Lies We Tell Ourselves

by Amy Matayo

  “Look at me when I’m talking to you, girl.”

  My head snapped to attention, my chin quivering slightly. Strangers should never tell children to obey without question. Maybe if adults wouldn’t say such things, kids like me would learn the art of self-defense at an earlier age. At the very least, maybe we would learn to stand up for ourselves the way God intended. As it were, I looked up at him while he glared down at me, willing myself not to cry.

  “I saw my kid out here drawing these sissy pictures with you.”

  I nodded, unsure if his statement required a response. It seemed smarter to err on the side of agreeing with him. I pressed my lips closed and blinked up at him. I pressed at my knee with the toe of his work boot.

  “That better not happen again. If I see him out here with you holding that girly chalk, drawing these girly pictures, I’ll make you both wish I hadn’t. Understand me?”

  I nodded again. A tear escaped and ran down my chin. Movement caught my eye, and I snuck a peek. Micah stood inside his bedroom window, watching us both. He must have seen me looking, because he quickly turned off the lamp.

  “Good.” He stood in place for a moment, then spit on my painting as he turned to walk away. A milky white blob landed right in the center of my sun. It seemed nothing in my world stayed bright for long, not even in pretend.

  From that point on, Micah waited until his father left for work to come outside. Always late. Always dark. Always the two of us huddled together. Whispering so as not to get caught.

  We spent so many nights hiding, I think both of us forgot how to come out into the light.

  Three weeks later, I’m rudely interrupted at work. It’s been an awful three weeks, and I’m more depressed than I’ve ever been. Turns out when you make a decision to move on from someone, the heart refuses to listen and instead doubles its capacity for grief and aching. I’ve cried more tears and eaten more Ben and Jerry’s and watched more television than a human should ever admit to, all actions taking place in the safety of my bed. Nothing is helping. I’m no closer to moving on than I was when Micah left my apartment.

  I’m hardly in the mood for this.

  “Where is he?”

  When the front door slams—rattling the bell above it—I look up from my computer into Mara’s wild face. Anger. Rage. Blame. Her hair is sticking up and her eye make-up smudged. Seems the beautiful girl has turned into an ugly version of herself, the mirror mirror on my back office wall no doubt threatening to crack from the transformation. Who’s the fairest one of all? Well, this chick was until someone clearly made her mad.

  I focus on the document in front of me, grinding my back teeth and doing my best to pretend not to be affected by her intrusion. I used to dream of being an actress when I was a child. Turns out dreams do come true.

  “Where is who?” I try to sound bored. Fingers crossed that it worked.

  “Micah, you selfish little—”

  “You probably shouldn’t finish that sentence, Mara. Not very ladylike of you.”

  “Who said I was a lady? Where is he? We have a date tonight, and I need him to go with me.”

  I turn my head to look at her, pausing at her interesting choice of words.

  “You need him to go with you? On your date?”

  “Yes. It’s important. People are going to be there. Important people.”

  “And you need to be seen.” I string out each word to give it emphasis. “With Micah. On your important date.”

  “Are you hard of hearing? Yes, with Micah. Now where is he?”

  I shrug and pick up a pen, then make a series of marks on the newsprint in front of me. The marks mean nothing, but I like to look important too. “Like I said before, I have no idea. I haven’t talked to him since his father died.”

  “Yeah, whatever.” She waves a hand toward my phone. “Text him.”

  More marks. A couple doodles. A temper flare. His dad died. Whatever? “You text him. He’s your boyfriend. Most women don’t like to include a third party in their relationships.”

  I’m not sure she intended the incredulous laugh that escapes her lips. I’m certain of it when she begins to cover it up with a cough. “As if that ever stopped you before.” She has a point. “But he isn’t answering me right now.”

  I try not to smile. It almost works. “Trouble in paradise? This close to the wedding?”

  Last week, I heard through the grapevine that Micah proposed. A Christmas wedding apparently, and seeing that it’s late October already, the day is fast approaching.

  “We backed up the wedding to April, so it isn’t that close.”

