Lies We Tell Ourselves

by Amy Matayo

  Holy crap.

  Micah opens the door and we both freeze in place. I blink and blink, unable to do much else, stuck in frozen shock until someone yells close the door! and we quickly step inside and let the door slam behind us.

  Why Georgia is playing over the speakers and it’s him. John Mayer is up on stage wearing a red plaid flannel shirt and faded blue jeans, an old beat up guitar on his lap like he walked up there right after band practice and decided to play an impromptu couple of songs he just wrote. He’s halfway through the song and takes a sip of whiskey during one particularly long guitar solo that he somehow managed to play with one hand.

  One of the biggest names in music, right here in front of me, casually throwing back a shot. My mind spins in overdrive, wondering how I can get a selfie with him. If Micah is the catalyst for turning Bradley green with envy, John Mayer would turn him into a raging Incredible Hulk, temper tantrum and all. This could work out so well if I could figure out a way to make it happen.

  “Let’s grab a table and place an order,” Micah says, draping an arm over my shoulder and waiting for an usher.

  I resist the urge to shake him off and nod my head, trying to think. I need a drink, and I’d prefer a table front and center if possible. Doing a quick scan of the stage and surrounding area, everything looks full. Just my luck that every other girl in attendance beat me to the best seats in the bar and will probably find ways to get their own selfies with him and thwart my plans. Life is unfair like that. I hate all the women in the front row.

  We find a table in a corner at the back. Micah pulls out my chair for me like it’s the 1950’s and women’s right aren’t yet in full effect, and I sit and sulk, sipping my drink through a straw and eyeing Micah’s soda. Why a soda? Does he not know we’re at a bar? Is he some sort of prude judging me for my Margarita?

  By the time someone shows up to take our food order, I’m fully into a bad mood and don’t see much hope for climbing out of it. Even the upbeat Waiting on the World to Change isn’t helping, especially because I really need my circumstances to change before this set is over and he walks out the door. One photo. That’s all I need. It’s also the one thing I’m not likely to get. I let my leg swing back and forth and act like I’m having a good time. Once my order of fries and a second margarita are delivered, I almost believe it.

  “How lucky were we to come to this bar tonight?” Micah says. “The last time he performed here was five years ago. I remember reading about it online and being so upset that I didn’t know beforehand.”

  Yes. Super lucky. I prop my chin on my hand and take another sip. Can’t Micah tell that I’m in an awful mood?

  “So much fun. Thanks for bringing me. This night has been fantastic.” Fantastically dull and disappointing, but I keep that to myself, sliding my glass on the table. “Think we could get a picture with him?”

  “So you can post it on Instagram?” he says it like a joke, but the words offend my ego and put a scratch in my plans. What’s wrong with posting photos online? People need to know that my life is amazing; Bradley needs to know it the most. No one can possibly discover what they’re missing if they don’t see it firsthand. Social media has no point if the point isn’t to generate envy. Everyone knows this. That’s why it’s been around since the dawn of enlightenment. Maybe I’m wrong about this, but I don’t think so. It’s hard to remember much past the last few years.

  “Excuse me, are you Micah Leven?” A woman appears in front of us like she morphed herself there, long glossy-black hair cascading in sheets over her shoulders. She’s wearing a purple sleeveless dress that’s so low-cut I can practically see her bikini line. And oh by the way it’s February and tanning beds are outdated and dangerous, but clearly she hasn’t gotten the message. There’s an asymmetrical mole above her lip that screams pre-cancerous. She smiles and I cringe. Teeth whiteners should be used sparingly or not at all.

  Micah grins up at her and extends a hand. “I am Micah. And you are…?”

  “My name is Stella,” the woman fairly gushes as her fingers touch his. “And I’m a huge fan.” Her giggles multiply and land all over my shoulder in a cloud of spearmint-scented gum and strawberry daiquiri. Good lord, she drinks like a seventeen-year-old girl. And gum in public? Completely classless. “I live in Duluth and I’ve watched you every night since I was a teenager. I can’t believe I finally got the chance to meet you.” She looks around the bar like she’s waiting for money to rain from the sky. “You and John Mayer in one night. Can life get any better?”

