Lies We Tell Ourselves

by Amy Matayo

  I know I’m being cruel. I would strangle Micah with both fists if he suggested I take up a habit like smoking, but I can’t stop myself. I’m in love with him, and he knows it. I’m trying to move past him, but he followed me here with his girlfriend in tow as though expecting me to be happy about it. He wants both sides of every equation—he doesn’t want me but he doesn’t want anyone else to have me; he wants to date Mara, his vision of the perfect woman, but he’d relegate me to a life of celibacy and solitude. I’m not willing to play this game anymore.

  At least that’s what I keep telling myself.

  Yet here I sit, as engaged with him as always.

  “I’ll leave the drinking to you,” Micah says, his voice especially cold. “Lord knows you’re good at it.”

  Nick looks taken aback. “Presley was telling me she’s never been drunk a day in her life.”

  Micah runs a finger down Mara’s arm. “Oh, she hasn’t. She holds her liquor better than anyone I’ve ever met. Which in my opinion, should raise a red flag…”

  Okay, that’s it. “Speaking of red flags, just the other night I was at a club, and all of a sudden I got so incredibly sleepy. I’d only had one whiskey and Coke, but it must have been really strong. It hit me so hard, almost like maybe someone had slipped a drug into my drink. Doesn’t that seem crazy?”

  Mara coughs.

  Micah kicks my shin under the table. It’s all I can do not to let out a yelp. With a glare, I press my foot into his knee and keep pushing. He shifts back a little, but I don’t let it stop me. How dare he say I raise a red flag? Not to mention his comment about my barely crooked tooth. He wraps a hand around my ankle and holds on.

  We’re caught in a silent stare down. If the building exploded into a thousand pieces, I’m not sure either one of us would notice.

  Nick clears his throat, and I jump.

  Or maybe we would.

  Mara is still coughing.

  I ignore her and focus on Nick as he looks from me to Micah, and then back. It’s a slow perusal filled with questions, none that I’m going to answer. As I come back to the present, it dawns on me that Micah’s grip on my ankle has morphed into a slow caress. Up and down, back and forth.

  My breath hitches at the possessiveness, at the boldness that he would do this here, now, and surrounded by people. With both our dates here to witness it. I blink at him. It’s at that moment that I’m certain: I can live a dozen lives with a dozen different wonderful men, but my heart will always be tied to this same one. When the heart attaches itself, it’s bound for life no matter how much you wish the knots would loosen and sever. My knots will never sever with Micah. If I’m going to survive in life, I’ll need to find a way to live within the confines of the tangled mess we’ve made.

  I pull my leg from his grasp and turn to Nick.

  “Would you like to get dessert somewhere else? Leave them to their date? I hate feeling like we’ve crashed someone else’s party.” I make the suggestion as sweetly as I can manage, trying to ignore the painful throb of misplaced want in my throat.

  Nick drags his eyes to mine and settles his gaze there. “I’m feeling a bit like a party crasher myself,” he says. The man is bothered, suspicious. Time to ease his concerns. I tuck my hand in his and smile.

  “It’s a terrible feeling. Want to head to my place?”

  That seems to do the trick. When he smiles back at me, my pulse slows down like my heart might, in fact, be looking for a way to survive.

  “Let’s go.”

  I slide out of the booth and Nick climbs out behind me. I don’t let go of his hand. I’m afraid if I do, I’ll turn back around and stay here where I don’t belong.

  “See you later, guys. Have fun on your date.”

  With one glance over my shoulder, we walk away.

  My back burns with the heat of Micah’s stare.

  My ankle burns with the fire of his touch.

  All this burning is adding to the already unpleasant scars on my heart.

  The newest spot on my thigh burned, an odd thing to happen since it had already been two weeks. Most burns only stayed painful for a couple days—three or four at the most. Maybe it was because my gym shorts kept rubbing against the spot, the white trim causing the kind of friction that made me cringe every time I took a step. Tomorrow I’d planned to wear yoga pants, or at least something longer. I saw the girl across from me glance down when I lifted my hand weights. My shorts must have ridden up farther than I thought. The last thing I needed were questions.

  I thought of the roll of quarters inside the front pocket of my backpack. Starting tonight, I would do my laundry at school. What once seemed like a waste of money I didn’t have now turned into a necessity I couldn’t skip. Besides, they reinstated my scholarship at Tech after telling me I’d lost it last year. Turned out money doesn’t transfer from University to Community college no matter how much you rationalize and beg. I’d been paying for my classes paycheck to paycheck while Micah picked up rent; between the two of us, we were barely making it. Now that my tuition was covered, the roll of quarters didn’t seem quite so heavy anymore. I no longer thought of it as my only access to groceries.

  I made a mental note to buy my own laundry soap later today to keep in the trunk of my car. I couldn’t risk my mother showing up at home unannounced while I washed clothes again.

  It happened simply enough. Routine. The same as always, though it had been a while. That’s the thing about time; when you live your life constantly on guard and months pass without occurrence, your barrier slips. It’s a dangerous game, being vulnerable. That’s always when the bully rears its head—a snake lying dormant, giving its prey time to settle in and get comfortable. When the eyes close, the snake strikes.

