by Amy Matayo
One I plan to play for the rest of my life.
THE END
Dear Reader:
This book was hard to write, mainly because I wasn’t quite sure what I was trying to communicate until I was well into the story. Up to the point of realization, it was more like I was scratching out random thoughts onto paper that had no theme or context. You know what they say about writing being the equivalent of opening a vein and letting yourself bleed? Well, that’s what I was doing. Bleeding. Except the blood was going everywhere and making an absolute mess of things, metaphorically speaking. That kind of vein-opening might make for halfway decent therapy, but it wasn’t telling a very good story.
And then I had a talk with my older sister; one of our many talks, because 2017-2018 had been very rough years for her overall. In the course of this particular conversation, she said something through tears that initially knocked me in the gut, and then made me angry on her behalf. She said this:
“I guess I’m just not worth it. Maybe I never was.”
Someone had communicated this to her in subtle and not so subtle ways over a whole bunch of years, and now the fallout came to a head. “Maybe I never was.” She wasn’t saying it in an offhanded way or as a way to get sympathy. She said it because—right then in that moment—she believed it to her core.
I won’t tell you what I said to her because it’s personal, but friends, this is what I want to say to you…the point of my whole book. You Are Worth It. No matter what your parent says about you. No matter how your spouse treats you. No matter if your kid screams at you. No matter how many times a friend gossips about you. No matter how badly your coworker acts toward you. No matter if the neighbor drives over your newly planted flowers. No matter that latest bad review. No matter what awful things you say to yourself.
You. Are. Worth. It.
You know how I know this?
Because a God who loves you said so when He sent His son to sacrifice his life for you a whole bunch of years ago. That’s what I believe down to my bones. But even if you don’t believe the same way I do, then believe this:
You are worth it. Because I say so.
And sometimes—more than anything else—we just need someone to speak that truth into our lives for the simple purpose of drowning out the lies we so easily say to ourselves. If you need a list of them, take a look at the cover of this book. I had a lot more to add, but we ran out of room.
As for my sister, she’s moving on with her life and I’ve never been prouder.
As for the rest of my family, we’re doing well. We’re standing up and coming back together after a very not fun couple of years. Rock bottom is where you get to build a new foundation, right? We’ve poured the concrete and now we’re rebuilding the walls. Progress is progress, right?
In this case, it is.
In your case, one step forward is better than standing still.
Keep moving, friends. Speak kindly to yourself. And above everything…
Know your worth and recite it to yourself daily.
I am worth it.
I am worth it.
I am worth it.
Much love,
Amy
Acknowledgements
To my sisters, Tracy and Emily, for being my constant friends despite the ups and downs. All good sisters have them, right? Up, down, or around, I am glad to have you.
To my sweet writer friends that make me feel a little more understood: Nicole Deese, Tammy L. Gray, Jenny B. Jones, Christy Barritt, Connilyn Cossette, Varina Denman, Misty Wilson, and the entire PLN author group.
To Kristin Avila—the best editor in the world.
To Murphy Rae—this cover is my favorite so far.
To Jessica Kirkland—the agent and friend who keeps me in line and on schedule
To Lilly Matayo, Jan Millsap, and Rel Mollet for your proofreading skills. Special thanks to Rel for always being ready and willing to launch.
To my neighbors and friends at home who make living in the real world a nicer place to be. You know who you are, and I’ll love you forever.
To my mom and dad—the greatest parents ever.
To my husband and kids—thanks for putting up with me.
To RWA—thanks for the RITA nomination.
To God—thanks for never giving up on me even when I want to give up on myself.
Please consider leaving a review of Lies We Tell Ourselves on Amazon and Goodreads.
Other books by Amy Matayo:
Christmas at Gate 18
The Whys Have It
The Thirteenth Chance
The End of the World
A Painted Summer
In Tune With Love
Sway
Love Gone Wild
The Wedding Game
Amy Matayo
Represented by Jessica Kirkland at Kirkland Media Management
amymatayo.com
Amy Matayo is an award winning author of The Wedding Game, Love Gone Wild, Sway, In Tune with Love, A Painted Summer, The End of the World, The Thirteenth Chance, The Whys Have It, and Christmas at Gate 18. The Whys Have It was a 2018 RITA Award finalist. She graduated with barely passing grades from John Brown University with a degree in Journalism. But don’t feel sorry for her—she’s super proud of that degree and all the ways she hasn’t put it to good use.
She laughs often, cries easily, feels deeply, and loves hard. She lives in Arkansas with her husband and four kids and is working on her next novel.
Twitter: @amymatayo
Instagram: @amymatayo.author
Facebook: www.facebook.com/amymatayoauthor
The End of the World
by
Amy Matayo
PROLOGUE
His pen ran out of ink on the word corner. Three lines in, and all he had to show for his effort was a crumpled piece of paper, a tiny hole he’d made in his attempt to get the ink flowing, and a smear mark that resembled a small black river rock. At this point, all he’d managed to get flowing was the side of his hand over the still-wet words he’d already written. So now the word corner looked like comer—not at all the thought he wanted to convey, but what he was stuck with anyway. For all his success, he still knew how to screw things up.