  She still hasn’t released Micah’s hand. More importantly, he hasn’t released hers. I smile at both of them, but inwardly I’m seething. He’s only been an anchor at the station for five years, which according to her teenager claim puts her no more than twenty-three. He’s almost twenty-nine and should feel ashamed of himself. Worse, suddenly my twenty-eight years makes me feel on par with someone’s grandmother, all hunched over, out of shape, and wrinkled, when in reality I only have one tiny line beside my left eye and fully intend to Botox the crap out of it soon. I have an appointment in six weeks. Maybe I should move it up.

  “I think life is just about perfect, Stella.” His egotistical smile is sickening, but I seem to be the only one who notices. “Are you here with friends?”

  Is he flirting?

  The girl practically bounces in place and indicates at something behind her shoulder. “I’m here with my roommates. They would die if they knew I was talking to you. Should I go get them?” Her hand lands on his shoulder and she leaves it there. Um…hello. I’m sitting right here. I look at Micah and wait for him to point it out.

  “That’s okay. I’m here with my date anyway.” He gestures halfheartedly to me. His date. I have a name, you know? “Just tell them I said hello.” He winks at her and she all but writhes in place. The whole display is disgusting. “It was nice to meet you, Stella.”

  She squeezes his shoulder likes she’s reluctant to let go. “Nice to meet you too. And you.” She gives me a passing glance at the same time her smile falters. She probably noticed that I’m prettier than she is. Most women do.

  “You too,” I say, trailing off on the last word as though the meeting were anything but nice. I won’t even try to be civil. Not to someone trying to steal my boyfriend. The fact that we haven’t even had the boyfriend-girlfriend conversation doesn’t matter; as far as she knew, we are. The only women who try to steal other people’s men are the ones either too shallow to find their own or too lacking in self-respect to know they deserve better. Except in her case, if that dress is any indication she deserves worse.

  I watch as she makes her way back to the table, says something to her friends, and four heads collectively swing our way. I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I don’t even notice how quiet the bar has become. Chatter. It’s all I hear. In a panic of realization, I whip my head toward the stage. It’s empty.

  John Mayer is gone.

  All my plans, evaporated in a mound of over-eager fans with strawberry breath.

  “When did he finish playing?” I ask Micah.

  He shrugs as though the night hasn’t just come to a screeching halt. “Five minutes ago. Right after Stella walked up to introduce herself.”

  Stella. It’s almost as if he thought of her as a real person.

  “Great. She was chatting so much that I didn’t get to hear his last song.”

  He takes a sip of his rum and Coke. “No big deal. It was that Wonderland one that hit the overplayed mark ten years ago. You didn’t miss much.”

  I didn’t miss much. Just a photo op that might have made all the difference in my relationship status with Bradley, but whatever. I guess Micah will have to do. Micah, a celebrity in his own right I suppose, but only a local one. I sigh, then glance across the room to see four sets of eyes still trained on us. My optimism spikes a bit. Those girls noticed Micah’s celebrity status. If I’m lucky enough, Bradley will too—or at least the new girl he’s dating might. I wouldn’t
have even discovered their relationship if she hadn’t posted their first photo together last night. I was stalking his “likes” and following the trail. He liked her photo at midnight and commented two minutes later. You’re a true beauty inside and out. I memorized the words, reciting them to myself as I drifted off into a fitful sleep. Were the words a stab at me? Does he think I’m only beautiful on the outside? He never said anything about my insides.

  What about my insides?

  I grit my teeth to keep from growling out an unflattering noise and dig out my phone.

  “Take a selfie with me?” I ask Micah, hoping my tone doesn’t sound too frustrated.

  As always, he obliges.

  I’ll just make the caption about seeing John Mayer. If nothing else, that should spark a little curiosity.

  ELEVEN

  “It isn’t that I’m obsessed with him. I just want him back.”

