Lies We Tell Ourselves

by Amy Matayo

  I set my tea down and move to sit cross-legged in front of him. “The feeling is mutual, so at least we have that in common.” That, and the fact that Micah can’t decide between us both. I love him, and he knows it. I’ve told him so, but he’s never returned the sentiment—at least never out loud. I freeze as my thoughts collide in my mind. My breathing turns shallow as my skin grows cold.

  Never out loud.

  He’s never told me he loves me. Not once in all the time I’ve known him.

  I can’t move. I blink at the wall in front of me. And think.

  Is this true?

  I love you Micah, I said the first time I heard his father scream that he was worthless. I love you Micah, I said the first time I heard him stand up to his father after he threw me across the bedroom. I love you Micah, I said after I changed my plans to attend Tech and switched to community college so that we could share an apartment. I love you Micah, I love you Micah. So many instances, so many sentiments. Did he never say it back?

  I can’t breathe, because I know.

  He never said it back.

  How have I never realized it?

  Memories replay in my mind. They come at me like confetti, blurry and scattered and blowing in all different directions. Not to mention the things I’ve done. I’ve let him kiss me and leave in search of someone better. I’ve let him put down my career choices without defending myself. I’ve sold myself short; he keeps feeding me quarters when I deserve the whole fortune. I stare at a loose string on my pajama shorts and wonder why I’m still accepting his pocket change.

  But I already know why.

  Because I tell myself he loves me…justify his actions and mine…convince myself over and over that this is just the way we are, that this is how we work.

  Micah doesn’t love me. Not in the way I love him. If you love someone you tell them, you leave no room for doubt. Anything less isn’t love at all.

  How long have I been lying to myself?

  How long?

  There comes a time in every woman’s life when she faces a crossroads, where her past meets her future and she begins to see the present for what it truly is. Where she can keep walking down the same winding road, or merge left and try something different.

  Same is comfortable, safe. Different is scary, unknown. Different is setting aside your preconceived notions about yourself—the ones where people are allowed to treat you like an option because you think you don’t deserve better. Different is mapping out a new plan, one where you decide you’re worth more than accepting scraps and other people’s leftovers.

  I’m tired of leftovers.

  Don’t get me wrong; I love them. I never leave a restaurant without them. They make tomorrow’s meal easier. They make things predictable. I feel safe with them. I’m never worried they will make me sick or keep me starving. I always know they’re around if I can’t find anything else.

  But I’m tired of them.

  Starting tonight, I want something brand new. All those years ago, the first time we kissed, Micah told me he could never love me the right way, but that he was scared to lose me. I can see his real meaning now, and the picture hurts.

  He wasn’t afraid to lose me. He was afraid to lose the idea of me. Future family. Future unconditional love. Future support. Future acceptance. All those things he claims to want but won’t allow himself to reach for. I won’t be someone’s illusion anymore. I won’t be a future dream, a hope for better days.

  I am a better day. Right here, right now. And if Micah can’t see that, then he can keep chasing a false reality all by himself.

  “Go back to her, Micah. Just like Mara, I’m going to sleep now, too.” I don’t say that I’ve finally woken up. I don’t say that I’m not the least bit tired. I stand up and look down at him, still seated on the sofa. Just like I know he will, he reaches for the backs of my legs and pulls me forward.

  “I don’t want to leave you. Can’t I stay the night? Sleep here on the sofa? I promise to be the perfect gentleman.”

  I know he’s telling the truth. He would be. Other than the occasional kiss and spoken promise and inappropriate touch that he’d apologize for that I’ve always allowed because I don’t know how to tell him no, Micah is always the perfect gentleman. He doesn’t hurt me, he never uses me and throws me away—at least not more than I let him—and he always comes back. No, Micah doesn’t hurt me.

  In letting him do these things—all these years, all these different ways—I’ve hurt myself.

  I’m the one who held out hope. I’m the one who wished for more. I’m the one who told myself it was okay. I’m the one who rolled over her own heart. Over. And over. And over.

