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

I can’t lie to her. It’s a possibility. Bill seems like a nice guy and they make a beautiful couple, but you don’t know someone until, well, until you do. And to get to know someone, you have to experience life with them, see them at their best and worst. And even more so, you have to be willing to see the bad. Don’t have blinders to the truth like I did.

“You never did tell me why you and Beaux broke up,” Eva says then. “I guess, I thought of all people, you might have some advice on this matter.”

I nod and am glad my despair can be of some good to someone. Though, I’m not sure I’m willing to tell her the whole story, at least not yet.

“Eva,” I start. “I can’t lie to you. Two years from now, ten, twenty, hell, even thirty years from now, one of you may want a divorce.”

“Oh, I’ll never—”

“You don’t know that. You can’t,” I say. “But do you have any reason to believe right now that Bill would leave you or that you may grow unhappy with him?”

“No,” she says.

“Good. Do you think he’ll be a good husband? Take care of you when you’re sick? Listen to you when you speak? Respect your mind and your body?” I ask.

“Wow, that’s a lot to ask for,” she says.

“No, it’s the minimum requirements,” I say.

“But do you think . . . do you think that’s why you and Beaux didn’t work out? You expected too much of him?” she asks me.

“No,” I tell her, shaking my head. “I expected too little, and I accepted even less.” I bite my lip and contemplate my next words. “Eva, when I left Presley, it was because I no longer wanted to live in this world of southern expectation, of watchful eyes, and under the rule of our overbearing mother. But . . . after a few years of being away, I started to feel this void inside me,” I tell her. “I didn’t miss Presley or even the way things were. I just . . . I missed what they could have been. I mean, what daughter doesn’t want her parents to be proud of her, her mother to support her career choices, her father to welcome the man she loves into the family with open arms?” I ask.

I look away from her then and take a deep breath. This next part isn’t easy for me to say or admit to myself.

“When I met Beaux, I think I gravitated towards him because he reminded me of home. He was everything I knew Mom and Dad would love and approve of, and they did. And it felt good to feel a part of the family again, to feel Mom and Dad’s pride,” I tell her.

I find myself angry, angry at my parents for making me work so hard for their affection. I nearly killed myself just to make them proud.

“Emma,” Eva says. It’s then that I notice I’m crying.

“No, it’s okay,” I tell her, wiping my cheeks. “I’m okay.” I take a deep breath and . . .

“The relationship Beaux allowed me to have with Mom and Dad allowed me to stomach the relationship he and I actually had. I just . . . I didn’t realize it at the time,” I tell her.

“But what does that mean?” she asks, leaning forward.

“It means, there is no perfect man and there’s no guarantee you won’t get hurt,” I say, trying to change the subject. “But you should never accept less than you deserve, and that doesn’t mean you have to be treated like a princess. It means you require him to treat you as an equal, as a partner,” I tell her. “And with being a partner, there is responsibility and hard decisions and arguments and disagreements. But if you trust the person standing next to you and you feel in your heart that you love him and he loves you, then it’s worth it, no matter how it ends. Because life is hard either way. And take it from someone who knows. Being alone is no way to go through life.”

Eva nods and thinks to herself while I eat a few more cookies and finish off my glass of milk.

“When did you realize that Beaux wasn’t treating you as an equal?” Eva asks me.

I pause and contemplate her question. In truth, I can’t peg the exact moment that I knew he was no good for me. I think it started long before I realized he was cheating. The cheating was just the final straw.

“Eva, I’m not sure I can give you an honest answer,” I tell her. “But . . . I can say this. I don’t think Beaux changed. I don’t think he started off as this great guy and over time morphed into what he was when we broke up. I used to,” I admit. “But not anymore. I think . . . I think it was me who changed. I’m the one who suddenly became aware of the type of man he was and who realized that he was not only not treating me as an equal, he was treating me like an object,” I tell her.

“I was his doll that he played with on the weekends, that he brought out for corporate functions. What I used to think was special became something meaningless,” I say.

“But,” Eva cuts me off. “But do you think he treated you that way because of how you treated him?”

“What? What do you mean?” I ask. My brows furrow in confusion. My cheeks radiate in defense of her remark.

“Well, you said that what drew you to Beaux was that you knew Mom and Dad would approve of him. And you said that you stayed with him perhaps longer than you should have, because you liked your newfound relationship with Mom and Dad,” Eva says.

“Yeah, I guess,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest.

“So, it sounds like you never really liked him for him. And you