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

Kat says, examining her styling skills. “Now, all you need are—”

“Boots, bracelets, and my fedora,” I say. I grab my black block-heel boots, brown fedora, and a few bracelets from atop my dresser. I slip them on both wrists and move to my mirror.

I look different despite wearing all of my favorite things. My lips are painted a pinky coral with one of Kat’s glossy lipsticks. My eyes are shaped out with shades of brown eyeshadow and a small copper line along my lower lashes. It brings out the hazel in my emerald green eyes.

My cheeks flush as I take in my reflection. I hope I don’t come off as trying too hard, but Kat insisted I raid her makeup bag. I think that’s what made me opt for the more conservative outfit in the first place.

“Emma?” Kat asks, moving beside me. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” I say, breathing through the butterflies in my stomach. “I just . . . I look different.”

* * *

I lift my hand to knock on Julian’s door, but stop myself. I’ve gone over this a thousand times. I’m safe with Julian. I like Julian. But as much as I assure myself of those things, knots continue to form inside me.

“Oh, come on, Emma,” I tell myself.

Taking a step back from his door, I pace the length of his front porch. Our houses are exactly alike. At the end of the porch is a swing. Inside will be a living room, a fireplace, a kitchen and dining room. And it’s not like this is the first time I’ve been here.

Mr. Turnip and I spent many a night playing checkers inside and many mornings sitting on the porch swing reading the paper. He’d always compliment my articles, even though he had to buy a computer to read them. The thought of him calms me, and I find myself swaying back and forth in the southern humidity on the porch swing.

I wonder what he would think of me now, what he would think of Julian. He never cared for Beaux and was keen on vocalizing his opinion on most things he had a distaste for. His was an opinion I could trust, though when I should’ve listened the most, I didn’t.

I had blinders when it came to Beaux, at least until the end. Is that what I’m doing now, allowing myself to be blind to any and all of Julian’s flaws? I sit here and I ask myself what they are. Surely, he has some. No one is perfect, but . . . I can’t name them. Maybe that’s why I’m so nervous. At times, Julian doesn’t seem human. But is it Julian that isn’t human or is it my affection for him that makes him seem so?

I jump to a standing position as Julian’s front door opens. Light invades the dark shadows of the front porch, and the rich smell of chocolate finds its way to me. My stomach grumbles.

Julian steps out onto the porch, wearing his go-to ripped jeans and a black t-shirt that slinks around the contours of his abs. He holds a silver tray with two glasses of wine, red for him and white for me, and a dozen handcrafted chocolate desserts.

“I thought I’d meet you halfway, if you’ll let me,” Julian says.

I nod and Julian makes his way to me, setting the tray on a small table set up to the side of the swing.

“For you,” he says, handing me my glass of Moscato.

“Thank you,” I say. My voice is shaky.

“My mom would always make a tray of desserts to start every party she hosted. It became a family tradition,” Julian says as he takes his seat next to me on the swing. “When my brother and I were younger, those desserts were the only things we’d eat the entire night. I always liked the chocolate ones.”

I nod and sip my wine. He’s either just as nervous as I am or is trying really hard to make me feel comfortable. Either way, his gentility eases some tension I feel inside me.

“I’d like to try one,” I tell him. “If you’re offering.”

Julian smiles and turns to face me. Our eyes meet and I’m instantly reminded of why I find his presence so comforting. There’s a sincerity in him that I’ve never seen or felt before.

“I’m offering,” he says. With that, he hands me a rather large bite-sized chocolate cake with cream cheese frosting. I try to eat it in the most ladylike way but fail. Chocolate crumbles cover my lips and my jaw widens as I fill my mouth with the huge, utterly delicious dessert.

Julian laughs. I scold him for doing so the second I swallow.

“Don’t laugh at me,” I tell him, play shoving his shoulder.

“Come here,” he smiles. He tilts my chin toward him and brushes off the bits of chocolate cake with a napkin.

My heartbeat quickens as his fingers brush my lips. He takes a sharp breath in as if he feels the same pull between us. His eyes flit to mine for a brief second, but instead of leaning in for a kiss, he stands.

“Now,” he says. “Would you like to see what else I’ve prepared for us?”

My cheeks flush at my own physical urges and I fight through it with a smile.

“Yes, I would.”

* * *

Inside, Julian has placed ivory candles on every table and shelf he could find. Their flames flicker and add a soft, angelic movement to the small space as well as an overwhelming aroma of vanilla. There’s a navy-blue couch to my right. Above it hangs the painting Julian and I first connected over. Across the room is an entertainment center with a television and bookcases on each side with rows and rows of CDs and records. In the corner sits the record player from Lucid. Jazz plays softly from it.

“Would you like to join me in the kitchen? The food is almost ready.”

I nod, noticing the large spray of food spread across the kitchen island. We walk to the kitchen together.