The Truth About Unspeakable Things by Emily Myers (people reading books txt) 📗

ask, “Are you going to say anything?” My dad, per usual, ignores her and the look and processes the information over another glass of scotch.

I take a deep breath, close my eyes, and brace my trembling body for what happens next. My mother and I have come to many blows, agreeing to disagree on most things. But . . . just as I was unprepared for my broken engagement and what transpired afterwards, so shall be my mother. And without her knowing the full story . . . how will she ever accept this—accept me again?

“I would ask what happened, but . . .” my mother says, throwing her hands up in the air. “I think I already know.”

She stands from her seat and stomps in her heels over to the bar cart to pour herself a more-than-stiff drink. Cue one of her lesser qualities. Once my mother’s mind is made up, there’s no changing it. All the years that I tried, I was wrong to think I could. I was even more wrong to think it was healthy for her opinion of me to shift because of who I was dating.

Beaux was a band-aid in the mother-daughter relationship of Anne and Emma Marshall. And now, I don’t have the energy to fight her fight anymore or please her. So, what do you think happened, Mom? What story will you tell yourself and all your friends? Whatever it is, it can’t be worse than the truth. Maybe I’ll tell it to myself too.

The setting of my parents’ home fades from view, and I realize I’ve been dreaming. A brief moment of darkness is shattered by the morning sun streaming through Kat and mine’s linen curtains. My head is heavy as I wipe the sleep from my eyes and squint in the sudden light.

“One, two, three . . .”

My eyes pry open so suddenly I’m not sure if they’ll ever close again. The sultry voice, the sharp perfume, the sudden shift in emotional energy surrounding me—it can only mean one thing, or rather one person.

“Is this another dream?” I ask aloud, too afraid to move my eyes from their view of the ceiling.

“Not quite, darling,” my mother says. “Call it an unexpected visit.”

I gasp, rolling off the couch to the floor. My body aches with the sudden movement. As I stand, I take in my mother. She stands tall before me, arms crossed over her chest, red lips pursed. Her wavy blonde hair is drawn back in a low bun, though she’d never call it that. And her slender neck is adorned with pearls. She wears white skinny jeans, a silver blouse and navy blazer paired with loafers that cost almost as much as our rent for a month.

“Mom,” I say, moving my damp hair behind my ears.

“What . . . what are you doing here?” I ask, feigning poise. What person drives nearly six hours before sunrise and doesn’t even think to call or text? How the hell did she even get in? Oh, no. Please don’t tell me . . .

Despite all internal protests, my eyes follow a trail of fresh-brewed coffee, a steaming skillet, grease-laden bacon, and clanking dishes until they find Julian setting the table for a family breakfast.

What the . . .?

“Emma!” Eva squeals. My sister drops the silverware on the table and runs toward me in heels nearly as tall as her. Her navy shirtdress and golden-brown hair bounce in unison as she moves.

“Oh, I missed you,” she tells me, pulling me in for a hug that hurts.

“Hi, Eva. I . . . I missed you too,” I say slowly. It’s not that I’m not happy to see her, it’s just—

“Breakfast is served,” Julian says from the kitchen. His sweatpants and t-shirt are covered with Kat’s Kiss the Cook apron. His hair is tousled. His cheeks are flushed. From the heat of the stove or embarrassment, I can’t tell. No telling what stories my mother has told him—or worse, insults. His tattoos, one of my mother’s pet peeves, are on full display in his pale, paper-thin shirt.

Julian joins us in the living room, handing my mother and sister each a cup of coffee before falling back to my side. He clasps his hands together behind his back and stands, jaw clenched. Oh, no. Mr. Cole.

“Mmm,” my mother moans. She sips her coffee like she would wine. Her red lipstick stains the rim of the white mug. “Needs sugar,” she says, handing the glass back to Julian.

“Mom,” I start. “Julian is—”

“Just a friend,” my mother offers up. “Yes, well, that’s obvious,” she says, giving him a disapproving once-over.

“No,” I say, drawing their attention, especially Julian’s. “I mean, no, that isn’t what I was going to say.”

Julian watches me closely.

“I was going to say that Julian isn’t your errand boy,” I tell her, taking her coffee mug from him. “If you’d like sugar, I will get it for you. After all, this is my house that you so graciously decided to visit.”

I move past Julian to the kitchen, leaving the three of them to themselves. What the hell are they doing here? And more importantly, what did she say to Julian to make him so uncomfortable?

“Kat,” I whisper. “If only you didn’t sleep like a bear in hibernation,” I mumble.

“What’s that, dear?” my mother asks from behind me.

“Nothing, Mom,” I say, stirring in two hefty teaspoons of sugar. Composure, composure, composure. You can do this, Emma, even though you don’t know what this is.

“Here you go, Mom,” I say with a smile.

“Thanks, sweetie,” my mom says, sipping at the overly sweet beverage. “Just right,” she says with a little jump.

I smile once more and turn to fix myself a cup. Taking a bit longer than usual, I close my eyes and breathe deeply.

I’m accustomed to nerves when in the presence of my mother. It’s a characteristic instilled in me since we had “the talk” in fifth grade. Yes, fifth. But this time it’s different, amplified. And despite the bulk of my attention focused on the mother I haven’t seen in nine months, I can’t ignore Julian. Julian, who I haven’t thanked