  “And you’re using another man to achieve what you want? I’m not sure that’s good for you, Mara. In fact, I’m positive it isn’t.”

  I reach for a twist tie lying on my kitchen counter and wrap it around my thumb. I pull it as tight as it will go until end meets end, and then I unwind it and repeat. My therapist waits for me to respond on the other end of the line, but I stay silent a bit longer and work on turning the tip of my thumb purple. I called her because it’s been nearly a week since I posted my last photo with Micah, and I still haven’t heard from Bradley. I need to ramp up my efforts to make him see what he’s missing, but I need fresh ideas and I’m feeling desperate. My therapist takes after hours calls, at least from me. Maybe I’m her only client on the privileged list. Maybe because I’ve moved temporarily and can’t currently see her in person. All I know is she isn’t helping and I don’t like what she’s telling me, especially her condescending tone. I drop the twist tie and look around for the loaf of bread it came from.

  “I don’t have any other choice,” I say, winding the tie around the bag of French bread and dropping it on top of the microwave. “How is he supposed to see what he’s missing if I don’t give him anything to look at?”

  She clears her throat. “And you think the only thing worth him seeing is a picture of you with another man? What about posting one of your recent accomplishments instead? I know you’ve had a few. A new job, a new apartment, living in a new town…”

  I chew the inside of my lip. I’m aware I’ve had recent accomplishments. My life is one big accomplishment and everyone knows it. But that isn’t the point. The point is, why was she always answering my questions with a question of her own? I hate it when people do that to me. It’s like they don’t have any ideas of their own, they’re just filled with the need to suck from the creativity of others. Didn’t she pay tons of money for her shrink degree? She should probably ask for a refund.

  “Of course I don’t need a man for that. But isn’t that what makes men the most jealous? Seeing their exes with other men?”

  “Well yes, but…”

  Bingo. I’m right. That’s all I need to hear.

  “Finally, you agree with me.”

  She clears her throat. “In theory, you’re correct. But what I’m more concerned about is your focus. It needs to be on getting better. Not on returning to what was once a very dysfunctional relationship.”

  “It wasn’t dysfunctional. I’ll admit it was a bit co-dependent…” I reach for an old Target receipt and tear off a corner. What’s wrong with needing another person? That’s all I did. I needed him. He just didn’t need me as much. Which is the entire point of this conversation. I need to know ways to get that to change.

  “Mara. You drugged him.”

  My temper is a branding iron seared into my skull. “I did not drug him.” I shout the words, then think better of it and count to ten. The last thing I need is my therapist telling my probation officer that I’m still a danger to anyone. Not when he’s on the payroll, currently turning a blind eye to my being out of the state. But I needed a change of scenery, even my parents agree. Amazing what people will agree to when offered enough money.

  “I only technically drugged him.” My words are controlled, maybe too much so. I don’t want to worry her, but that doesn’t mean I want her to win.

  I think of Hannibal Lector and the way he never once raised his voice to Jody Foster, not even when she came at him inside that jail cell. Not even when she yelled straight into his smirking, smug face. It’s a skill to stay that focused, one I’ve tried to perfect in the last few months. I loved that movie, but he was a little creepy. I take a deep breath and adjust my delivery. “I didn’t mean to drug him. It was an accident. Sleeping pills are basically harmless.”

  “Not when someone ingests five of them all at once.” She sighs over the line. I don’t need her attitude or impatience. “It wasn’t an accident, Mara. The first step to recovery is admitting there’s a problem.”

  And the second step is apologizing and the third step is therapy. I roll my eyes, so familiar with that sentence I want to throw up. I’m doing the therapy part right now, aren’t I? As for the apology, Bradley didn’t need one. I needed one from him that he wanted to abandon me in the first place.

  They weren’t supposed to affect him that hard, I just wanted him to sleep. No man needs to go out with friends every night of the week. There’s only one reason men hang out together that often, anyway. To pick up women. Women in tight low cut dresses and red stiletto heels they can barely walk in who want to engage in questionable group activities and steal other women’s men. No one was going to steal my man, especially not some full-time hussy that would only fulfill a fleeting fantasy.