  The victim is devoured in seconds.

  I had just poured the last of my mother’s laundry soap into the machine when my mother walked into the room. I turned the knob and closed the lid, praying she hadn’t noticed I used up all the soap and listening as the machine filled with water. Behind me, she picked up the iron and got to work on her uniform, a brown polyester mass of ugliness she’d worn at the diner for years. If the woman owned any other dress, I’d yet to see her in it. She’d been quiet since I showed up, not all that unusual. My mother alternated from happy to sad like other women alternated lipstick.

  I went to move around her when she stopped me.

  “You used it all up.” She nodded to the closed cabinet door without changing her expression. I’d thought I had been careful when I casually replaced it, but nothing ever got passed her. She smiled at me. I swallowed, fear reaching up to claw at my throat. To the outside world with her pretty smile, green eyes, and penchant for frequent mother-daughter school appearances and impromptu selfies, my mother was beautiful. The image of perfection. To me, she was frightening. The kind of gut-churning scary that caused kids to hide in closets, praying for the end as a fire raged around them. Right then, a ring of fire encircled my gut.

  “Yes ma’am,” I said, hating the slight quake in my voice. “I’ll bring more next week.”

  Silence. I didn’t move.

  “What am I supposed to do in the meantime? Wear dirty clothes?”

  I searched the room for a defense. “All the clothes are clean. There isn’t anything dirty in the basket.” It was weak, but I could have said so much more.

  I couldn’t say that she had a car. I couldn’t say that the diner was across the street from Wal-Mart and it wouldn’t be difficult to stop by for essentials after work. My mother didn’t like to be challenged. To question her brought consequences, and all I wanted to do was head to my room and catch up on homework while my clothes cleaned themselves.

  “No ma’am. I can run get some real quick if you need me to.” I swallowed, hoping that would be the end of it.

  She shook her head once, dismissing me. “No need. I’ll get it myself.”

  I nodded, working to keep my face neutral. The worst thing to give my mother is a reacti
on. Positive or negative, she always read them wrong.

  “Okay. I’ll be in my room.”

  It happened just as I passed her. A searing pain on the side of my left thigh. With a loud cry, I fell to the floor, a baby calf who’d just been branded. The tears came hard and fast. No matter how quickly they multiplied, they couldn’t catch up to the pain that had me gripping both sides of my leg.

  “Next time bring soap with you. You know I don’t like it when you use up all my stuff.”

  I pressed a hand over my mouth and limped out of the room, not letting go until I collapsed on my bed.

  Another burn to go along with all the others.

  Sometimes I wondered how far the outward wounds made their way inside me.

  Four hours later, a loud banging wakes me up. Micah is nothing if not predictable. Still, if he’s going to come barging into my apartment, he could at least have the decency to do it when I’m in the shower or brushing my teeth instead of waiting until I’m nice and comfortable in bed and having a very nice dream about Chris Hemsworth and his Thor hammer.

  That man hammers quite well, let me tell you.

  It’s one o’clock in the morning, but I fling the front door open without even glancing through the peephole.

  “Did you even check to see if it was me?” Micah growls as he storms in and around me.

  “I knew it was you. And by all means, come on in.” I shut the door.

  He tosses his keys on the coffee table and stomps over to the couch.

  “That man is all wrong for you.”

  “So is that woman for you, but you won’t listen to me. I saw her Instagram picture earlier.” Two hours ago, she posted a picture of the two of them sharing an ice cream sundae backlit by candlelight. She was practically sitting on his lap, licking whipped cream off his chest. “It was the perfect image of happiness.” If sarcasm could be communicated more effectively, kudos to the person doing the speaking.

  “So she likes social media. Step into the twenty-fist century, Presley. Most people do.”

  “That’s because most people don’t have lives. Those of us who do are secure enough to keep their personal lives offline.” I’m aware that this comes out of the mouth of the girl who brought a guy back to her apartment four hours ago but didn’t actually let him inside. Instead, I feigned a bout of stomach illness and told him I was headed to bed. Nick was the perfect gentlemen—pressing a palm to my forehead, telling me to take a warm bath, making me promise to call him first thing in the morning. So kind. Not a single argument or protest from him.

  So much for my riveting personal life. It’s easy to keep things offline when you have nothing to share.

  “Speaking of your personal life, what did you and Nick do after you left the restaurant?”

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “I think it is.”

  “Why, because crashing my date gives you a sense of entitlement?”

  “I didn’t crash it. I needed to make sure you were okay. You were angry after you left the ball park. I was worried you might do something foolish.”

  At this, everything in me deflates. My outrage. My anger. My ego. My pride. There it is, the real issue in front of us. I protect him, he protects me, we protect each other. The lifecycle of our dysfunctional relationship. That’s what happens when parents abdicate the job.

  I sigh and turn toward the kitchen, taking a minute to compose myself.

  I fill up a stainless tea kettle with water and turn on a burner, then lean against the counter and wait for it to boil. When I look up, he’s staring at me from across the room. The expression in his eyes has changed into a look I can’t decipher. Possessive, that might be it.