  “Oh. Interesting.” I don’t elaborate. I can see her eyebrows raise without looking at her.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. I’m just surprised you would want to wait to marry a man like Micah. I’d be afraid someone else would snatch him up, that’s all.”

  “I’m not afraid of that one bit,” she huffs, sitting down in the chair across from me.

  It’s in her tone. It’s true…she doesn’t sound afraid. She sounds hopeful. Like maybe, just maybe, she’ll find a way out of their sham of an engagement. For a second I consider giving her a way out. I could tell her I know. I could claim that I’ve seen the way she uses him. I could snap and tell her I love him and plan to steal him away just for spite. Instead, I ask her a question. One I hope will put my misgivings to rest.

  “Mara, why do you want to marry Micah?”

  She crosses her arms.

  “Why shouldn’t I marry him?”

  It’s all she says. I’d have felt much better if the statement were followed by an I love him or—at the very least—an I can’t imagine my life without him. But it isn’t. And that makes me angry. Righteously so. Unlike regular anger that bulldozes and destroys without regard to who might get hurt—righteous anger changes things. It lights a fire under the complacent and gets their minds moving. Some things you have to tolerate because they can’t be fixed. Other things, you don’t.

  I rest my elbows in front of my keyboard and look up at her. “I can think of a million reasons why someone would want to marry Micah. I just want to know why you do.”

  “I just do, alright? What is up with your questions?”

  It strikes me as odd that as far as parting words go, she and Micah think up the same defensive ones. What’s up with the questions? Someone needs to ask them, that’s what’s up.

  That thought gives me pause. Does someone need to ask them? Or are those the kinds of questions we need to be asking ourselves without outside help? The answer comes quickly. Whether he marries Mara or not, Micah needs to figure it out for himself. I’m done inserting myself into his life.

  “You need to go, Mara.” I seem to be doing a lot of this lately, kicking people out of my life. It goes against every grain of every fiber I believe in. I believe in love. I believe in people. I believe in words of encouragement and compassion and unconditional friendship and acceptance. I’ve always believed in them.

  But somewhere along the way, I forgot to believe in me.

  “Go, Mara. Get out of my office.”

  She stands up. “I’m not leaving until you tell me where he is.”

  “I don’t know where he is, but I wouldn’t tell you if I did. Your issues belong to you and Micah. I officially just took myself out of the middle of them, once and for all.”

  She takes a step toward me. A threat? If so, it’s a laughable one. I do exactly that. Once I start it verges on hysteria, and I can’t stop. My whole life has been lived on other people’s terms, and I’m just now seeing myself clearly. How long will it take me to figure out who I even am?

  Probably the rest of my life. The task seems daunting, but I’m determined. When you’ve believed the lie that you’re worthless for an entire lifetime, it’s bound to take a while to uncover the whole truth.

  The truth hurts. But a little pain never killed anyone. Ask Micah. Ask me.

  “Stop laughing
,” Mara fairly screams. “You need to tell me where he is.”

  “No, Mara. No I don’t.”

  I’m laughing so hard that I don’t stop to tell her I have no idea where he is.

  Or that I have no plans to track him down.

  EPILOGUE

  Presley

  Six months later

  I’m on my way to meet Nick for drinks and appetizers at a restaurant downtown—he and one other person. Over the past few months, he’s become sort of a lifeline for me. Always there to listen when I need to complain, always there with a tissue when my complaints turn to anguish and run down my face. Always there with take-out and Ben and Jerry’s Chocolate Therapy ice cream; it’s now my favorite and that is not a coincidence. I ate so much in the month after Micah left that I gained ten pounds. I’ve taken up running in the months since then and have managed to lose twelve, so it wasn’t a complete failure. Running relieves stress. It also cures heartbreak, or at least lets you forget it for a while. Sometimes it’s in the reprieve that life gets a little better.

  Life is getting a little better.

  Even more, it’s on its way to great. I can feel it, a scratch down deep that rarely lets up. Remember the laughter? Remember your dreams? Remember you? Hey. Hey. I’m still here. Pay attention.