  The reality of it all plants itself in front of me and screams in my face. I’m a deaf person just handed the gift of sound, having to endure the pain of a bullhorn to the eardrum after years of deafening silence.

  It’s me.

  I’m the problem.

  Every kiss.

  Every apology.

  Every lie I tell myself to make the reality more bearable.

  It’s me.

  I’ve sabotaged my own happiness, one act of internal self-worthlessness at a time. Accept scraps. Be okay with afterthoughts. Give myself away. This piece. That piece. It’s okay. I’m fine. I’ll survive.

  What have I done to myself? I look into his face. His perfect face that I know better than my own. Usually one look gives me butterflies. Now all I feel is an overwhelming sense of what might have been and unbearable sadness. I reach for his hand; he wraps his strong one around it. He smiles up at me. He shouldn’t.

  “I have no doubt you would be a gentleman,” I say. “Mostly. But you can’t stay.”

  His head snaps back like I’ve hit him. His brows push together in confusion. Of course they do. I’ve never turned him down before. “What do you mean, no? You’re telling me I can’t stay?”

  I’m tossing out the leftovers. Finished with merely surviving.

  I’m worth more than this. So much more.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. You need to leave.”

  His hands slide further up my legs, his thumb tracing the old scar. With the movement, my knees buckle and my resolve weakens. This is so familiar, his touch. Soothing the ache of need, of desire. I’m a drug addict craving just a little hit. Not much, but enough to take the sting away. Enough to dull the senses. Micah heals my senses. Or maybe he just numbs them. Either way, his grip soothes my heart and breaks it at the same time. It allows me to avoid the reality of Presley Waterman—the girl no one has ever fully loved.

  When you’re not loved at all by the ones who should love you most, you’ll take anything you can get from others who offer. Even the scraps. Because when people toss you leftovers, at least someone notices you exist. Even if only for a second.

  But here’s what you forget to realize when you’re busy trying to survive on bits and pieces:

  The only person who needs to notice you in life…is you.

  I’m finally noticing myself.

  I exist. I matter. My life matters. My heart matters. My dreams matter.

  It’s time for people to realize it. Starting with me.

  “Go home, Micah.”

  His hand falls to his lap. He’s stunned. Blinking into the open room. Unsure of what to do.

  “I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

  “You’ll sleep in your own bed.”

  “Someone needs to take care of you.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “You don’t have to, because you have me.”

  But that’s the thing. I don’t. It took me way too long to figure it out, but I know that now. I have most of him, and that’s no longer good enough.

  “No, I don’t. Not entirely. Up until now, I’ve been okay with it.” I look at the thin sliver of carpet between my feet and his. “But I’m not anymore. I want all of you, or nothing.”

  “I can’t give you all of me. It’s impossible. I’ll never gi
ve all of myself to anyone,” he says.

  This part is true, and it saddens me maybe more than anything. He never will, because he can’t. Right now, he doesn’t believe he’s capable. Worse, he doesn’t think anyone would fully want him.

  I want him. I simultaneously love him and hate him for it.

  When you’re young, your heart is open. Ready and willing to receive the love people are supposed to bestow. Because that’s what parents do; they lavish newborns with love and spread layers and layers of affection on until their children are securely wrapped in it. But when you have parents who don’t, parents who criticize and blame and lash out and control, the heart closes. Only a little at a time, sometimes so slight that you don’t notice the change. But it closes, because that’s what wounds do when they aren’t doctored right. They bleed for a while, they fester, they scab over. And the infection spreads inward. Outside, the wound looks healed. But inside…inside tentacles of sickness latch on and spread, never quite releasing you.

  Micah is infected. I am, too.

  I think I’m finally willing to re-open my sore spots. To start at the beginning. To let myself bleed and doctor my wounds the right way. The way my parents should have done, but didn’t.

