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

Julian places his hand gently on my lower back as we move. I relax into him.

Once in the kitchen, I take a seat on a barstool while Julian pulls a baked chicken out of the oven. I nibble on bruschetta, baked tomato pie, and meatballs and am pleasantly surprised at the diverse spread Julian has prepared. Who knew a boy from California could cook so well, let alone know the meaning of real butter and sugar?

“So, where did you learn to cook like this?” I ask as Julian carves the chicken.

“My mom,” Julian says. “She was the only daughter in a single-parent-household with four boys,” Julian tells me. “My grandma’s first husband, the father of my four uncles, was killed when they were all very young. And when she found out she was pregnant again, off a one-night stand with a stranger from New Orleans, of all the places, she decided she wouldn’t contact the father.”

I nod, finding his family history intriguing.

“So, as my mom got older, she started helping her mother out in the kitchen. Cooking for a family of six was quite a job,” Julian comments. “She was seventeen when my grandma passed.” His smile falters for a second. “From there, she took on the responsibility of caring for her brothers until she left Washington. And when my brother and I were born, her love for cooking only grew,” he says, cutting me a small bite of chicken. “And while I am in no way her equal, I did pick up a few things.”

Julian gestures for me to open my mouth and I do. He feeds me a small bite of chicken, and I have to hold in my moans of pleasure.

“That’s um—that’s really good.”

“Thank you,” he says. “Now, the plates are here. If it’s alright with you, I’d like to serve your plate, but if you’d prefer—”

“No, that’s okay. You can fix it.”

“Okay,” he says.

I make my way to the dining room, where white roses and loose sprigs of greenery fill the center of the wooden table. It’s then that I notice a pop of color just outside the large windows of the dining room.

“What?” I ask aloud, leaving my wine at the table. “What? How?” I turn to Julian who approaches with two plates piled high.

“When we first met, you stood here and said Mr. Turnip always wished he had a rose bush to look out on,” he tells me, leaving the plates on the table to stand beside me. “I thought it would be a nice gesture to show you that I listen, and I care about you, Emma. And I’m thankful that Mr. Turnip was there for you when no one else was. I hope to be that person now,” he says, taking my hand in his.

I allow his fingers to intertwine with mine. I want to kiss him. I know that now. But I hold back, not because I’m not ready, but because I’m not sure I’ll be able to stop myself once I have him in my arms.

“I think you are that person,” I tell him. “At least, I think I’d like you to be.”

Chapter 16

As we eat, Julian tells me more about his family, mostly his mother.

“She was a gentle woman from Washington,” he says. “After my grandma passed, most of the money they had went into getting my mom through high school. By the time my mom was eighteen, college wasn’t much of an option. So, she moved to Hollywood to pursue dancing and modeling. It was there that she met my father,” Julian says with a smile.

“She always described the night they met as something out of a movie,” he says. “She was dancing at a salsa club when my dad showed up with a few of his friends. They were seniors in college celebrating the end of finals and mistook the place for a Mexican restaurant,” Julian says with an eye roll. I laugh. “Anyway, my dad noticed a few guys getting handsy with my mom on the dance floor. He stepped in and apparently fell in love on sight with my mom and with music. He thought it was beautiful how she moved to it. It made him hear it in a way he’d never heard it before. That’s when the idea for Cole Creative was born, and so was my brother Mason about a year later,” Julian tells me.

“Wow,” I say. “It appears the romantic gene runs deep. This dinner is amazing, as is the décor.”

“Thank you,” Julian says. “But make no mistake, I am nothing like my father. Everything good in me comes from my mother.”

Julian’s reaction takes me by surprise. He doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t appear to be angry. Yet, his sincerity is intimidating.

“Oh,” I manage to say, unsure of how else to proceed.

Julian is quiet as he sips his wine. He sets his near-empty glass to the side. His icy eyes are even colder as he takes in the blood red liquid. It’s as if he’s remembering something, something painful. I know because I’ve shared his expression far too many times.

“Julian,” I say, reaching out to him.

“It’s okay, Emma,” he assures me. “I just . . . I haven’t talked about my parents in some time. Mason, my brother, never talks about them and after a while, I guess I got used to not talking about them too. And once you stop talking, it’s easier to push the memories to the side or the back, in my case,” he admits. “Both the good and the bad.”

“I–I’m sorry. I can’t imagine—well,” I stop myself. I do know the feeling of loss, but it’s not something I can talk about right now. “Just know, you’ll see them again,” I tell him, taking his hand in mine.

Julian nods. “I’ll see my mother again,” he says. “But the only way I’ll see my father is if I go to Hell and God-willing, I don’t plan on taking that trip.”

I nod, squeeze his hand, and relax back into my