  I was Bradley’s fantasy. I told him so myself just before I dropped those pills into his coffee. It’s kind of funny if you think about it. Sleeping pills and caffeine, a liquefied oxymoron.

  “I’ve already admitted it. That’s why I’m talking to you. Now can you please stop lecturing me and tell me what to do to get him to contact me?”

  I can see her in my mind, pinching her lips together as she writes something down in that black notebook with the pink orchid in the corner. That’s my notebook, the space personally designated to me. I resent it, her assumption that pink orchids best represent me and my personality. I don’t even like orchids. They smell like someone trying to cover up armpit odor with Gucci knockoff cologne. I tested that theory the first time I saw her pull out the notebook and write my name across the top. Mara West. Mara freaking West, and don’t you forget it. I’m proud of my last name and the power it affords me. But I don’t like feeling less than and I don’t like being wrong.

  I left her office, went two days without showering or deodorant, then stopped by Wal-Mart to sneak a spray under my arm. Yep, that was the exact smell. I’m usually right about everything.

  “I think you need to give it time.” she says.

  She’s wrong about that. Time is the enemy. Time is the excuse of people who don’t want to put in the work to make a change. Any time someone says give it time, what they really mean is leave it alone, things will work out or they won’t work out but I don’t want to be bothered in the meantime.

  I agree with her just to finish the conversation.

  “Alright, I’ll give it time.”

  She smiles. I can tell by the way her lips crackle and pop across the line. “I’m glad to hear it. And please don’t hesitate to call me again if you need anything else.”

  I pick at a fingernail and let her words sit for a second. “I’ll call. Promise.”

  We hang up.

  I delete her number from my phone.

  I followed him. Not because I’ve suddenly taken an interest in him over Bradley, but because he isn’t behaving the way I need him to. He’s supposed to be falling in love with me, not helping out an old friend, especially when the friend looks like Cindy Crawford if you subtracted twenty years—a problem since the real Cindy still looks incredible at an age when most women don’t. Have I mentioned I hate Cindy Crawford?


  But that’s exactly what’s happening. He’s helping her out. Just not in the way he explained to me only two short hours ago.

  Liar liar.

  I casually asked Micah if he wanted to go to a Falcons game with me. What kind of man isn’t enticed by free Falcons tickets? I know he likes football because he mentions it all the time. Personally I hate the sport, but a woman has to sacrifice in order to make her man happy. It seems all I ever do is sacrifice. But he said no. To me. Claiming he had already promised to help a friend fix a broken toilet at home, as if a broken toilet wins out over a football game. Pee in a bucket until you can hire a plumber, for heaven’s sake. That’s what prisoners do. I suppose some people think they’re too good for that.

  I expected a yes without question, so I was already wearing full-on Falcons gear including a cap I bought on sale at Nordstrom that was smashing down my hair, and I was parked outside his apartment when I issued the invitation. I even paid ten dollars for one of those obnoxious foam finger thingys for him wave around in my face. Highway robbery if you ask me.

  But Micah said no. Obviously, I didn’t believe his reasoning. So I waited, half-expecting the friend to be the guy next door or at the very least to live down the street. But he climbed in his car and drove off.

  I followed him.

  I had no idea he would drive an hour away. Good thing my car gets exceptional gas mileage because my tank was only half-full. I also forgot to bring water with me and he never stopped at a convenience store, so now my throat is parched. I swallow my own spit, but it doesn’t help. This night has gone to hell and is still falling south.

  I should have known where he was headed.

  I eye my discarded hat on the seat next to me and consider tossing it out the window and running over it on my way home. But I don’t. I dig my fingernails in the soft rubber of the steering wheel and glare at the front door he just walked through. To his credit, Micah did carry something that resembled a tool box. To his detriment, he looked entirely too happy about it, especially when she met him at the front door of her bottom floor apartment and practically flung herself into his arms.