Lies We Tell Ourselves

by Amy Matayo

  Lies We Tell Ourselves

  by

  AMY MATAYO

  Copyright © 2018 by Amy Matayo

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved.

  Visit my website at www.amymatayo.com

  No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.

  For my sisters, because you ARE worth it.

  Don’t let anyone tell you different.

  And for the unloved, the heartbroken, the questioning,

  the conflicted, the discarded, the sad.

  You’re loved, always.

  So rise up, shake yourself off,

  and make your own happy ending.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  PART ONE

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  PART TWO

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  PART THREE

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Epilogue

  Six Months Later

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Other books by Amy Matayo

  About the Author

  Excerpt from The End of the World

  “Why don’t you tell me that

  ‘if the girl had been worth having,

  she’d have waited for you’?

  No sir, the girl really worth having

  won’t wait for anybody.”

  —F. Scott Fitzgerald

  PROLOGUE

  Him

  There are ghosts inside the closet, and one just grabbed my neck. I felt its spindly finger trace a jagged line over my Adam’s Apple and press in at my throat. Boys aren’t supposed to scream here, but a loud one crawls up my mouth, ready to break free with a wail. The scream gets stuck. I stick a finger down my throat and try to pull it out. If I don’t, no one will hear me when I die. No one will know if I get taken.

  My eyes fly open. I’m sucking my thumb, and it tastes like spaghetti sauce. I’m breathing heavy, still trying to wake up. I lie still, listening for noises outside my closet. No footsteps pad the hallway, and my heartbeat slows. I’m the only one who saw the ghost. I’m the only one in this room. It’s best to keep things that way.

  “You’re crazy, Micah. The weirdest kid God ever made. It figures he stuck you with me.”

  It figures.

  It figures God left me here with a man who hates me. It figures that back when I had two options—a mom who loved me and a dad who despised me, God took the better parent away. Maybe it technically wasn’t God, because mom made her own decision when she left us, but God’s the guy I’ve been praying to. He’s the guy who never listens to me.

  My dad is right.

  I feel around the closet floor for my trophy, my fingers making contact with the small gold statue and bringing it to my chest. I balance it there, the cool hard plastic grounding me as I review the day at school. My P.E. teacher had a trophy made for all the seventh-grade class as a reward for participating in the color run, a 5k run/walk-a-thon that raises money for local children’s charities. I didn’t turn in money, but I was still allowed to participate. Donations were anonymous, so there was nothing to be ashamed about. At least that’s what Coach Mitchell said when everyone turned in their cash envelopes and I didn’t have one.

  I trace the words on the inscription, words already committed to memory. Congratulations on your accomplishment, the black nameplate read. I never had a trophy before. My father has more than a dozen lined up above the fireplace ranging from first place to seventh, depending on the sport. He was best at baseball and played the sport in community college; according to him, they were the best days of his life.

  For the first time since I heard him talk about it, finally I could relate. This trophy meant I was just like him, and I hoped he might approve.

  “A participation trophy? What are they trying to do, teach you that everything counts? It only counts if you win, kid. And you are never going to be a winner.”

  He tossed my trophy in the trash. I heard the plastic crack when it hit the surface and listened until it settled, my eyes filling up with tears that I couldn’t let my dad see. When he turned to grab a glass out of the cabinet, I plucked both pieces out of the bin and shoved them under my sweater. The plan was to walk out of the kitchen, but I’m clumsy. Always have been.

  I turn toward the counter, unaware my dad’s dinner plate is sitting near the edge. Piled high with canned spaghetti rings, it falls off the counter and shatters into a million pieces. Red sauce splatters everywhere, some sliding down the wall.

  A forceful hand shoves me backward and I crash into the refrigerator.

  “Get out of here, you stupid piece of trash. I don’t want to see you until morning.”

  I run out of the room, the sound of my dad’s voice following me down the hallway. The back of my head hurts from hitting the refrigerator handle; a piece of white glass is stuck in my thumb. I don’t stop to pull it out until I lock myself into the closet. My dad usually forgets about me when I hide in here, or at least if he remembers he never comes looking. I want him to forget about me like my mom did, especially when he’s drinking. Drinking makes him mean. Not drinking makes him mean too, but he rarely uses his fists.

  I’m hungry from skipping dinner. Things might have been different if I still had a mom.

  Mine left three years ago. Now she has a new life in Nashville with her newscaster husband, their two dogs, and a brand new baby boy named David. I have a brother. He has dark hair and blue eyes and he was even born with a tooth. Only special babies are born with teeth, at least that’s what she said in her letter. I wasn’t special. That’s why she didn’t take me with her, even though she promised she would come back to get me.

  Without sitting up, I reach for my skinny yellow lighter and flick it on. The closet lights up with a soft glow, illuminating the clothes hanging over my head. Four shirts, two pairs of jeans—one with holes in the knees, one that still looks new. The next time I land on my knees, they’ll be messed up too. I flick off the lighter and hold it in my fist.