  “I didn’t sleep with him, if that’s what you’re asking.”

  “I’m aware you didn’t sleep with him. You don’t do that sort of thing.” His words are slow, deliberate.

  “You have no idea if I do that sort of thing.”

  Except he does. And he’s right. Why can’t I be the sort of person who does that sort of thing? It’s the twenty-first century for heaven’s sake, and I was born a couple hundred years too late. I’m a girl who works in newsprint because of a deep-seated desire to keep the past alive. I’m a girl with a will of iron and even stronger morals. The rest of the population might be fine with one night stands and free love, but I’m still holding out for the guy who’ll love me and only me…still wondering if that man exists at all. Every time I think I’ve found him, he disappears with a more beautiful, more ambitious woman.

  I resent this conversation on all counts.

  I resent my inability to move on from Micah even more.

  His silence screams at me, and I give him a look. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

  His begins a slow perusal of my attire. White tank. Pink sleep shorts. Bare shoulders. Even barer legs. I’m not wearing make-up and I’m not wearing a bra. The scar on my leg is showing, and the lack of everything I’ve left off my body makes me suddenly self-conscious. It’s an odd feeling, one I’m not used to having around Micah. He’s seen me bruised and broken and burned and sobbing. This feels worse. Vulnerable. Open. Like I’m being judged inside and out. My chin lifts and I glare at him. I might not be as perfect as Mara, but I’m not nothing either.

  He takes a step toward me. “I’m glad you don’t do that sort of thing. There aren’t enough women like you anymore.”

  The skin on my arm pebbles. A shiver runs down my spine. Of all the compliments he could have given, this one affects me the most.

  There aren’t enough women like you…

  He swallows hard, his throat constricting. “Not every old-fashioned thing about you is bad.”

  With that, my shivers turn hot. A compliment should be a compliment and never followed by a qualifier. Not everything is bad. All the headway Micah just made crashed and burned with his about-face, whether he intended it or not. I turn and busy myself with retrieving two mugs out of the cabinet above me.

  “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” he says from behind me. Micah has always been good at reading my thoughts. “Nothing about you is bad. Don’t take my words the wrong way.”

  Not ready to believe him, I pour hot water into both mugs and carry them to the sofa. Newspapers are spread out all over my coffee table, a few scattered on the floor. Like me, they want a chance to be reborn. Like them, I’ve been a bit discarded. One too many times, I can see that now.

  Micah follows me and sits down on the sofa. I sit as far away as I can, wrap my hands around my tea, and blow on the surface of the liquid. Most things about me are weird, several things are off, and we both know it. Life is hard for a girl who just wants to prove that she deserves a chance like everyone else.

  “What are you doing here, Micah?”

  He leans back and props his feet on the table, then takes a sip of tea.

  “I didn’t like the way you left. I didn’t like where my imagination went.”

  I let that sentence hang between us for a second.

  “Exactly where did your imagination go? You’ve already established that I’m not that kind of girl.”

  He blinks up at the ceiling. “Doesn’t mean he isn’t that kind of guy. I didn’t like the idea of you here alone with him. What if he had tried something, and you couldn’t defend yourself? What if you’d gotten hurt or…worse?”

  I force myself not to react to his list of excuses. He is used to protecting me, after all. Fifteen years of the same habit isn’t a hard thing to shake. Still, I’m twenty-eight. And his reasoning is flimsy. “Worse than getting hurt? Like…what if he had killed me or something?”

  He launches himself to a sitting position. “Exactly. What if he had killed you?”

  “You’re an idiot.” I’m aware that I just reacted, but it couldn’t be helped. He’s ridiculous. And why does his need to defend me only apply to men I might actually date? Never to scary strangers in dark allies, drunk men at bars, or the psychopath who lives n
ext door to me. The man calls me a whore every time he passes me on the sidewalk, and Micah tells me I’m overreacting when I get mad about it.

  He twists around to look at me. “What? Why am I an idiot?”

  I make a dramatic display of shrugging. “I don’t know Micah, you tell me. Better yet, tell me the real reason you came here. Don’t give me some lame excuse about you needing to be my savior. I can save myself.”

  “I’m perfectly aware you can save yourself, I just—”

  “You just don’t want me to date anyone who isn’t you. You just don’t like the idea that some other guy could steal me away from you. You just want me to be your beck and call girl, but only when you beck and call me. You just want to keep me around, but you just don’t think I’m good enough to be around you permanently. And speaking of being permanent, are you engaged yet?”

  He looks at me like I’ve grown two heads. “You left the restaurant a couple hours ago. You think I got down on one knee real quick and then hustled over here to stop you from making out with another guy? That would have gone over real well with Mara.”

  “And speaking of Mara, I assume she threw a fit when you told her you were coming here.”

  “Don’t talk about her like that.”

  “I’d rather not talk about her at all, but you brought her up so…”

  “She’s at her house. She went to bed early.”

  “Without you?”

  “I told her I was sick.”

  I take a sip of tea. “Look at us. Both a couple liars.”

  “What else was I supposed to say? She isn’t a big fan of yours.”