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

must soon have—the conversation that will close the door on Beaux forever and open one to a world of the unknown.

* * *

“Emma!”

I’m pulled from my zombie-like state by Kat, who is unwittingly co-hosting the Welcome Home party from Hell.

“Kat,” I say through a mouthful of mushroom.

“Let’s get you changed,” she says, eyeing my sweat-pant ensemble.

“Oh, I don’t think it really . . .”

“Come on,” she says, half dragging me from the kitchen to my bedroom. Something tells me my clothes aren’t what she wants to talk about.

Kat closes my bedroom door behind us. As she does, the tall wooden plank lowers my mom’s giggle and Beaux’s shoptalk with my father to a hum.

I move into the pale gray room, past the bathroom the two of us share. The stench of unclean clothes mixes with the work of Chef Jean Black, and I nearly vomit.

“Are those my Roxie Jeans?” I ask. “The ones I wore right before I left?”

“Yep,” Kat says, guiding me to the bed.

I roll my eyes. God only knows what else is in there, or, worse, what’s underneath it all. Once, Kat and I didn’t make it to the bottom of the laundry pile for three weeks. When we finally did, a mouse had made it his new home.

“Now, how was Greece?” Kat asks as we sit on the edge of my bed.

Feathers escape my down duvet underneath our weight. They float in the air around us before falling amongst the pounds of blankets and pillows that are pretty to look at but the New Orleans heat never allows me to use. I don’t answer her, because I know she didn’t drag me in here to talk about Greece. Instead, I take in the rest of the familiar space and take solace in my last moment of the life I’ve come to know.

My room, like everything else, is just as I left it. Books and shoes clutter my floor. My dresser stands in the corner between my floor-length mirror and bookshelves. Bracelets, necklaces, and other mementoes from my travels clutter the top. Half-opened drawers stuffed full of neutral-colored clothes jut out. I suppose that’s one good thing about being home. I’ll finally have something to wear other than the same four outfits I’ve worn repeatedly for a month.

Ash covers the cement flooring of my brick fireplace to my left. To think it’s older than I am, than my parents are, still surprises me. I like it though. It makes me feel small, insignificant even. And despite the negative connotation of the word, it relieves my tension. If this structure still stands, after all it’s been through, lived through, then so can I.

I exhale and move my eyes to my hands clasped tightly in my lap. Kat sits quietly beside me, which is a dead giveaway she knows something is wrong. Otherwise, she’d be blabbing my ear off about everything I’ve missed since I left.

“Emma,” she whispers then. I close my eyes in response.

Okay. No more stalling. No more performance. No more staying quiet for other people’s comfort.

I turn to Kat and find comfort in her presence. Through so much, she’s stood by my side—college and all its trials, graduation, the feud between me and my parents when I decided to stay in New Orleans instead of moving home, meeting Beaux, becoming a freelance writer for Conde Nast Traveler, getting engaged, wedding dress shopping, and now she is the first person to learn the truth. We’re not the fairytale couple everyone thinks we are. And Beaux is not a prince, no matter how many parties he throws or expensive gestures he offers.

I take a deep breath and . . .

* * *

Kat sits next to me, mouth open, as she processes all that I’ve told her. I managed to make it through the recount of events without crying. Though, it was a struggle to keep my frustration in check. The more I talk about it, the more I think about it, the more I crave for this performance, this lie, this part of my life to be over. I’ve wasted enough time. He’s stolen enough of my time, my love.

“I can’t believe I never saw it,” Kat says then.

“No one saw it Kat. I sure didn’t, anyway.”

My cheeks blaze red as I shift a portion of my anger from Beaux to myself. It’s not that I was oblivious to Beaux’s flaws, I just never thought they were worthy of concern—his late-night phone calls, the canceled dates, how he never wanted me to move in with him, how he hated sleeping at my place because it wasn’t fancy enough for him, and how his work always took precedence over us. I let everything slide, because I admired his ambition and determination to make his dreams come true and I never had a reason not to trust him. He had—has goals, and he encouraged me in my own professional pursuits. At a time when I desperately needed encouragement, he gave it to me. So, I justified his behavior so that he never had to.

He never had to apologize or explain himself, because I didn’t make him. And now, he’s trying to make up for his actions in the only way he knows how—with extravagance and spontaneity. But it’s too late. There’s too much damage, too much pain to overcome.

“Yes, but I should’ve known,” Kat says. She has always prided herself on being a good judge of people. “And this party . . .” she says, running her fingers through her strawberry curls.

“It’s okay,” I tell her.

“No!” she exclaims. “If I would’ve known all this was happening between you guys, I never would’ve agreed to host it. He . . . he manipulated me,” she says, realization dawning on her. “And for you to come home to this, to him . . .” She groans. “I’m so sorry, Emma.”

“It’s not your fault, Kat,” I say. “I . . . I should’ve told you everything before I left, but . . . I just . . . I didn’t want it to be true.”

Kat nods. We both lie back against the covers and stare at the