by Matayo, Amy
“It’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen!”
By the way, my parents aren’t here because of the money or the impending book deal, although my mother did say that’s nice when I told her about both.
They’re here for the ring.
This morning, Liam proposed. An hour before we got the call about the insurance settlement, in fact. A good thing too, or I might think he only wanted me for my money.
“While you two make all those high-pitched noises, I’m going to get more ice cream. We’re not even married yet and she’s making me do all the work.”
“I’ll join you,” my father says.
I roll my eyes. “Not so long ago, I climbed banana trees by myself. You probably shouldn’t complain about walking to the refrigerator.”
“Touché,” he says, opening the door and retrieving a fresh carton.
My mother keeps clutching my hand and staring at the ring, then releases it with a long sigh. She presses a hand to her chest and gazes down on me. I swear I see a tear in the corner of her left eye.
“It was such a great thing that the tour guide abandoned you. I wish we could find him and say thank you.”
I freeze, waiting for the punch line.
There isn’t one.
“What?” I say.
“What?” Liam says from behind me.
“Um, what?” My father says as well. It’s nice to know we’re all in agreement.
She waves a hand in the air. “I don’t mean you were lucky, exactly. Though maybe a little, you have to admit. I mean, just think about it. If he hadn’t left you in the middle of the ocean, you’d probably be dating some man who gambles for a living by now. And what kind of girl would do that? Honestly, Dillon. What were you thinking?”
I just sit there with my mouth hanging open. Is she serious?
I look at Liam for help, but he’s too busy laughing.
I look at my dad knowing he’ll come to my rescue, but he’s too busy copying Liam.
Are all men pigs, or just the ones in this apartment?
Maybe I should marry some drunk dude on a cruise.
I stand up and smile, feigning happiness and love when I really crave torture and pain.
“Okay, Mom. I have an afternoon appointment at the office so I should probably go. Dad, we’ll talk more tomorrow night, okay?”
“Sounds good, Queenie.” At this, I soften. My dad is not a pig, he’s a prince. My prince, because he rescues me when I need it most. Now I have two men willing to rescue me when I need it. More importantly, I’ve learned that I’m perfectly capable of rescuing myself. I did it on the island, and I can do it here.
“Are you making chocolate pie?” I ask my dad, inserting a slight plea in my tone.
He smiles. “Yes baby, I know it’s your favorite.”
I resist the urge to clap my hands and squeal. I might be a newly strong woman and all that, but it doesn’t mean I’ll stop using my only-daughter powers to get my daddy to make dessert.
I catch Liam’s open scrutiny and make a face. If he’s going to marry me, he’ll need to accept my minor manipulations. It’s part of the package.
“You’re pathetic,” he whispers.
“Deal with it,” I mouth back.
My mother pulls her purse around her shoulder and walks toward the door. “We’re having pot roast, so make sure you bring your appetite. You’re coming too. Right, Liam?”
“I’ll be there.” The amused smile still hasn’t left his face. Glad to entertain.
I close the door behind me and twist at the waist to face him. “Can you believe that? This is what I’ve had to put up with my whole life.”
He tugs me backward by the sweatshirt and turns me to face him, then wraps his hands around my waist.
“Ah yes, getting your father to do your every bidding must have been quite the hardship. I suppose you’re going to trying pulling that crap with me once we’re married?”
“Of course. But only when I want to go shopping. It’s worked for my mom all this time, and we learn by example.” I’m kidding, of course. But I love when he laughs.
“Lucky me.” He rests his forehead on mine, and I smile up at him.
“Lucky you, is right. What would you do without me?”
“Well, let’s see.” His hands slide up my back. “I probably wouldn’t have gotten on a snorkeling boat. Or gotten stranded on an island. Or had to hassle with building a fire out of sticks. Or gotten stuck in a thunderstorm so awful I thought I was going to die. Or—”
“Shut up, Liam.” I giggle.
“Okay.” His gaze dips to my lips.
“You also wouldn’t be a millionaire, don’t forget about that.” Our words have softened to whispers, the serious moment from before back in full force and igniting the space between us.
“That’s the least important part. But I’ll never forget about any of it.”
“Promise?”
“Promise.”
He leans down to kiss me, and it’s in that flicker of a second I know my mother is right.
It was a great thing, our time in the waves…our days on the island. Every harrowing, scary, uncertain part of it.
I suppose what they say is true.
Sometimes the strangest paths in life lead us to where we belong.
THE END
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 Cossett, Misty Wilson, Dillon Hunt.
To Kristin Avila—the best editor in the world.
To Murphy Rae—thank you for your patience on this cover. It rocks.
To Lilly Matayo, Jan Millsap, Kacie Young, and Rel Mollet for your proofreading skills.
