Lies We Tell Ourselves

by Amy Matayo

Satisfied, I drop my gun and grin.

  My arms are tired, but I can’t let her see that.

  “You just mutilated me. How can you live with yourself?”

  I peel off a glove and check my cuticles. “It’s pretty easy, actually. You brought me here under false pretenses. Also, I’m good at paintball. Always have been. I was the paintball champion at Eddie Ingallman’s eleventh birthday party. Did I ever tell you that?”

  She crosses her arms. One side of her chest is turquoise. “Seeing that we just met a couple weeks ago, I can’t recall it coming up in conversation.”

  “A pity.” I sigh and look up. Too late, I see her gun aimed straight at me. Worse, there’s nothing I can do because we’re standing in the open.

  “I never lose. Haven’t I told you that before?” With a wicked grin, she shoots with perfect aim. Paint splatters me in the gut, and I take off walking toward her. She shoots again, nailing me on the shoulder before I wrench it from her grasp and swing her around by the waist. She’s laughing hysterically. I look like a leprechaun sliding down a Lucky Charms rainbow.

  “That’s it. I’m sending you a bill for the dry cleaning.”

  She kicks her legs, trying in vain to make me put her down. “It’s worth it for the look on your face alone.”

  I have a fear of getting kicked. I set her down, but I don’t let go. She twists and turns, but my hands are locked behind her waist.

  “It is, huh? Well is it worth it now that you’re trapped?”

  Her laughter dies, but her smile stays put. Only now it turns suggestive. “It depends.”

  “On?” We’re both breathing heavy, but I’m not sure it’s from exertion.

  “On what you plan to do with me.” Her long lashes flutter, and I move in. It’s impossible to keep myself in check under those beautiful eyes, anyway.

  At first she tastes sweet, like a plum or a peach. When my tongue slides over her lips, I think of those little soft peppermints you eat at Christmastime. I love Christmas and I might love her. Then I taste paint. I pause the kiss for a moment, then steal a peak to see that Mara’s eyes are open. Can paint poison you? We both decide it can’t—or at least not that much—because we’re kissing again. Her teeth bite my bottom lip and I catch hers with my own and press in for more.

  “Get a room.”

  Our heads whip around to see a kid staring at us, a look of you’re disgusting all over his face. Huh. Maybe we are.

  “My place?” she asks.

  I smile. “Yours it is.”

  Turns out this might be the best date I’ve ever had.

  “Ouch, don’t touch me there,” Mara winces, slapping my hand.

  “How badly are you hurt?”

  “Not that bad, just everywhere.”

  Now I feel like a first class jerk. I shot her so many times to make a point—no one messes with Micah Leven and gets away with it—not to bruise her like an apple that’s been tossed and dropped by an inexperienced juggler on a wide learning curve. But bruise her I did. Everywhere, it seems.

  “Everywhere, where?”

  She frowns. “If you’re trying to get me to show you everything, it isn’t going to work. Just know that this is probably what a battered woman feels like after her husband’s been drinking too much.” Her voice has a slight chill to it.

  My heart thuds so heavy it lands like a baseball bat to the stomach. This makes me sick for so many reasons, none of which I’m going to tell her.

  “I’m so sorry. Can I get you anything? A Tylenol? A cold washcloth? A…beer?” My hands roam everywhere, trying to find the greatest source of pain to stop it. She smirks, offering the first hint of a smile I’ve seen since we walked in her front door. Turns out the whole best date I’ve ever had thing isn’t such a thing anymore. Still, I like the smile.

  “Like, if you get me drunk I’ll forget about the pain?”

  I go for an innocent expression but don’t quite pull it off. “Kind of what I was hoping.”

  She shoves my arm. “I don’t have beer. I hate it. But I’d take a water. Bottom shelf on my refrigerator.”

  I stand up and make my way to the kitchen. “Who hates beer?” Even I like beer, I just don’t drink it. Her refrigerator is surprisingly clean, unlike mine.

  “People with taste. I’m a wine girl all the way, especially Moscato. Reisling is nice too.”

