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

“But the second you caught me cheating, the second you saw the real me, the me that I . . . I work hard to hide every single day, I knew it was over,” he continues. “When you left my apartment that night, I thought I’d never see you again. And—and I think I could’ve accepted that, I mean, eventually. But when you came back, when you said you wanted to talk, I clung to the hope that you would forgive me. I didn’t . . . I didn’t realize how desperately I wanted your forgiveness until I thought I might actually have it.”

“Why?” I say, cutting him off.

“Why, what?” Beaux asks.

“Why did you cheat? If you loved me, if you thought of me as you claim to, then how could you cheat?” I ask. “It’s . . . it’s hard for me to believe anything you say, Beaux. It’s hard for me to believe that you loved me and wanted to be with me, when your actions say otherwise. You . . . you cheated,” I say. “If I would’ve forgiven you, would that have stopped? Would you have truly changed?” I ask.

Beaux exhales. I imagine him sitting at his desk at home, rubbing his temple with his thumb. If history is worth anything, he’ll pour himself another glass of scotch in about two minutes.

“I don’t know, Emma,” he finally says. “I . . . I guess, I guess it kept me from being hurt. If I had sex with another woman and gave a piece of myself to her, then that was one less piece of me I gave to you. And you, Emma, I knew you were the only one who could hurt me if you ever did leave me. So, I—maybe I was scared,” he says. “And when you did end things, I . . . I reacted in the way I do towards all disappointment. I reacted with violence and anger and that’s because, in that moment, I knew I was losing more than just you and our future. I was also losing any chance I had left at a better life, the life I’d always wanted and worked for.”

I exhale and close my eyes. Anger begins to cloud my understanding. He hurt me, knowing how it would affect me. He was a victim of abuse and he made me suffer the same fate, because I couldn’t erase his pain for him. I couldn’t undo the undoable.

“And I’d like to say yes, I would’ve changed if you would’ve forgiven me,” he continues. “But somehow I never did,” he admits. “I’ve . . . I’ve always thought if I could just have this or do that, it would be enough, enough to conceal the truth that I’ve tried so desperately to hide. My job, my clothes, you, the home I imagined for us, it was all meant to separate me from the truth of who I really am. And who’s to say your forgiveness wouldn’t have been the very thing to make it all go away, to flip the proverbial switch?” he asks. “But history shows otherwise, as you now know.”

I process what he’s said. I can accept what happened to him in his childhood screwed him up. I can accept that maybe he felt unsafe in relationships because his abuse was dealt by the people closest to him, the people charged with protecting him. I can even accept, sort of, the rationale of him being afraid to give all of himself to one person. But what I can’t accept or understand in any form is that he thinks his interactions with the women he blackmailed and raped were acceptable because of the pain he suffered as a child. He speaks of his assaults, my assault, as if they are justified. He speaks of his infidelity as if it were an act of self-defense against a broken heart.

“Beaux, I—I realize that what happened between us is more complex than I originally thought,” I say. “But you didn’t just react with violence and anger, and you didn’t just cheat on me.” My chest rises as my breathing quickens. My cheeks flush and my forehead aches.

“You raped me, and so many others.” My voice rises in anger, yet I hold my breath as emotion takes over me. “And Mr. Turnip,” I choke. “Despite your horrific past, your actions are not justifiable or acceptable in any way. They are despicable,” I spit.

I shake my head then and find my reflection in the mirror across from me once more. Despite the turmoil I feel inside, I sit straighter and look stronger. I hold in my tears and fight through the ache in my throat as I say, “You deserve to be punished, Beaux. You’ve done horrible things that you can’t take back or begin to understand the effects of. You deserve to be punished,” I say, nodding.

“You’re right,” Beaux responds. His admission takes me by surprise. “I have done horrible things. But, so have you.”

My lips part. My hand moves to my stomach. The tears I’ve been holding inside become harder to hold in.

“I . . . I,” I start, but can’t manage to say much more. I know what he’s talking about. It’s why he attacked me the second time. It’s why he went after Mr. Turnip. It’s the thing I feared Julian would discover if I let him get too close to the Beaux situation, the thing I’ve been too afraid and ashamed to tell anyone, including Kat.

“I don’t have to explain myself,” I finally manage to say.

Beaux laughs.

“You don’t, but I do,” he says.

“You put me in an impossible situation,” I blurt. How dare he compare me to him? “I can’t be blamed for how I reacted to the trauma you put me through.”

Again, in the sarcastic nature I know all too well, he says, “You can’t, but I can?” Again, he laughs and sure enough, I hear him pour himself another glass of scotch.

“Don’t you see, Emma?” he asks. “We’re all monsters. We all play a role in someone else’s tragic story, and