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

Feeling my mother’s eyes on me, I slow my roll through the row of dresses and pretend to examine one with a corset back, as if Eva would ever be so bold.

The wedding colors are blush pink and raspberry. I’m told they’ve narrowed down my dress options to two choices. They want to see them both on me before picking one the day before. Mental gag.

There will be a live band for the reception along with white-collar catering. And my grandmother, God bless her soul, will play the processional for the ceremony.

Let me be clear about something. I’m happy for my sister, if she’s happy. But how could she be, or at least, how can she know it’ll last? She and Bill haven’t even been together a year, and now they’re getting married! Married! They will be legally bound to one another forever. Unless, of course, they get a divorce, but if that’s an option then why bother in the first place?

I exhale and shove an ivory dress with ruffles a bit too ferociously for the attendee’s liking.

“Um, miss,” the short blonde says. “May I offer you a glass of champagne, perhaps a seat in our private lounge? I’m sure between your mother and sister’s picks, Ms. Eva’s got plenty to choose from,” she says with a nod.

I compose myself and agree to her offer. Though from the bug-eyed expression on my mother’s face, I don’t expect her remarks for me will be so cordial.

After another thirty minutes of browsing, Eva scurries through the bridal parlor with a handful of tiaras and earrings and a smile that stretches across her whole face. I smile back and wish her well. This is a big day, or at least it’s supposed to be.

I never bought a wedding dress, but that doesn’t mean I didn’t shop for one. I tried on close to fifty and found an issue with each one. Turns out, it wasn’t the dress that was the problem. Not by a long shot.

My mom enters the parlor, champagne in hand, and plops down next to me on the stiff, upright couch. I never understood the appeal of beauty over comfort. But, of course, that is the way of the world—at least, the Marshall’s world.

My mother chugs the rest of her champagne and flags an attendee for her third glass. If it weren’t for Julian’s surprisingly delicious breakfast, she’d be too drunk to sit straight.

“I’m sorry,” I finally say, breaking the silence.

My mother breathes heavily, letting her purse drop to her feet.

“Which part are you sorry for?” she asks without looking in my direction.

“I . . . um,” I stammer.

“For barely speaking to your family for nearly a year? For leaving all the wedding planning to your sister and me? For practically shredding a ten-thousand-dollar gown out of spite?” she rambles on.

“Ok, Mom, stop,” I tell her. “I did not shred a wedding dress and whatever I did certainly wasn’t out of spite. I love Eva and she deserves to be happy,” I assure her.

“But . . .” my mom interjects.

That word! I scolded Beaux for using it to justify his infidelity. Am I doing the same thing by being the anti-marriage maid of honor? My mother raises a perfectly plucked brow, daring me to deny my underlying resentment. My cheeks grow hot with anger. Goosebumps tingle on top of my skin at the sheer thought.

I don’t resent my sister and I don’t mean to ruin this experience for her. I just . . . It’s hard to be excited for something you don’t believe in. Happiness, commitment, marriage, I’d like to think it lasts, but history proves otherwise. But Eva is too young, too inexperienced to realize it. And I can’t fault her for that, but . . . I can’t be faulted either for seeing through the charade.

I bite my lip and slouch back in my seat, unwilling to discuss it further.

“Oh, Emma,” my mother says, finally facing me. “I understand this must be hard for you.” She does? “Your little sister is getting married and all of this shopping and talking, it reminds you of when you were engaged.” She’s not wrong. “But sweetie,” my mom says, placing her hand on my knee. “If seeing your sister get married hurts you, then maybe it’s a sign you should reach out to—”

“Stop,” I yell. My mother jumps in her seat. “I told you I don’t want to hear another word about him.”

“Emma!” my mother says, almost as if my name is a curse word. She looks to see if anyone is watching and then leans into me. Her breath is hot against my cheek.

“Don’t you ever raise your voice at me like that again. I am still your mother,” she tells me. As if I need reminding. No one else in my life is bold enough to insert such opinions, not even Kat.

“Now, it was just a suggestion,” she says, returning to her side of the sofa.

“Well, it was an inconsiderate one,” I say, my eyes locked straight ahead.

“Well, clearly, you still have feelings for him. If not, why get so upset at the implication of him?” she asks.

I shake my head. My skin grows hotter. When will she learn that there is no winning with me on this topic? Beauregard Thomas is dead to me and this family. Why can’t she understand that? Why can’t she love me more than she loves the idea of me with him?

“Mom—”

“Now, if that option is off the table, then maybe it’s time you find someone new,” she says, finishing off her glass. “And that Julian of yours doesn’t count.”

“What?” I ask, turning in my seat. “Why even bring him up?”

“Well, he was at your home in early hours and had clearly slept over. You were still asleep for Christ’s sake when he let us in. That displays a level of comfort both on his part and yours,” she tells me.

“What? What does that even mean?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Well, he felt comfortable enough