  “So by wine, you mean girly wine. Not the mature stuff.”

  “I’m mature. Shut up.”

  I grab two water bottles, then spot a bowl of grapes and some leftover pizza and grab them too. I close the door with my hip and make awkward work of balancing it all. Two trips would have been a better idea.

  “I found food.”

  She frowns up at me. “We just ate.” She’s right, we did. But that was over an hour ago. I decide to ignore her comment and reach for the remote.

  “Want to watch a movie? You have Prime?”

  “I have Prime. Oh my gosh, everything hurts. Next time you decide to shoot me, let me pad myself first.”

  “Padding is against the rules for paint ball.” It’s a weak protest when you’ve battered a woman.

  She snaps her fingers. “Then better idea, don’t shoot me at all.”

  I snap my fingers right in front of her nose. “Even better idea, don’t suggest paint ball as a date.”

  She sighs. “I see your point.”

  Settling into the sofa, I aim the remote at the television and click play. We argue for a minute but then find a movie we agree on.

  Five minutes in, I reach for her hand.

  Her skin is soft, satin between my fingers. I could get used to the feel of us linked together like this, especially when Mara’s head nestles into my shoulder and she wraps her other arm around my waist. We fit. Water and wine, pen and paper, whiskey and honey. It’s nice to fit; comfortable and relaxed.

  It isn’t until the movie is over that I notice the missed call from Presley.

  SIX

  Two days later, I still haven’t called Presley back. I’ve spent so much time with Mara that it’s somewhat lost a sense of urgency. Isn’t that what they say—out of sight, out of mind? I guess there’s some truth to that statement, even in its flippancy. I don’t have time now anyway. We’re two hours to show time and I’m still reading through my notes, I have a meeting with our producer in less than thirty minutes, plus Mara just called and I’m impatiently waiting for her to walk into my office. Since hanging up the phone, I’ve spent an embarrassing number of seconds wondering what she’s wearing. Red dress? Tight black pants? Low cut blouse? As if it matters. As long as it hugs her curves, I could stare at her in anything.

  I pick up my phone and scroll through her Instagram page. I’ve ogled a dozen photos before she walks in the room.

  “Hey you,” she quips, coming up behind me. Her hand lands on my neck as though it’s always been there. Maybe it hasn’t, but I like the way it feels.

  I lean into her and discard my phone. “You’ve posted ten pictures of me in the past two weeks. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you like me.” Her fingers knead my muscles and I let out a groan.

  “I used to like you, before you nearly shot me to death a couple days ago.”

  I let out another groan for an entirely different reason.

  I’d almost forgotten, and I hate the reminder. There’s a dark purple bruise on Mara’s forearm, visible because of the sleeveless dress she wore to work today. I keep looking around, desperate to offer her a sweater. If I can’t see it, it isn’t there. At least that’s my hope. Of course, I have nothing but a rain jacket hanging on a hook on my closet door. Even if it wouldn’t swallow her whole, it’s somewhat ugly and definitely not something she would consider wearing around the office.

  “I’m sorry. I was just trying to prove a point.”

  She raises an eyebrow. “Which was?”

  I pause. “Um…that no one beats me in paintball?”

  It’s weak. A two-year-old trying to lift a hundred-po
und weight. She tries to keep a smile from forming. It almost works. “That’s real mature.”

  I fist a stack of papers and straighten them. “I’m in news casting. We aren’t exactly known for our maturity off camera.”

  I’m not entirely sure if this is a true statement, but it should be. There’s a certain amount of vanity that comes with being a pseudo-celebrity. I wish I could claim immunity to it, but I got into a shoving match with an irate viewer last year at a downtown bar. Technically no punches were thrown, so no charges were filed considering the guy was insanely drunk, but some punk recorded it. Last I checked, the video had over seven thousand views. Thank God no one ran it as a headline or I could have been saddled with much worse.

  “You have a point. Also, you need to learn to answer your phone. I came down here to drag you upstairs. The mock-up for your billboard is ready, and I want your approval.” I push my chair back and follow her out of the office.