  Hope is coming back. My heart is coming back. I’m coming back. Turns out I kinda missed myself.

  My phone rings from its spot in the cup holder. I push it on and put in on speaker. The sound of Nick’s voice fills up the car and immediately puts me in a better mood.

  “How close are you? We’re holding a table in the back, but hurry up. The chips and salsa are almost gone.”

  I growl in mock offense. “Then ask for a refill. I’m starving, and you know how mean I can get when there’s no food around.”

  “Waiter, more chips over here and make it fast,” I hear Nick practically yell, his voice muffled from covering up the receiver, no doubt. I laugh at his humor. That’s another thing he does well; he makes me laugh. Maybe more than I’ve ever laughed in my twenty-eight years. Life is fun with him around. I’ve told him so at least a thousand times.

  “I’ll be there in five. Don’t touch the new ones or else.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says. The call ends and I drive the rest of the way in silence, enjoying the sound of only my thoughts. Three minutes later, I park my car and walk inside the restaurant, spotting his wave before the door closes behind me. The interior smells like charcoal and spice, and my stomach growls in anticipation. Mexican food is my favorite. I practically launch myself into the booth, eyeing the contents of the basket in front of me.

  “Settle down, hot sauce. We didn’t eat a single one.”

  “Good decision on your part.” I grab a tortilla chip and smile at the couple across from me, my current two favorite people on the planet. Nick winks at me and rests an arm around her shoulder. She leans into his side and raises an eyebrow at me.

  “Could you please chew with your mouth closed? I’m losing my appetite over here.”

  “Good.” I make a point to chew louder, and she rolls her eyes.

  Oh, by the way. Nick and I aren’t dating. Not anymore. We tried for a few weeks after I walked away from Micah, but my heart wasn’t in it. Neither was his, but he felt too sorry for me to call things off right away. When he finally told me so, I smacked him in the gut and enjoyed the sound of his groaning. The only thing worse than a guy who doesn’t want to date you is a guy who pretends to out of pity. We ended things on good terms that night, and we’ve been friends ever since. He’s what I like to imagine things might have been like if I’d had a brother. There’s no way to know for sure since I have no family at all, but he’s close. They say close only counts in a game of horseshoes, but they count in men named Nick too.

  Two weeks later, he met Kaya in the produce aisle of the grocery store. Those two are so disgustingly happy, it’s no wonder their meeting was a literal cliché. I wish I didn’t like her so much, but she’s become a best friend to me. A foreign concept when your friends have only been men, but it’s a welcome change. Two new best friends in the course of six months, considering my history who knew that was even possible? I smile at them both, currently embattled in conversation over Taylor Swift and the meaning of her newly released single. Kaya calls it empowering, a rally cry for woman across the county to stand up and demand better treatment. Nick calls it bitter, an attack on the entire male population who—despite what the lyrics imply—should not always be expected to pay for dinner. He would. Little does he know I’m planning on making him pay for mine tonight.

  I laugh a little to myself as I listen to them go at it. My friends and their ridiculous arguments. Together they’ve almost managed to heal the hole in my heart.

  I reach for another chip just as Kaya launches into another very valid point, and I try very hard not to think of Micah.

  Almost.

  Micah

  A freaking psychopath.

  I was dating—scratch that, I almost married—a freaking psychopath. And I found out for sure at a fancy dinner last month. We were hosting a party to celebrate my promotion, being served dessert when the answer to my text came through. How do you know Mara West?

  I’d sent the message the day before.

  His name came through on Mara’s phone when she set it down on my kitchen table and walked to the bathroom. She forgot to lock the screen when a message popped up. Stop texting me or I’ll block you once and for all, it read. And me being me, I quickly snatched up her phone and began to scroll.

  Please Bradley, I miss you.

  Please Bradley, there’s no one else for me but you.

  Please Bradley, it was an accident.

  Please Bradley, I didn’t mean it.

  Don’t be so naïve Bradley, your new girlfriend is a slut.

