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

Cole, a musician of note himself, plans to renovate both the store and the speakeasy, providing New Orleans with yet another hot spot for nightly entertainment as well as job opportunities for locals. When asked if he’ll be staying in New Orleans after the renovation is complete, Cole revealed, “I hope to be in the wonderful city of New Orleans for as long as possible, working hand-in-hand with my employees, and ensuring total customer satisfaction.”

Cole admits he appreciates the change of scenery and pace of his adopted home. Cole’s residency in New Orleans comes after the tragic and sudden passing of his parents, Co-founders of Cole Creative, John and Alyssa Cole.

Since taking control of the company along with his brother, Mason Cole, there has been a noticeable shift in acquisitions at Cole Creative. More focus has been given to authentic music sources such as record shops, independent recording studios, and singer-songwriter artists. No doubt we can credit this to New Orleans’s adopted son Julian Cole.

While there is no word yet on when the renovations of Lucid Records will be complete, you can find the new owner, Julian, as a violinist on regular rotation at Mimi’s. Until next time, New Orleans—Emma Marshall.

“Okay,” I say aloud. “Okay.” It’s not so bad. I mean . . . it’s . . . it’s borderline unprofessional. What the hell was I thinking? Oh, right, I wasn’t thinking. I was half-hungover when I went in and made those changes. And referring to him as Julian? I mean, I get why I did it. He hates being known as Mr. Cole and I certainly didn’t want to promote his persona in the city that may just be the fresh start he’s been looking for. But come on, Emma? No first names—that’s like journalism 101. And all that stuff about his parents? And did I actually include off-the-record information?!

My phone dings again and I’m reminded of the text from earlier. I roll my eyes and click out of the article. Well, if my past hadn’t ruined any relationship potential with Julian, that article sure did. How am I going to explain how I knew about his parents? How could I have included that without asking him first?

“Ugh!” I yell, mentally cursing myself.

I move to my messages and see Hey, it’s Julian. My heart sinks. How did he get my number? Oh, God. He’s probably mad. No, make that furious. I hold my breath and click to view the rest of the message.

Hey, it’s Julian. I called your office to get your number. I wanted to personally thank you for the article. I know it couldn’t have been easy to admit I’m not the worst thing to happen to Lucid. Though I am a little curious about how you found out about my parents. I mean, I’m not mad, just . . . surprised. But then again, I shouldn’t be. You’re amazing, Emma. So, of course you’re amazing at your job as well. Talk soon.

And . . . exhale. He’s . . . he’s not mad. Yet, for some reason, I can’t feel my legs. I plop onto my mattress and dangle my thumb over my phone, contemplating a reply. Thank you seems a bit short and detached. But I’m just getting used to having Julian’s number, and, for some reason, it’s harder to text than speak to him in person. Perhaps it’s because in-person communication always has a beginning and an end. There’s an escape and decompress when we’re apart. Not that I need to escape him, but sometimes it’s hard to keep the truth from him, the secrets of my past. And with texting, there is a constant connection. As if Julian wasn’t already on my mind enough, now I have to worry about him analyzing every word I say and how long it takes me to say anything.

I sit up in bed and text the first thing that comes to mind that doesn’t scream desperate or psycho.

Thanks! Glad you approve.

Okay, now think Emma. Julian isn’t this insecure, pathetic male that sits around all day analyzing text messages. The gesture of finding my number was . . . sweet, and it wouldn’t be the first time an interviewee thanked me for a positive article.

“Knock, knock,” Kat says from outside my door.

“Um, yeah, come in,” I say, hiding my phone beneath the blankets.

Kat opens the door and the smell of roses wafts in with her. “I think you’ve got some explaining to do,” she says.

Kat holds an oversized bouquet of red roses that nearly swallows half her body. They’re long-stemmed and dense, probably four dozen in one vase if I had to guess. A note is attached to the center of the vase with gold ribbon that drapes to the floor. On the outside of the envelope is a single letter—J.

* * *

“So, what’s going on between you and Julian, and don’t tell me it’s nothing, because clearly, the four-hundred-dollar bouquet of roses says otherwise,” Kat says.

We sit at the dining room table, drinking coffee and eating pop tarts. This is where we have all of our serious conversations, and despite my better judgement telling me to keep quiet, I know I can’t lie to Kat, not anymore.

I take one last gulp of coffee and set my cup to the side.

“Julian kissed me.”

“What!” Kat yells. Coffee drips from her open mouth down her neck. “When? Where? When?” she squeals.

“Okay, okay,” I say, gesturing for her to calm down. “It’s not what you think. It . . . it wasn’t a real kiss.”

“What do you mean?” Her ginger brows crinkle in confusion as she wipes coffee from her chin.

“Well, maybe it was, it’s just—” I stop.

“Oh, no,” Kat says, waving her finger at me. “You’re not going quiet on me now. Spill.”

“Okay, so here’s what happened.” And I tell her everything.

I tell her about my interview with Julian and how we found ourselves at Mimi’s. Then I have to backtrack and tell her about me seeing Julian play the night before and how he saved me from three predators. She’s furious when she hears of my almost horrific encounter and