Cameron grabbed a stone next to him and sailed it across the surface of the water, watching as it bounced across the waves like a schoolgirl excited about the promise of recess. He’d already skipped a couple dozen in the hour he’d been sitting here. His best hopped nine times before eventually dipping and settling to the bottom of the murky lake, a personal record in all the years he’d been practicing in this particular spot.
And God knew he’d had lots of practice.
Cameron looked up from his paper and studied the view. A family of ducks swam twenty yards in front of him, splashing in the waves as though it wasn’t past their bedtime. A corroded Diet Coke can bobbed up and down near the concrete embankment just beneath his feet. He watched it float on his back, mesmerized by the disappearing and reappearing capital D, as though it wanted to drown itself but kept changing its mind, coming up for air before once again slipping under water. A vicious tug of war between life and death, one Cameron related to. Normally he would stand to retrieve the can and toss it in a bin, eliminating the environment of the unpleasant sight.
But right here right now, he didn’t give a crap. For all he cared, it could release metal toxins into the water for all eternity.
The night sky was blacker than he remembered in recent memory, the only light coming from both the thin sliver of moon hanging high above him and the hot glow from his cell phone’s flashlight app that cast a blinding beam onto his lap. The contrast was fitting, matching his erratic mood.
He was both excited and anxious. Hopeful and worried. Nervous like a teenager going on his first date, but calm like a soldier returning home after a lengthy tour of duty. Also appropriate, considering his entire life had been one hard-fought battle after another.
So many years wasted…
He blinked into the open air, jolted back to the present like an old rough tug on his former child-sized arm. He ignored the familiar desire to rub away a phantom pain and shook his head to clear it, unnerved that his mind still managed to revisit the old unwelcome memories. Drawing in a deep breath, he checked the time on his phone; according to her text, Shaye should have been here thirty minutes ago. This was the longest night of his life, considering he’d looked over his shoulder exactly four hundred times since he arrived. Would she show? What if she took one look at him sitting here and walked away? The questions rolled one over another until they snowballed into a giant sphere of apprehension. To temper the sudden fear, he reached for a new piece of paper and fished through his bag for a different pen, then started to write again.
Another half-hour went by before he looked up from his paper. It was finished. Everything he’d wanted to say for years, condensed into twenty lines. It wasn’t perfect, but in the years he’d spent writing professionally, it was the most important thing he’d ever penned. Now all he needed to do was hand it to her. Wait while she read the words. And then she would know.
He didn’t know how she would react or what she would say or even if she would speak at all, but that didn’t matter.
Because she would finally know.
He checked the time again and looked behind him, feeling his heart drop onto his lap. He saw nothing but nighttime everywhere where he looked, which could only mean one thing: she wasn’t coming. He hadn’t considered this scenario … hadn’t allowed himself to, not even in the sleepless night leading up to this moment. Despite his accomplishments … despite his career highs that were mixed with very few lows, there was one thing that could bring him to his knees. One thing that would make him consider himself a failure. One thing that could make all he’d worked for seem cheap and meaningless and completely not worth continuing.
If Shaye didn’t show, it’s the one thing he might not survive.
The creak of a wooden plank behind him startled him back to the present. All plans for looking cool and collected fled in an instant as he whipped his head around. His heart pounded like he’d spent every second of his twenty-six years sprinting toward a finish line and only just now made it across.
Shaye. Standing in front of him.
Even through the darkness, he would recognize her anywhere—her chestnut hair with its stubborn strand that insisted on falling across her forehead. Her long arms that wrapped around her midsection like a shield, protecting her from a gentle wind or a violent hit. Her timid smile that curled up on one side but had never entirely broken free unless he told a joke or tickled her under her ribs, the only ticklish spot on her body.
There would be no touching her today. Or tomorrow. Or depending on how tonight went, maybe not ever. But she was here, and for now he took comfort in that fact that everything about Shaye looked the same.
Until she took a step closer.
That’s when he knew that nothing would ever be the same again.
PART ONE
“What if I told you
what I’ve been through?
Would you believe me?
Would you look at me
Differently?
“Would you try to save me?”
(LM)
CHAPTER 1
Cameron
Ten years earlier
The sun hasn’t yet dipped under the rooftop of the neighbor’s two-story clapboard house, but the music from Mrs. Miller’s old stereo is already playing by the time the front door slams behind me. Odd, since I’ve never heard the sound so early before. Also odd because it isn’t her traditional Elvis Presley LP that skips through the first half of “Blue Suede Shoes” on such a regular basis that I have the song memorized without the missing words. If I ever have to sing the song in its entirety I’ll make an idiot of myself, but then again I have no plans on attending Karaoke night at any of the downtown clubs anytime soon. Pretty sure they don’t admit awkward, almost fourteen-year-old boys like me, anyway.
Tonight the faint strains of early Beatles crackles from her 1950’s record player. I know this because she’s told me the value, quality, and history behind that giant-sized player exactly every single time I’ve been inside her house, which is at least once a day after school for as long as I’ve lived here.