  That’s when I hear it, a noise coming from outside my bedroom window. I count to three to see if it will stop. I make it to ten, but the noise grows louder.

  Bang.

  Bang.

  Crash.

  The sound of metal when something scrapes against it.

  I hold my breath, lie still another minute to make sure my father isn’t coming, and then I open the door and slowly crawl out.

  My lamp is still on. I tug at the chain to turn it off and then crawl to the window and peek through a break in the mini blinds.

  A pickup truck is parked across the street.

  Someone is moving into the haunted house behind it.


  I blink, worried for the people I don’t even know. You shouldn’t live in a house with ghosts, everyone in town knows this. The house has been empty for two years since the last owner died inside it. Such a sad way to die, the lady in the checkout lane at the grocery store had said. I don’t know what she meant, but she shook her head and clicked her tongue when she said it to the man behind the counter, so the way he died must have been bad. Really bad. They both said his spirit still lived there.

  I think it’s coming to get me. That’s what my dad said anyway, and dads don’t lie to their kids.

  A door to the truck opens, and someone climbs out. I blink, watching the movement in the dark, waiting to see who the shadow belongs to. It stops under a street lamp, and I suck in a breath. A girl. My age, maybe ten. Maybe younger.

  You shouldn’t live in a house with ghosts. I want to yell it at her, tell her to run, tell her to leave and never come back.

  I close my mouth and glance behind me, deciding it’s best to say nothing at all. I can’t risk anyone coming for me. Not a spirit, not my dad, not anyone.

  Besides, maybe she likes ghosts.

  Maybe she’s haunted too.

  Her

  There’s a boy in the house across the street, but he never comes outside. He stares at me a lot, usually through his bedroom window when he thinks I don’t notice. But I do notice. I notice all of it.

  The way his dad yells.

  The way the boy cries.

  The way doors slam.

  The things that break inside the house.

  A lot breaks in that house, almost every single day in the two weeks I’ve lived here, and I can hear all the times that boy tries to clean it up. They keep all their windows open, but I wish they wouldn’t. I’m not sure they realize how far sound travels, but it travels straight to my bedroom when I’m lying down at night. It probably didn’t matter much when my house was just haunted and empty, but it matters now.

  “I didn’t mean to do it. Are you mad? I’ll do better.”

  I’ll do better.

  He says that most of all. Every time I hear the words, my chest hurts deep under my rib cage. So deep that when I press the spot, the ache doesn’t go away. Not like my scars. When I rub those, the pain usually doesn’t last long. Things are broken on me, too.

  People try to pretend that broken things are an accident, but they rarely are. Things break when adults get angry. Glasses. Plates. Bones. Skin. My skin is broken in four spots so far this month, but I think that boy has it worse than me. He doesn’t deserve it.

  Still, no one kicks me outside.

  I never have to hide under my front porch at night.

  I sleep in a bed almost every single evening.

  There’s a boy who lives inside that house. He has a father I don’t like. He doesn’t have a mother that I can see.

  During the day, the boy lives inside.

  But at night…I’m not sure where he goes.

  PART ONE

  Fifteen years later

  Micah

  ONE

  As a general practice, I try really hard to maintain an air of professionalism. But sometimes it’s hard, especially when you screw up so publically.

  “How bad was it? Did I recover well enough?” I never flub lines like this, more proof that this day has gone straight to crap. I sit back in my chair at the anchor desk and rub my temples, a move that will have the make-up artist rushing over to touch me up. Whatever, I’m not in the mood.

  I said the word on television. The. Word. The one that almost always gets a news anchor either immediately fired or slapped with an astronomical fine he’ll spend the next six months paying off. Worst of all? I was reporting on a candy shop that caters to kids with special needs, one that gives out free items every Wednesday out of the simple goodness of their hearts.

  Fudge. The word was fudge.

  Except I didn’t say fudge. I’m like the dad on that Christmas Story movie, but no one slowed my voice enough to cover up the word. I spin in my chair and work to compose myself. Get it together, Leven. You’re better than this.

  “I really don’t think it was that bad. I’ll check the playback in a few minutes and let you know.”

  I spin back around and nod at the sound director, but I already know. The groan that came from behind camera two made it painfully obvious how bad I had messed up. I consider pulling the cigarette lighter from my pants pocket to flick it a few times—a habit I’ve carried since childhood—but I count to ten instead, speeding up on the last three numbers when John yells thirty seconds! so loud I nearly fall out of my chair. I lightly pound the desk in a barely controlled rage and count eight nine ten, wishing I had time to make it to twenty. Piper the makeup girl—usually said by most of us in one long word like Piperthemakeupgirl—rushes over just like I knew she would and dabs a powdered sponge across my forehead to eliminate sweat marks. She gives me the once over, then quickly backs away like she’s afraid to stay too close for long. Probably smart.

