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

“Yeah, um, a few, but that’s not really important right now,” I say, turning to Kat. “Why don’t we do what we came to do and grab a few boxes?” I ask her. She ignores me.

“Julian,” Kat says.

Here we go.

“Did you know Emma is a genius?” she asks.

“Okay, Kat, stop.”

I move past her and Julian and grab the closest cardboard box I can find. It’s heavy as hell. I contemplate putting it back down, but that would just prolong the torture.

“You want this inside?” I ask Julian. “Yeah, inside is good,” I say before he can answer. He chuckles.

I leave them on the street and struggle up the porch steps to his open front door. In the background, Kat rambles on. There’s no telling what story she’s concocting. Probably that I’m a virgin astronaut and CIA spy all in one. My job for The Hub is just a cover. God. I can’t imagine.

I make it through the front door and cool air welcomes me in along with a sense of calm. The two of them are exhausting. Well, Julian himself isn’t exactly exhausting, but being around him is. Every part of my body is in knots that tingle with each inch closer we get. And it’s not his fault, but . . . it just is.

I shake my head in frustration and drop the box in the first open space I find. I exhale and shake my arms out. They’re like noodles.

Cardboard boxes surround me, along with furniture still in plastic-wrap. Julian’s house is set up much like mine and Kat’s. You enter into the living room, which spans the entire width of the shotgun-style house. Separated by nothing more than an exposed brick fireplace, the kitchen and dining room flows off the living room.

I make my way from my place in the living room to where Mr. Turnip’s dining room table used to sit. Now there is nothing. Nothing but a stream of light flowing in from the large floor-to-ceiling windows that stare plainly at the side of the next house over.

Mr. Turnip loved this neighborhood, loved New Orleans. But he hated, and I do mean hated, the view from this window. He always complained about how the windows were too beautiful to not have something equally as beautiful to look at. Not to mention, the next house over wasn’t fond of landscaping. My lips draw into a pained smile as I remember him.

I can practically smell his famous spaghetti. He’d make it every Wednesday night with extra garlic. I remember, he’d sing as he cooked and answer my tedious questions about trigonometry. We’d play checkers afterwards and watch Jeopardy. He was like a father to me. Well, a grandfather due to his age.

I wrap my arms around myself and approach the window. The sun streams in, warming my skin. I close my eyes and relish in its touch. I imagine Mr. Turnip wrapping me in his arms like he did the night my mother cursed me in the street and swore to never speak to me again. It was the night of my college graduation, and I’d just finished telling her that I wasn’t moving home. She stormed out of the house. Mr. Turnip just so happened to be sitting on his front porch having a nightcap. He saw the whole thing.

My parents drove away and like so many times before, Mr. Turnip embraced me and made me realize I wasn’t alone. As if Beaux and the aftermath of our demise hasn’t been difficult enough, Mr. Turnip passed away five months ago. And I have never felt more alone.

“Thinking about Turnip?” Kat asks from behind me.

“Huh?” I turn. “Oh, yeah,” I say, moving my eyes back to the window. “You know he hated this thing. Well, not the window, the view. He’d always say, ‘If only those damn people would plant a rose bush,’” I say with a laugh. “He was a character.” I drop my eyes to the floor.

“He was,” she agrees.

“Um, Turnip?” Julian asks. I’d nearly forgotten he was here.

“Yeah, um,” Kat begins. “An old man named Mr. Turnip used to live here. When Emma and I moved in next door, he helped make us feel at home. And um, over the years, he was kind to us.”

“So, what happened to him?” Julian asks.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see Kat turn to me. I purse my lips and turn to face them.

“He died,” I say, not making eye contact. “Apparently, he fell and broke . . . something. It was sudden.”

“Damn,” Julian curses. “I’m sorry to hear that.” When he speaks, I detect a sense of sincerity that surprises me. He must not be a stranger to loss.

“Thanks. Um, I’ll grab a few more things from the truck,” I say, moving past him.

“She’s taken it harder than I expected her to,” Kat mumbles as I reach the front door. I slow my pace to listen to what she says next. “She’s had a rough few months.”

No!

“Kat!” I say, louder than I intended. “You coming?” I ask, spinning in her direction.

“Yeah, um,” she says. “Right behind you.”

We finish unloading Julian’s things in a matter of minutes. The talk of Mr. Turnip’s untimely departure killed the mood—and Kat’s incessant talk of me and my lack of significant other. By the time we’ve finished, I’ve decided to skip brunch at Bessy’s, but the emptiness of my stomach and our fridge overrides my decision.

“All done,” Kat says, washing her hands in Julian’s sink. “Are we ready to head to Bessy’s?”

My eyes move to Julian, who wipes sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Our eyes lock, and as if sensing my hesitancy, he rejects Kat’s proposal.

“You know, I hate to back out after you girls helped me with the truck, but I should really start unpacking. Besides, you two have done more than enough to welcome me to the neighborhood. Mr. Turnip would be proud,” he says, causing my chest to tighten.

At that, I