it. “I’ll sit here and wait while you change.” She rests her elbows on her knees and looks up at me. Her wide, waiting eyes put me in motion. If it’s casual she wants, it’s casual she’ll get. I walk a straight line to the elevator and push the button a couple times. Once I’m upstairs, I’d place money on the fact that you’ve never seen a man change faster.

  “Your hiking boots implied that we would actually be hiking,” I say, letting the gun fall to my side. Why am I holding a gun?

  “That’s because you know nothing about women’s fashion. Hiking boots go with everything. Even a dress.” It might be the sexiest image I’ve ever seen, especially since her hips just swayed with the words like she is trying to drive me insane. “Now pick up your gun and start shooting.”

  “I’m wearing a Gucci shirt.”

  “No one cares. That was a bad decision on your part. I said jeans and sneakers.”

  “I’m wearing sneakers.” I lift a foot to show her.

  “They’re Michael Kors.”

  “No one told me they weren’t supposed to be nice.” I drop my foot and holster my weapon. “Now, are we going to play, or are you going to point out my wardrobe flaws all night?”

  She winks. “I’m kind of enjoying pointing out your—”

  I shoot her on the spot. On the leg. That’s it. Stop talking. Game on.

  “You shot me!” She yells, looking at her thigh. Then at me. Then her thigh. Then me. It’s when her look changes from incredulous to vengeful that’s when I know I’m dead. “You just ruined a perfectly good pair of yoga pants. You’re going to pay for this.” She raises her gun and aims for my head. “I’m going to enjoy watching you lose this game.”

  “Good luck with that, because I have no plans to lose.” A paint ball lands on my shoulder. “Okay, I’m not playing around anymore. You’re dead!” I yell, ducking behind a palm tree just as a ball of yellow paint clears my head and splats on a bucket behind me. Close cal
l, one I plan to keep dodging all night. I shoot and miss by at least three feet. There are other people here, but it’s just Mara and me in this game. I’ve never played paint ball with just one other person before, but something tells me I might like it. Me against her, winner comes out on top. Yep, I’m warming up to the idea real quick.

  This stain better be dry-cleanable.

  I assess the area for a second, then dart behind a boulder to my left. I crouch low, on the lookout, adrenaline rushing. Somewhere there’s a blond girl hiding who needs to be punished. She’ll move. She’ll make one wrong one and I’ll get her.

  I suck in a breath as something takes out my back. It stings, sharp and burning. My expensive shirt looks like it’s been soaked in an ink well. Whipping around, I see the edge of Mara’s sweater just as it disappears behind a log. That’s it. I’m not going to be killed by this woman, no matter how hot she looks. A man has his pride, and mine will not be shaken. I jump up with a growl and take aim, running for her spot, but when I make it there she’s gone. She’s like trying to catch a jackrabbit. Time to set a trap.

  I look around for something…anything…and spot it. A piece of wood the size of a single gardening woodchip is lying in front of me. With the stealth of a sharpshooter, I stretch for it and pick it up without making any noise. Of all the times for my knees to pop or my joints to creak, this is not it. Heaving the chip over my head, I sail it twenty feet away. Just as I’d hoped, blonde hair flutters in front of me as Mara shoots toward the sound. What a brat, thinking she’s going to take me down now. It’s almost comical, watching the way she stops, plants her feet, looks right, looks left, spins around with a busted look on her face.

  I spray her with four bullets, all taking care to stay below her waist. Sometimes these things leave a bruise, and marking up her face would be a shame.

  “Stop!” she screams, trying in vain to avoid getting hit. When her hands fly in front of her, I accidentally get her in the palm. When she spins around to protect her front, I nail her in the butt. When her hands slap her butt, I shoot her in the knee.

  One hits her boob.

  I’m not proud of that.