The Truth About Unspeakable Things, Emily Myers [bookstand for reading TXT] 📗

The Truth About Unspeakable Things

Copyright © 2021 Emily A. Myers

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher, except for the use of brief quotations in an article or book review.

This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events and locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design by Michelle Fairbanks

Interior Formatting by Amanda Reid for Melissa Williams Design

Paperback ISBN 978-1-948604-96-3

eBook ISBN 978-1-948604-97-0

Library of Congress Control Number: 2021900810

www.emilyamyers.com

This book is dedicated to the dreamers, young and old.

Daring to dream is half the battle.

The truth about unspeakable things cannot sit quietly in our minds.

Our pain must be acknowledged.

The unspeakable must be spoken.

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Chapter 1

The salty New Orleans air fills my lungs as I stumble over uneven concrete walkways. Each time I return home, I believe something will be different—a new storefront, a new neighbor, a new aroma that doesn’t include the special ingredient of sewer. Instead, I find everything as I left it. History, culture, modern conveniences, and unshakable emotion meshed together in a not-so-perfect, colorful medley. On most days, I wouldn’t trade this city for the world, but tonight is different. Tonight is the night I have to see him. Tonight is the night I end my engagement.

My suitcase drags behind me as if it shares in my reluctance to return home. The sound of the French Quarter trumpet players lets me know I’m close and the conversation I’ve been avoiding for a month is all too near. I will hurt him. No, I will hurt his pride. To hurt him requires him to have loved me more than his own selfish desire for carnal pleasure.

Beauregard Thomas and I met shortly after I graduated college. He’s a bit older, classically handsome, and he caught my eye with his not-so-accurate description of a work of mid-century art to one of his clients at a local art festival. I was covering the event for the online publication I still work for and was forced to step in and save him from himself. He then offered to thank me over dinner, and we’ve been together ever since. Well, until I walked in on him with one of his female clients.

I shake my head. Even though I’ve been away for a month, the memories of that night are still vivid in my mind. Most vividly, I remember the picture of us that sat on his bedside table. It was taken the night he proposed. And there it was, a reminder of our happiest moment together, just inches from his sweat-laden body and the naked brunette that straddled him.

I thought I could get past it. I thought my time away would provide me with a renewed sense of love and commitment, maybe even understanding. I tried to find ways to justify his actions. I wanted to blame myself, because it would be easier to do so than admit the truth. But what is the truth?

I’ve wracked my brain as to how he could do this. Was I not fulfilling him? Am I no longer attractive to him? But the more I tried to reason away his unreasonable actions, the angrier I became. How long has he been seeing her? Are there multiple hers? Was our relationship ever real to him? And with the anger came reality, the obvious truth—I don’t trust him anymore. And without trust, I can’t be with him. I can’t marry him.

My last few days abroad, I spent my downtime googling how to end an engagement, how to break it to your parents and friends, how to cope with the loss. Because that’s what it is. It’s a loss. I spent three years of my life with this man. I envisioned a life with him. No. We envisioned a life together, which only makes this more confusing. How could he make plans with me if he didn’t plan on following through? How could he . . .?

Home in sight, I pull out my phone and text Beaux, telling him I’ve landed and will be by soon. I think I do it as insurance that I won’t chicken out. Despite my knowing that our relationship is over, there’s still a small part of me that wants to make it work. Why? I can’t explain. Perhaps it’s because that’s what I’ve always seen as right.

Take my parents. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen them truly happy with each other. Of course, the world wouldn’t know that based on the performances they give, but they’ve managed to make their marriage work for over twenty-five years out of sheer obligation and determination. I admire that about them, despite disagreeing with pretty much everything else they stand for. So, why can’t I do that with Beaux? Why can’t I get past this?

I reach home and swing the iron gate open, trotting up the stairs, dragging my suitcase along. In no mood to search for my keys, I pound on the door until Kat, my roommate and best friend of seven years, yanks it open with enough force to send both our hair flying.

“It’s about time!” Kat says, pulling me inside by the hem of my t-shirt.

“What?” I ask.

I stumble inside to see our French cottage completely transformed into a New Orleans night. French lanterns illuminate the small space. Fake ferns fill every corner. Vines along with rows of string lights drape from the ceiling and make the living room feel like an enchanted garden. Beyond it is the kitchen and dining room, where beignets are stacked high