  “I know you won’t. And that’s why I need you to leave. I’m worth all of it, Micah. Every secret. Every fear. Every insecurity. Every temper tantrum. It took me a while to realize it, but finally I do. I’m worth it all.” I force myself to keep speaking even though the pain in my heart makes me want to take it all back. “If you ever figure that out, give me a call. Until then., I need you to let me go.”

  I bend forward and kiss him on the forehead. His beautiful, strong, glorious forehead that I love so much and always will. I press in a little to memorize the feel of him, and then I take him by the hands and pull him off the sofa. He mistakes the move as permission and steps forward for a hug. I stop him with my hand and point toward the door. He doesn’t move. I can tell by the look on his face that he still doesn’t think I’m serious.

  “Presley, what are you doing?”

  “I’m doing what I should have done a long time ago.”

  It’s said that you can’t save someone who doesn’t want to be saved. That you can’t rescue someone who self-sabotages if they don’t see an issue with their actions. Because here’s the problem with always rescuing people. The problem isn’t the love you show or the compassion you feel or the deep empathy that resides inside and won’t ever go away.

  It’s that in forever saving others, sometimes you forget to save yourself.

  Worse, sometimes you start to believe you’re not worth the effort.

  I’m.

  Worth.

  The.

  Effort.

  “I’m telling you to go. Now.”

  He remains motionless, one hand planted on his hip in frustration, like if he waits long enough I’ll come to my senses. The thing is, I already did.

  After a long stretch of seconds, he sighs.

  “Fine, I will.” He doesn’t walk. Even now, he’s waiting for me to change my mind, to tell him I’m not serious. I say nothing. “You really want me to leave?”

  “I really want you to leave.”

  I have one more thing to say, one more thing he needs to hear. Now I have nothing to lose.

  “She’s using you, you know. To get back at some guy who jilted her a few months ago. Any female with eyes and the slightest sense of reasoning can figure that out.”

  “Who?”

  “Mara.”

  He sighs, even now daring to show his irritation with me. “What—are you stalking her again?”

  Yet again, he missed the point. I refrain from reacting and keep my voice steady. “No, I’m stalking her still. I’ve never made that a secret.”

  “Well, stop. It’s creepy. You’re above it.”

  “No, what’s creepy is taking advantage of a perfectly nice guy in order to get back at someone who doesn’t want you. It’s more than creepy. It’s disturbed.”

  “I think you’re just jealous. Because she’s successful and talented and beautiful and—”

  He stops talking, realizing his mistake. All at once, his head begins to shake back and forth, regret filling the lines of his face like water from a rainstorm rising in a ditch.

  I don’t acknowledge it. The words sting, but my resolve doesn’t wane.

  “Okay, Micah,” I say, opening my front door and signaling that he needs to move through it. “Maybe on the drive home, you can spend some time convincing yourself of that. Maybe by the time you get there, you’ll decide that I’m the bad guy. The jealous, angry, unsuccessful one. You have an hour. That should be enough time.”

  “I wouldn’t—”

  “You will. You’ve done it before. You’re doing it now.”

  He turns to gape at me in doorway before narrowing his eyes. “No I’m not. When did I do it before?”

  “Since the first day we met.”

  He looks stunned. People react one of two ways when accused of something unseemly, whether they deserve the accusation or not. They either swiftly apologize in an effort to make amends, or they lash out in self-defense. Both reactions depend entirely on the state of the person’s heart. A healthy heart will try to make things right. An unhealthy one won’t.

  “Leave me alone, Presley. Don’t bother calling.”

  “I won’t.”

  They say that if you can’t figure out where you stand with someone, you should stop standing and start walking. Though I’m standing still in my own apartment, inside my mind I’m walking. Away from Micah. Away from the only man I’ve ever loved, and away from the games we’ve spent nearly two decades playing. Micah’s heart is damaged. Hardened. Mine is ripped open. Bleeding. But I’ll never believe either one of ours is ruined beyond repair. And maybe someday…who knows. Maybe after we both heal, after we become new versions of ourselves…maybe. You never know what the future might hold, that’s something else I’m learning. Maybe someday. Or maybe not. I know I’ll be okay with either.