  “What if I don’t like it?”

  “I have an eye for this sort of thing, and the approval is only a formality. I don’t really care if you like it.”

  I laugh at her flirty tone, wondering why I like this woman so much. We just met, and she’s a smartass, but I like her drive. It almost entirely matches mine.

  Right then my screen lights up. A text from Presley, and with it a rush of remorse that I haven’t yet reached out.

  I need to call her. Panic rises, and I give myself a mental berating before deciding to shrug it off. She kept me waiting for six days last time; she can handle waiting on me a couple more. A little anxiety attack might do her some good, a taste of her own medicine. Take that.

  The panic doesn’t subside.

  I tell myself to stop worrying and follow Mara to the elevator. Worrying is a waste of time, something only the weak do when there’s nothing more exciting going on with their lives. Well, I have plenty going on. A television show, the prospect of moving up to bigger and better things, and a freaking billboard going up on I-85. Not many people can say that, can they? No, they can’t.

  I swallow, panic beginning to grip me in a headlock.

  I rode on an elevator the day my mother left. She took me to the doctor that morning to get shots for school; eight-year-old “boosters” as she called them. Afterward, we bought a backpack and a new Spiderman lunch box and new Nike’s with a red slash across the side like all my friends were wearing. I was so happy that day, happier than I’d been in a very long time.

  By that night she was gone. Ran to the neighbors, she said.

  I hated the neighbors for years, even though none of it was their doing.

  Elevators take people away from me.

  I need to call Presley back.

  With a sigh, I push the button and we ride to the eighth floor, watching through the glass doors as we climb higher. I can’t call her now, so I work to focus on the area around me. There are fifteen stories in this building. The top half is allocated to a real estate agency, a law firm, and a restaurant on the top floor. The middle three floors are occupied by the news station. There’s more to broadcasting than most people realize; it’s much more involved than just lights and cameras. There’s sales. And marketing. The social media presence alone can be a full-time job. Posting three times a day can really wear on a person, and if you’re not careful—

  “I would kiss you right now if it wasn’t for those glass doors,” Mara says. She’s managed to inch closer to me, and I’m not sure how I didn’t notice before now. Her hand brushes mine, and the contact does all kinds of things to my insides, none of which are appropriate for work. “You have such an intense look on your face,” she whispers. “Want to tell me what’s on your mind before the doors open?”

  Oh sure, I’m thinking about my sister who isn’t really my sister and how much I need to talk to her, and in the meantime I’m trying to distract myself with thoughts of architecture that don’t interest me.

  I love the way her skin feels on mine; I do not love the question and have no intention of answering it.

  “Just thinking about the billboard. Worried about what I’ll do if it doesn’t make me look hot enough.”

  Mara laughs. “Trust me, you’ll look hot enough.”

  The doors open and we step out. Even though she’s worked here two weeks, I’ve never set foot in Mara’s office. I’m immediately struck by how big it is—mainly the fact that it’s bigger than mine. Sure, her uncle is the owner, but I’ve been here longer. Five years, one month, and seventeen days longer if you’re counting. Which I’m not because that would be shallow, and I’m not shallow despite the label Presley stuck me with last week.

  Presley. There she is again, slamming into my brain.

  Stop Micah. I say it to myself a few more times to really force the issue, then look around the room.

  Her desk is massive, so huge that one could almost envision the president of our country working behind it. A small glass hurricane holds pens in a rainbow of colors, red being the primary one. Paper clips and rubber bands are contained inside a lidded crystal bowl. A mahogany file folder sits off to the side, papers stacked neatly inside it. Nothing scattered, no disorganization, everything in its place. The exact opposite of mine, down to every detail. Plush white carpet covers the floor; new beige paint coats the wall. Everything smells new, looks new, is new. I was in this room last year when it belonged to someone else, and nothing looks or smells the same. What once gave off a nice but musty vibe now exudes wealth and opulence.

  I want this too, all of it. The style, the location, the power it all coveys. Mara is up and coming. Perched on the ledge to take off and soar, same as me. There is no end to the things we could accomplish together if we teamed up together and made it happen.