  This is my dream, working here in Atlanta on the biggest news station in the area—heck, in the country. We’re part of the Big Ten in television news markets. But lately I’m off my game. Maybe it’s the flu that I only recovered from last week. Maybe it’s that while sick I slept five days straight and haven’t slept since. That’s it. Maybe I’m just tired. Maybe that’s why my mouth wasn’t working right. Maybe that’s why my mind kept wandering.

  Or maybe it was the phone call.

  More specifically, the lack thereof. It’s been a long time since Presley cut me off early, and I didn’t like it. No one cuts me off early anymore, but she refuses to get that message. All because I made one crack about her job. But come on, she bought an old, small-town newspaper. What kind of crap investment was that? I waited all night for her to call me back, but she never did. That’s the thing about Presley—she’s my rock. My grip. Now, my foundation feels all shaky and I’m wobbling down an uneven sidewalk. I check my phone and will it to ring.

  Call.

  Me.

  The heck.

  Back.

  I can’t lose her over something as silly as this. I just cussed on television and could possibly lose my job. If my best friend walks away from me, I won’t have anything left.

  My leg won’t stop bouncing. I press my heel to the floor to settle it.

  The lighter almost screams at me to grab it. It wouldn’t matter anyway.

  We’re five seconds to show time and no amount of internal begging is going to make my phone ring. With a low growl, I shove it under my thigh and wait for the red light to signal me. It lights up like a laser beam to the eye. I look directly into the camera without blinking and force a practiced, relaxed smile.

  “Welcome back, Atlanta. A house fire on Poplar Street had firefighters battling for nearly two hours this morning. Three people were killed, including a four-year-old child. The boy was found hiding in a bedroom closet under a pile of blankets…”

  My voice catches on the last words, and I clear my throat. This time it’s no one’s fault but my own. Sometime I hate the news. Both reporting it and the simple fact that crap like this exists. Who started the fire? Why didn’t someone tell the kid that hiding is the worst thing to do? Where were his parents? Maybe his parents were the problem. Not every kid has good ones. It takes only a heartbeat for my mind to spiral, but then I remember. I’m on air. I can’t afford to lose it now.

  Boy. Hiding. Fire.

  I need to talk to Presley. She’s my best friend. She’s known me since she was eleven and I was twelve. She’ll know how to calm me down. Why hasn’t she called?

  I take a second, just a second to compose myself, and then keep going.

  “A six-car pile-up on highway twenty-three caused multiple injuries but just one death—the forty-seven-year-old driver of the semi that caused the accident. Bill Jacobson from Duluth…”

  Only one death. Maybe we should throw a party.

  I look at the camera and try not to roll
my eyes.

  The news keeps getting better and better.

  The lighter ignites a hole in my pocket.

  My phone hasn’t made a sound.

  “Get outside, you little piece of crap! And don’t come back inside until you tell me where you hid it! Do you understand?”

  I ran down the steps as fast as my skinny legs would take me, then tripped on the last one and tore a hole in my jeans. It took the blood only a few seconds to fan out into a two-inch sunburst, soaking my skin and pants in the process. This was the second time I’d ruined a pair this week, but I didn’t know how to sew and I couldn’t go back inside for a bandage. I understood him. To go back inside meant I would get hit—fist or flat palm didn’t matter, not when I was on the receiving end of my father’s hand and either method would sting for hours afterward.

  I crawled under the porch and cried. Twelve years old and crying. My dad was right, I was never gonna amount to anything. Weak people never do.

  I dried my eyes on my shirt sleeve and stared at the tree in front of me, a large oak that had probably stood here for fifty years at least. Longer than our house for sure, and it was built in the sixties. My grandma used to say she could tell the house’s age because it was long and tan and covered in big Brady-Bunch windows across the front, but I never knew what she meant. I watched that show once and still didn’t understand, but I did think the people dressed funny. Bell-bottom pants were ugly, especially plaid ones, and you’d never convince me otherwise. As far as my house, all I knew was that it was an okay place to live when no one was fighting or stuck crying himself to sleep in the closet.

  I kept looking at the tree.

  Bark layered the bottom half in thick sheets except in the spots where I’d peeled it off. Underneath the bald spots, I’d carved my name along with the date—each one for every time my father banished me outside for the day. Memories were important to me because I had so few good ones. I figured if I couldn’t remember much about my grandparents and the other people who once loved me, my best bet was to make sure the people who lived in this house next wouldn’t forget me. To be on the safe side, I kept my initials hidden to the right side of the tree and higher up, right under a thick branch. This was the least likely spot for my dad to notice. That and the fact I burned the leftover wood chips in a secluded spot behind the neighbor’s chain link fence. I pulled out my old lighter and flicked it on, debating on where to carve my name today.