I love Mrs. Miller. I’m going to miss her.
I’ve been here eleven months, twenty days, fourteen hours, and nine…ten seconds. The longest I’ve lived anywhere since the day my mother died exactly nine years, eleven months, twenty-seven days, and twelve…thirteen seconds ago. Not that I’m counting every single second of my life without her. Not that I don’t have time memorized the way some kids memorize fractions.
“You ready to go, dude?” My foster father, a really nice guy named Todd, comes up behind me. He’s holding my bag and pointing me toward his car—a 1998 polished black Ford Taurus that he pampers like a baby, understandable since he and his wife, Shelly, have no babies of their own yet, hence the reason they became foster parents in the first place. I’m their third kid, but after years and years of trying, their first real baby is coming four months from now. A daughter for them—a daughter that seems intent on killing Shelly from the inside out. She’s thrown up every hour on the hour for nearly six weeks now, which means she’ll spend the rest of her pregnancy lying on her left side in their double bed. Which means it’s time for me to leave. Todd works two full-time jobs, and taking care of Shelly just became his third.
“Yeah, I’m ready.” I’m not. I’m never ready. I like this place. But it seems this foster system thing isn’t run on popular vote, because no one ever handed me a ballot or placed a pencil in my hand or set me in front of a computer to touch-screen my choice.
I ran out of choices three days ago when they informed me I’d be moving to a new home.
“What about Mrs. Mims?” Mrs. Mims is my social worker. She’s old—probably at least forty—but she’s nice and she’s still kind of pretty and I don’t mind it too much when she’s around. She always comes with me with I move to a new home. Right now, she isn’t here and there’s no sign of her car—a red sports car that’s as fun to ride in as it is flashy. At least that’s what she drove this time last year. A year can make quite a difference in what a person drives, even if it doesn’t make much of a difference in my prospects for a permanent home.
“She agreed to meet us at the house so I could drive with you myself.”
His statement makes me feel wanted, special for a second. But then I remember he’s getting rid of me, just like everyone else.
I follow Todd down the steps and wait while he tosses my bag into the trunk, then climb in beside him into the passenger seat. I want to beg him to let me stay longer—I’ll sleep on the sofa, I’ll clean up Shelly’s puke myself, I’ll get my own food and shower outside and clean toilets and anything they want if I can just stay.
“I wish you could stay, Buddy. You know that, right?” Todd asks.
I nod, because it’s what’s expected of me. It’s pointless to let him know I wish I could go anywhere except away from this house and the best family I’ve had in years. For a few months anyway, Todd and Shelly were almost like real parents. I was almost like their real kid. Except I’m not, and now that her stomach is the size of a small watermelon it’s painfully obvious to everyone involved.
Blood runs thicker than water, and my water is stained brown from nearly fourteen-year-old rust. No exactly a selling point to convince them I belong here.
“Good,” he says. “Because I do, and if Shelly were healthier…” He looks out the window and I do too. There’s really nothing more to say, nothing that will make me feel better or him less guilty. And that’s the mood in this car; dread and guilt filling up so much space in the seats that there’s barely enough room for the two of us to sit. After a few minutes, Todd tries to speak around both emotions.
“You know, you’ll probably like these new people a heck of a l
ot more than us.” He nudges my knee in an effort to reassure me, but all I feel is sadness. I force a small smile to cover it up. His sigh of relief stabs me through my scrawny middle.
Todd backs the car out of the parking space and shifts the gear in drive. We sit in front of Mrs. Miller’s house for only a fraction of a second, but it’s long enough for me to recognize the crackling strains of “Hey Jude” coming from that old record player. Her way of saying goodbye without uttering the actual words. My heart gives a little thud of thanks at the parting gesture.
Mrs. Miller knows that “Hey Jude” is my favorite song, because my middle name is Jude. I can remember my mother singing it to me when I was younger.
It’s the only clear memory I have of her.
And even that one isn’t as strong as it used to be.
Shaye
We’re getting a new kid. It’s the only thing I’ve heard about all morning, but not because everyone is excited. I mean, of course they’re exited…about the extra five-hundred dollars a month the kid will bring in. Everyone tells you age isn’t a number, but when you’re aa fourteen-year-old foster kid that no one wants except for the dollar signs in front of your name, it is. A nice round number in the form of six grand a year. Of course, when you’re a nearly seventeen-year-old foster kid like me, you’re worth a little less because your time is running out. Consider me a carton of spoiled milk—impending expiration date stamped on my side, not worth drinking unless bought on sale, and ultimately better off poured down the drain.
But I don’t care. In just over a year I’m out of here. Through with the system and on my own, free to get an apartment and a cat and a stereo that plays too loud even after midnight. Maybe even a drum set, and I don’t play drums. That’s not the point. The point is no more rules for me, and least none that I don’t make myself. I’m counting the seconds like pennies thrown into a wishing well. In fifteen short months you’ll see nothing but stacked-up spheres of copper shining in a muted dome over the surface of earth-sunken muddy water.