  You’ll never amount to anything.

  The memory still cuts, but every time I’m around Mara the words fade a little more.

  “Okay just let me pull it up,” Mara says, sitting in front of her computer and reaching for the mouse. I stand behind her, then suck in a breath when the image appears. It’s of only me in a gray suit standing next to a camera, the sun setting in the background as commuters crowd lanes of traffic behind me as they drive home from work. I’m larger than life and slightly imposing, but she’s right. I look good. Like my face belongs in more than just Atlanta, at least that’s what I like to think.

  My hand rests on her shoulder before I realize it. She leans in a little, so I let my fingers play with the ends of her hair while we both study the screen. I notice our muted image in the background, and it hits me again that we make the perfect couple. We could both be on the billboard, cohosts with a fairytale love story and the happiest of endings.

  I’d be prince charming with a girl on the side, of course. No one at Disney ever lets you in on that little secret, do they?

  “Do you think I’m too big?” I ask, still analyzing the photo.

  She releases a breathy laugh. “Is that a trick question?”

  “My face. On the billboard. Focus Mara. Focus.”

  “It’s hard to concentrate on work when you’re massaging my head like this.” She’s right, the hair playing has turned into a full-on head rub. She practically leans against my chest.

  “Want me to stop?”

  “Want me to kill you?”

  “I kind of like my life, so I think I’ll pass.”

  Mara spins around in her chair and looks up at me. Her blue eyes are dewy and open, hopeful. “Speaking of your life…do you like me in it?”

  I raise an eyebrow, surprised at the direction of the conversation. I think about her question for a moment, not wanting to answer with anything but the truth and wondering what exactly the truth is. I like her laugh, her enthusiasm, her playfulness and willingness to try new things. I like her smile, her hair, her beauty, her sexiness. I like her skill, her eye for design and boldness to take a job at this level—niece of the boss or not.

  I like her.

  I really like her in my life. I tell her so.
>
  She smiles and reaches up to thread her fingers through mine, and we lock eyes for a long moment. My breath catches when she slowly stands up and closes her office door. The mini-blinds are already shut, a convenient time-saver for both of us. I smile at her slow movement, then snake my arms around her waist and pull her to me. If it’s affection she wants, it’s affection she’ll get. This time our kiss is fevered, rushed in a dangerous game. Someone could knock, someone could call. Those two realities make it all the more sweeter.

  She has two buttons undone on my shirt when the phone rings. We pull apart quickly, caught. Her lips are swollen and pink; it makes me want to bite into them to remember what they taste like.

  “Hello?” Mara says. She’s breathless, but working to sound professional. I kiss the back of her neck, smiling into her skin when she giggles and slaps me away. I like being slapped, so I do it again. “Yes. Okay, tonight at six? I’ll be there. And don’t forget to bring your checkbook.”

  Checkbook? What is she up to? Who cares. I trail a few kisses downward. When I grip a fistful of her hair and brush it to the side, she leans into me.

  Do I like her in my life?

  Heck yes, I do.

  Finally she hangs up and I spin her around, ready to pick up where we left off. When I reach for her, this time she backs up.

  “Hold up there, Swifty. I have a meeting in five minutes and I can’t go looking like this.” She straightens her skirt and runs and hand through her hair.

  “First of all, Swifty is not a compliment for a guy. Second of all, I think you look great.” Her still disheveled, lipstick smeared, shirt hanging off one shoulder. A freaking supermodel if I ever saw one.

  “I’m sure you do.” She rolls her eyes, then surprises me by reaching for her phone. “Tell you what, we’ll take a picture to commemorate the moment. And then you need to leave so I can get ready.” She pulls me toward her, but instead of smiling into the camera I keep my mouth pressed to her ear. Maybe if I do this enough, she’ll change her mind.

  She snaps a photo and pulls away from me, then sets the phone on her desk. “Alright, out. Any more of this and I’ll wind up cancelling the whole day just to keep you in here with me.”