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 God—thanks for never giving up on me even when I want to give up on myself.
Please consider leaving a review of The Waves on Amazon and Goodreads.
Other books by Amy Matayo:
Lies We Tell Ourselves
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
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, Christmas at Gate 18, and Lies We Tell Ourselves. 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
Lies We Tell Ourselves
by
Amy Matayo
PROLOGUE
Him
There are ghosts inside the closet, and one just grabbed my neck. I felt its spindly finger trace a jagged line over my Adam’s Apple and press in at my throat. Boys aren’t supposed to scream here, but a loud one crawls up my mouth, ready to break free with a wail. The scream gets stuck. I stick a finger down my throat and try to pull it out. If I don’t, no one
will hear me when I die. No one will know if I get taken.
My eyes fly open. I’m sucking my thumb, and it tastes like spaghetti sauce. I’m breathing heavy, still trying to wake up. I lie still, listening for noises outside my closet. No footsteps pad the hallway, and my heartbeat slows. I’m the only one who saw the ghost. I’m the only one in this room. It’s best to keep things that way.
“You’re crazy, Micah. The weirdest kid God ever made. It figures he stuck you with me.”
It figures.
It figures God left me here with a man who hates me. It figures that back when I had two options—a mom who loved me and a dad who despised me, God took the better parent away. Maybe it technically wasn’t God, because mom made her own decision when she left us, but God’s the guy I’ve been praying to. He’s the guy who never listens to me.
My dad is right.
I feel around the closet floor for my trophy, my fingers making contact with the small gold statue and bringing it to my chest. I balanced it there, the cool hard plastic grounding me as I reviewed the day at school. My P.E. teacher had a trophy made for all the seventh-grade class as a reward for participating in the color run, a 5k run/walk-a-thon that raises money for local children’s charities. I didn’t turn in money, but I was still allowed to participate. Donations were anonymous, so there was nothing to be ashamed about. At least that’s what Coach Mitchell said when everyone turned in their cash envelopes and I didn’t have one.
I trace the words on the inscription, words already committed to memory. Congratulations on your accomplishment, the black nameplate read. I never had a trophy before. My father has more than a dozen lined up above the fireplace ranging from first place to seventh, depending on the sport. He was best at baseball and played the sport in community college; according to him, they were the best days of his life.
For the first time since I first heard him talk about it, finally I could relate. This trophy meant I was just like him, and I hoped he might approve.
“A participation trophy? What are they trying to do, teach you that everything counts? It only counts if you win, kid. And you are never going to be a winner.”
He tossed my trophy in the trash. I heard the plastic crack when it hit the surface and listened until it settled, my eyes filling up with tears that I couldn’t let my dad see. When he turned to grab a glass out of the cabinet, I plucked both pieces out of the bin and shoved them under my sweater. The plan was to walk out of the kitchen, but I’m clumsy. Always have been.
I turn toward the counter, unaware my dad’s dinner plate is sitting near the edge. Piled high with canned spaghetti rings, it falls off the counter and shatters into a million pieces. Red sauce splatters everywhere, some sliding down the wall.
A forceful hand shoves me backward and I crash into the pantry.
“Get out of here, you stupid piece of trash. I don’t want to see you until morning.”
I run out of the room, the sound of my dad’s screams following me down the hallway. The back of my head hurts from hitting the refrigerator handle; a piece of white glass is stuck in my thumb. I don’t stop to pull it out until I lock myself into the closet. My dad usually forgets about me when I hide in here, or at least if he remembers he never comes looking. I want him to forget about me like my mom did, especially when he’s drinking. Drinking makes him mean. Not drinking makes him mean too, but he rarely uses his fists.
I’m hungry from skipping dinner. Things might have been different if I still had a mom.
Mine left three years ago. Now she has a new life in Nashville with her newscaster husband, their two dogs, and a brand new baby boy named David. I have a brother. He has dark hair and blue eyes and he was even born with a tooth. Only special babies are born with teeth, at least that’s what she said in her letter. I wasn’t special. That’s why she didn’t take me with her, even though she promised she would come back to get me.
Without sitting up, I reach for my skinny yellow lighter and flick it on. The closet lights up with a soft glow, illuminating the clothes hanging over my head. Four shirts, two pairs of jeans—one with holes in the knees, one that still look new. The next time I land on my knees, they’ll be messed up too. I flick off the lighter and hold it in my fist.
That’s when I hear it, a noise coming from outside my bedroom window. I count to three to see if it will stop. I make it to ten, but the noise grows louder.
Bang.
Bang.
Crash.
The sound of metal when something scrapes against it.
I hold my breath, lie still another minute to make sure my father isn’t coming, and then I open the door and slowly crawl out.
