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

and pools at the bottom of the canvas. In her hair there are words: good, innocent, hopeful, faithful, trusting, and so on. On the right side of her body, more words are etched into the lines that make out her face, shoulder and chest: damaged, hurt, second-guessing, scared, liar, thief, evil.

“It’s interesting, isn’t it?”

I jump and twist to see Julian standing at the edge of the truck. Up close, his hair is even more perfect, his eyes icy green. He’s wearing ripped blue jeans and a black t-shirt that drapes over his long torso, hanging almost to his knees. The contrast of the darkness of his shirt and the bright colors in his tattoos makes for a vibrant appearance.

“Um, I . . .” I catch myself staring. “I’m sorry, I—I shouldn’t have invaded your personal space. I was just curious. I’ve never seen a painting like this before,” I say, turning back to it. “I’m still not sure I understand it.”

“Sure, you do,” he says, jumping up into the cargo hold. I sense him moving closer. My heartbeat quickens. “It’s just hard to admit to ourselves.”

He stands beside me now, towering over me by at least a foot. In such proximity, the smell of mint and rain floods my nostrils. If I weren’t so tense, I’d inhale it.

“I . . . um,” I stutter. “I see . . .” I focus on the painting once more, allowing my nerves to dissipate. “I see a girl,” I say. “But I don’t think she’s what’s important.”

He turns towards me. Surprise washes over his features. I glance between him and the painting, taking a deep breath.

“In the lines of her hair, face, and body, I see words, contrasting in good and evil,” I say, pointing to the painting. He still hasn’t taken his eyes off me.

I drop my hand to my side and take a step back to assess the painting once more, moving out of his line of sight.

“You’re right,” I say. “It is hard to admit, but I think it’s telling us we all have both good and evil inside. And . . . and the expression on her face, though not fully drawn, depicts a struggle, like the one we all face each day we choose to be happy versus sad, to trust instead of not, to be good instead of evil.”

Wow. The painting is interesting, aesthetically, but moving emotionally. It makes me think of my own struggle with trust and effort. For weeks after the encounter, my bones felt heavy. I could barely move to wake up in the morning, to eat, to talk. Everything felt raw. My throat feels scratchy just thinking about it. While my effort has improved, my trust hasn’t. I’m not sure it ever will. Therein lies the struggle Julian’s painting depicts. We’re always one choice, one day away from a completely different life. And when it all comes crumbling down, well . . . I blame him for . . . for everything, but I also blame myself.

I move my eyes to his back. He stands in front of me now and nods his head in validation of my response. Up close, I see his tattoos more vividly. Well, some of them. On his left forearm he has a guitar with lines drawn through it. On the lines are musical notes. To what, I’m not sure. Peeking out from underneath his shirtsleeve is the bottom of a cross on his shoulder. From it, rose petals fall down his bicep. Each one grows more dried and crumbled as it reaches his elbow.

He turns suddenly. I pull my eyes from his body and finally am forced to face him. My lips part as I take him in. At first, he doesn’t speak. His eyes move back and forth across my face as if searching for some answer to a question, some truth to a lie. I want to turn away from him. The twisting of my stomach tells me so, but I can’t. My eyes won’t leave his.

“Um, I’m sorry. Was that not it?” I ask, breaking his search. He blushes, and his lips draw up into a smile.

“No, um,” he says, taken aback. “That was actually spot on, which is why I’m speechless,” he admits. “I painted that two years ago, and no one has ever understood it. Some people don’t even notice the words, but you, you saw them, and you understood the message,” he says, turning back to face it.

“You painted it?” I ask, moving to stand beside him once more.

He nods. I watch his face as he examines his work. There’s a pain in his eyes I recognize all too well. I wonder . . .

“Hey, guys,” Kat says from behind us. Again, I jump. “Whatcha looking at?”

“Geez, Kat, way to give someone a heart attack,” I scold her.

“Oh, nothing,” Julian says, turning to face her. “Just this painting I found Emma scoping out,” he says, winking at me. “After you,” he says, motioning for me to walk ahead of him.

“Oh, Emma loves art,” Kat says. I roll my eyes at her exaggeration of loves. “She’s actually a writer for the New Orleans events, culture, and lifestyle magazine The Hub. She practically reviews art for a living among other culturally important things,” she explains.

“Oh, give it a rest, Kat,” I say, jumping from the trailer to the street. “He doesn’t need to hear my life story.”

“Oh, I agree,” Kat says, playing innocent. “But obviously you two have a common interest of art and oh, look at that,” Kat says. My body tenses. “A guitar case,” Kat notes. “Do you like music, Julian?”

“Oh! It’s practically my life,” he says, hopping down from the U-Haul.

“Really?” Kat asks, giving me a knowing look. “Emma loves music too. In college she was actually in a few musicals,” Kat says, yanking me by my shirt to move closer to her and Julian. My cheeks burn bright. Still, I oblige, crossing my arms over my chest.

“Really?” Julian asks. His eyes light up, and I can’t tell if it’s because he sees how uncomfortable Kat is making me or because