  I hold my head up and watch as he flings the door open, and slams it in my face.

  The tears come hard and fast.

  Most of my heart leaves with him.

  Here’s to hoping the heart regenerates itself, because if it doesn’t, a tiny part is what I’ll have to live with. The way I feel now, I’m not sure it will keep me alive for long.

  NINETEEN

  He called five days later to tell me his father died.

  I let the call go to voicemail, but listened to the message as soon as I heard the ping. I hated the way my heart flipped and twisted at the sound, my strong reaction serving as an unwelcoming reminder that I just might deal with this the rest of my life. I walked away from Micah, I refused to talk to Micah, but that didn’t mean I quit loving him. That didn’t mean the ties he had to me had loosened at all.

  The moment I heard his broken voice, I was sent right back. He sounded so much like the sad and frightened boy under the porch. We never completely grow up, do we? We can stretch taller and grow hair in strange places and lose all the baby fat we possessed when we entered into this world, but we can’t erase the memories. When we least expect it, they catch up and send us straight back into the clutches of our childhoods. For most people, the nostalgia is welcome. For Micah and me, the memories are nightmares. Me for everything I allowed, and Micah for all the things he’ll no longer be able to prove. Look Dad, I finally made you proud. See Dad, I did it. That day will never come now. All the years chasing approval gone with the stop of a heart.

  He asked me to come to the funeral, but I wouldn’t. I knew I wouldn’t.

  That didn’t keep me from imagining the scene. Micah sitting in a chair off to the side, the handful of people who still remembered his father scattered in seats around the casket. Or maybe there wasn’t anyone left. Maybe Micah would be there alone—the aloof unwanted child that could never make his father proud, but showed up to his funeral anyway because th
at’s the kind of man he is. Micah is good to the core, even if he doesn’t always show it in the best ways. He wasn’t taught how. My insides hurt just thinking about what might have been.

  The next morning, I was still thinking about his isolation when he called back.

  “Never mind. I don’t need you to come. Mara will be there with me.”

  The words were harsh, a jab, and we both knew it. I don’t need you. I have Mara.

  You’re replaceable, see?

  For the briefest moment I feel the tears. And then I swallow them down. I’ve cried about Micah enough. I won’t do it one more second.

  I delete the messages and walk away from my phone.

  “You’re a scrawny little thing, you know that?”

  I knew. I’d been told that since the day I turned three and probably all the months before, but my third birthday just happened to be my first sonic memory of it. Crying at the sight of a blue dinosaur inside a local convenience store didn’t get me held, it got me a verbal and non-verbal lashing. Dramatic. Scrawny. Homely. Needy. Nuisance. Mistake. All the adjectives used to describe me, plus a plethora of equally unflattering ones. What wasn’t on the list? Anything that made me feel good about myself.

  Sticks and stones aren’t the only things to hurt a kid.

  Turns out words do hurt…they hurt most of all.

  “Yes, I know.” I kept coloring with my sidewalk chalk, the sun nearly set and making it hard to see. Not that it mattered. I colored back and forth to keep my hands busy. Maybe if they worked quickly, maybe if I drew more butterflies, he wouldn’t be able to see the way they shook. I didn’t like him. The way he stood on my neon green chalk and broke it in half, I kinda figured he didn’t like me either.

  Micah had gone inside a few minutes earlier when his father ordered it. Instead of following him into the house like I thought he might do, the man walked across the street to where I sat. He planted himself on top of my chalk and Micah’s water and loomed over me in silence, casting a monster-shaped shadow that made my picture look scary. For a second, I imagined him falling into the chalk-drawn lake and drowning. Then I remembered sometimes monsters live in the lake and drew a little faster. Besides, even the prettiest pictures could never be brought to life, no matter how hard you wished for it.