My lamp is still on. I tug at the chain to turn it off and then crawl to the window and peek through a break in the mini blinds.
A pickup truck is parked across the street.
Someone is moving into the haunted house behind it.
I blink, worried for the people I don’t even know. You shouldn’t live in a house with ghosts, everyone in town knows this. The house has been empty for two years since the last owner died inside it. Such a sad way to die, the lady in the checkout lane at the grocery store had said. I don’t know what she meant, but she shook her head and clicked her tongue when she said it to the man behind the counter, so the way he died must have been bad. Really bad. They both said his spirit still lived there.
I think it’s coming to get me. That’s what my dad said anyway, and dads don’t lie to their kids.
A door to the truck opens, and someone climbs out. I blink, watching the movement in the dark, waiting to see who the shadow belongs to. It stops under a street lamp, and I suck in a breath. A girl. My age, maybe ten. Maybe younger.
You shouldn’t live in a house with ghosts. I want to yell it at her, tell her to run, tell her to leave and never come back.
I close my mouth and glance behind me, deciding it’s best to say nothing at all. I can’t risk anyone coming for me. Not a spirit, not my dad, not anyone.
Besides, maybe she likes ghosts.
Maybe she’s haunted too.
Her
There’s a boy in the house across the street, but he never comes outside. He stares at me a lot, usually through his bedroom window when he thinks I don’t notice. But I do notice. I notice all of it.
The way his dad yells.
The way the boy cries.
The way doors slam.
The things that break inside the house.
A lot breaks in that house, almost every single day in the two weeks I’ve lived here, and I can hear all the times that boy tries to clean it up. They keep all their windows open, but I wish they wouldn’t. I’m not sure they realize how far sound travels, but it travels straight to my bedroom when I’m lying down at night. It probably didn’t matter much when my house was just haunted and empty, but it matters now.
“I didn’t mean to do it. Are you mad? I’ll do better.”
I’ll do better.
He says that most of all. Every time I hear the words, my chest hurts deep under my rib cage. So deep that when I press the spot, the ache doesn’t go away. Not like my scars. When I rub those, the pain usually doesn’t last long. Things are broken on me, too.
People try to pretend that broken things are an accident, but they rarely are. Things break when adults get angry. Glasses. Plates. Bones. Skin. My skin is broken in four spots so far this month, but I think that boy has is worse than me. He doesn’t deserve it.
Still, no one kicks me outside.
I never have to hide under my front porch at night.
I sleep in a bed almost every single day.
There’s a boy who lives inside that house. He has a father I don’t like. He doesn’t have a mother that I can see.
During the day, the boy lives inside.
But at night…I’m not sure where he goes.
PART 1
Fifteen years later
Micah
ONE
As a general pra
ctice, I try really hard not to curse. But sometimes it’s so freaking hard.
“What the hell just happened? You can’t just change the screen when I’m halfway through the report. Are we going to keep doing this or do you think at some point one of you could get it right?” I spin in my chair until I’m facing backwards so that no one can see my face. I’m fairly certain my current expression says you’re an idiotic moron, but my words already spoke that message clearly enough. Despite my anger, I don’t want to obliterate anyone or be responsible for anyone’s therapy in ten years. It’d just be nice if I didn’t come across as a bumbling idiot on air. And thanks to these guys, I was today.
Again.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Leven. It won’t happen again.
I’ve heard that before. I consider pulling the cigarette lighter from my pants pocket to flick it a few times—a habit I’ve carried since childhood—but I count to ten instead, speeding up on the last three numbers when John yells thirty seconds! so loud I nearly fall out of my chair. I lightly pound the desk in a barely controlled rage and count eight nine ten, wishing I had time to make it to twenty. Piper the makeup girl—usually said by most of us in one long word like Piperthemakeupgirl—dabs a powdered sponge across my forehead to eliminate sweat marks and gives me the once over, then quickly backs away like she’s afraid to stay too close for long. Probably smart.
This is my dream, working here in Atlanta on the biggest news station in the area—heck, in the country. We’re part of the Big Ten in television news markets. But lately I feel off. Maybe it’s the flu that I only recovered from last week. Maybe it’s that while sick I slept five days straight and haven’t slept since. That’s it. Maybe I’m just tired.
Or maybe it was the phone call.
More specifically, the lack thereof. It’s been a long time since she cut me off early, and I didn’t like it. No one cuts me off early anymore, but she refuses to get that message. All because I made one crack about her job. But come on, she bought an old, small-town newspaper. What kind of crap investment was that? I waited all night for her to call me back, but she never did. That’s the thing about Presley—she’s my rock. My grip. Now, my foundation feels all shaky and I’m wobbling down an uneven sidewalk. I check my phone and will it to ring.
