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

pull my eyes away from him and give the house one last glance. Now that Mr. Turnip is gone, I doubt I’ll be back.

“Emma? Emma?” Kat says.

“Huh?” I ask. “Oh, um. It’s no problem,” I say to Julian. “Welcome to the neighborhood.”

At that, I turn on my heel and walk towards the door. Kat follows behind me, surprisingly without protest.

“Oh, Julian,” I say, turning suddenly. His name sounds strange crossing my lips.

“Yeah?” he asks, taking a step toward me.

“When Mr. Turnip passed, Kat, and I helped pack up his things for auction. He didn’t have any family, at least none that cared to visit the house,” I explain. “But we never could find his checkerboard. If you happen to find it, would you mind letting us know? It’s kind of sentimental.”

“Of course,” Julian says. A warm smile spreads across his face, one I can’t help but return.

“Thanks,” I say. With that, I close the door behind me, and Kat and I head to Bessy’s.

Chapter 5

Snuggled in a pile of warm blankets, I sit on my mattress and type while mindlessly eating Oreos. This is how I spend most Sunday nights, finishing up work from the past week and preparing for my new assignments. Tonight, I find myself raving about a new restaurant in the Quarter. I can still taste the eggplant parm. Okay, that’s gross.

On the opposite side of the bathroom we share, Kat and her boyfriend Demetri attempt to keep quiet as they ravage each other. It’s on nights like this I realize just how thin these old walls really are. I roll my eyes and return to my . . .

Buzz, buzz.

That’s weird. Who would call this time of night? My eyes flit to the clock on my dresser. It’s after 8:00. I hop off the bed and shuffle through the blankets in search of my phone, tossing each one frantically to the floor. My insides clench as I see my sister’s name and photo flash across my screen. I take a deep breath and pray this isn’t what I think it is.

“Okay. Okay,” I whisper to myself as I pace the room. No need to overreact until there’s a reason to overreact. I answer just before my phone sends her to voicemail.

“Hello? Eva? Is everything all right?” I ask. I try not to sound too concerned but fail in doing so.

Eva squeals through the phone, just high-pitched enough that I can’t tell if she’s in pain or pure joy.

“Eva!” I yell. My palms sweat. Okay, now I sound desperate.

“I’m engaged!” she yells back. I don’t respond. “Did you hear? I’m engaged!”

I drop my phone to my hip and exhale. Engaged?

“Emma? Are you there?” her voice vibrates against my thigh.

“Yes!” I finally say back. “Yes, I’m here. I heard. You’re—you’re engaged! Congratulations!” I say, despite the utter confusion and exhaustion taking over me.

I drop to the floor and rest my back against the edge of my mattress, tugging a blanket over my exposed legs.

“You don’t sound too excited.”

I can feel her disappointment through the phone. Eva is three years younger than me, and the epitome of a southern debutante. She’s smart, but not too smart, perky, put-together, a God-fearing woman, and an amazing baker. Any man would be lucky to have her, but . . .

“No,” I say. “It’s not that. It’s just . . . you caught me off guard.” In more ways than one. “When you called so late, I thought something might be wrong. I’m just . . . readjusting and . . . yes, I’m very excited for you,” I exhale.

“Well, you better be,” she says. “Because you’re my maid of honor!” she squeals again. I cringe at the sound.

“I would love nothing more,” I tell her. “How is Bill?”

“Oh he’s . . .” she begins what will undoubtedly be fifteen minutes of non-stop praise for her soon-to-be husband.

Bill is, well, I guess I can’t say much about him. I’ve only met him once. After Beaux and I broke up, I spent a weekend in Presley, my hometown. At that time, he and Eva had just started dating, and my impression of him was perhaps jaded by my recent experience.

He’s tall with blonde hair, dresses well, is a small-time kid from a neighboring town turned successful investment banker, and is six years older than Eva. Which, given the age difference between me and Beaux, may be the underlying cause for my lack of enthusiasm for the relationship. There are too many similarities for my comfort.

“He proposed in Natchitoches on the riverbank. Isn’t that so romantic?”

“Yeah, yes,” I say, tuning back in. “And that’s where you two met, isn’t it? He was a guest speaker in your Econ class?”

“Yes, he was,” she says. Another five-minute rant sparked.

Am I wrong for approaching Bill and Eva’s relationship with caution? Is it fair of me to question their engagement? I don’t know Bill, so I shouldn’t judge him, but it’s because I don’t know him that I worry. Besides, Eva is young and naïve, and even the people you do know can surprise you. A lesson I, unfortunately, had to learn the hard way.

“Eva,” I say. Her name slips before I realize what I’m doing.

“Yeah?” I hear the caution in her voice. I’m sure the thought has come to her that I might not be the most supportive member of our family, considering my relatively recent breakup. And I want to prove her wrong, but . . . this is so fast and . . .

“Emma? Is that you? Isn’t your sister’s news just so exciting? They make the most gorgeous couple. And her ring! It’s the size of a small blueberry,” my mother exclaims.

Anne Marshall speaks into the phone without giving me room to answer. I see what she’s doing and more importantly, what she’s asking me not to do. Don’t ruin this, Emma, like you ruin everything else. Don’t rob your sister of her happiness just because you robbed yourself of your own. In so many words, that’s exactly what’s she saying. How do I know this? Because when I did spend that weekend in Presley and explained that Beaux