  Dozens and dozens of texts from Mara, sent to him over the course of a year. There were gaps—weeks with no communication from either side, but they always started up again…always initiated by Mara.

  But it was one she sent last week that made my blood run cold.

  I wish I had killed you when I had the chance.

  I stood in my kitchen, warning bells clanging painfully inside my head, every word Presley had spoken firing like shotgun shells and blowing holes in my memory.

  She’s crazy, Micah.

  She drugged us, Micah.

  Wake up, Micah.

  She’s wrong for you, Micah.

  Even then—even with proof right in front of me shouting in my face—I wasn’t ready to believe Presley. So while I listened to the toilet flush and the water run while Mara washed her hands, I typed the guy’s number into the notes on my phone. Later that night and after she left, I texted him.

  Who are you and how do you know Mara?

  He shot a quick text back.

  How do you know Mara? the message read.

  She’s my fiancé.

  After that, silence.

  Until nearly twenty-four hours later. The guy was thorough, but he had terrible timing.

  Well, good luck buddy. But if you actually marry her, you should sleep with one eye open. If you don’t and you make her mad enough, she might put you in the hospital. Fingers crossed you make it out alive. I almost didn’t.

  I froze in the middle of that dinner party.

  And then I handed off the phone to Mara.

  I watched as everything I thought I knew about her changed right in front of my eyes.

  Her smile faded.

  Her lips pressed into a thin line.

  Her breathing kicked up a notch, and then another.

  Her eyes took on a hardness I never knew existed.

  But it was her scream that sent a gasp through the room. Her scream that had people at that dinner party jumping out of their chairs.

  Loud and guttural, she launched herself out of the chair and threw my phone while the other guests watched in horror. None were as horrified as me. It shattered
right along with our relationship and her reputation.

  And there they were again, Presley’s words resurrected and filleting themselves wide open across the remainder of my fifty-dollar-lobster dinner that I paid for myself, times twenty in case we had any extra last-minute guests. I’m thoughtful like that.

  With things that don’t matter.

  Unlike the way I treated Presley when she tried to tell me and I accused her of being jealous and—what was it I called her? Untalented? Unambitious? Unattractive? Un-something, of that I’m certain. She didn’t measure up, that was the clear message no matter how I said it.

  In the twenty years I had known her, I communicated that quite clearly over and over and over. And then for good measure, I threw her away like yesterday’s trash just to teach her a lesson. Don’t bother coming. I have Mara.

  I have Mara.

  I have Mara.

  A freaking psychopath that I nearly married for the sole reason that I wanted someplace to belong…with someone who would never require me to rip off my mask. That’s the real issue, isn’t it? I’ve spent my entire life being afraid of letting someone love me, all because I made that mistake as a child and vowed to never do it again. The person I loved and trusted more than anyone in the world left me like yesterday’s garbage and never looked back, and for that reason I closed myself off.

  I opened myself only for Presley, and it was the scariest feeling in the world.

  Until now. Now I see what I’ve done, and the reality of losing her has me more frightened and sad than I’ve ever been before.

  I blink at the computer screen in front of me, so exhausted by the articles I’d pored over since eleven o’clock last night. Once I had the name Bradley Reynolds in my possession, research came easy with the help of Google. There’s so much to read, I’m not even halfway through the links. I close my laptop and stand up to stretch my back, remembering.

  Mara crying.

  Mara apologizing.

  Mara begging for another chance.

  Mara changing tactics when she realized nothing was working, and then screaming that I was a worthless piece of crap who would never amount to anything more than a small-town newscaster. Yelling that I was ugly. Punching at me and calling me awkward. Kicking at me while people restrained her. Calling me full of myself and untalented, a disappointing letdown compared to Bradley. She had morphed into a different person right in front of everyone. Weirder still, it was like she had somehow managed to pull off a secret pow-wow with my long-buried father and taken notes. Everything she said was everything I’d heard before, many times over. As a child, as a teenager, as a newly graduated high-schooler who moved out of the house and never saw his father again.