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

my mother says. I roll my eyes at her remark and fight the urge to disconnect the line.

“Eva and Bill are getting married the last weekend in May,” she reveals.

“The last weekend in May?” I yell. “That’s like two months away. How . . .? How can you even plan a wedding in two months? When is she even supposed to get a dress?”

“Well, that’s what she and I will figure out tonight,” my mother says. “Eva and I will share more details with you as we figure them out.”

“O . . . kay.” My shock is undeniable. Both because my sister, the southern belle she is, is going to put together a wedding in two months, and because my mother, the Mistress of Wedding Planning herself, is allowing it to happen.

“This is a good thing, Emma,” she assures me. “Remember that. Goodnight, dear.”

“Goodnight, Mom.”

The line goes dead and I’m left in koala pajamas on my bedroom floor, stunned, listening to the sounds of Kat and Demetri making love in the shower we share.

* * *

In need of fresh air and a distraction from what is apparently my life, I head to Mimi’s, another one of mine and Kat’s favorite spots. It’s about a fifteen-minute walk from our place and is home to the best live music and tacos in New Orleans.

Inside, exposed brick walls lined with large, black framed windows surround me. On the lower level, bodies move back and forth to the tunes of an acoustic guitar. I recognize the musician as one of Kat’s favorites.

“Upper or lower?” the hostess asks.

“Upper,” I tell her. She grabs a table menu and leads me up the metal staircase to the upper lounge, where the food is served and the views of the stage are the best.

“Will anyone be joining you?” she asks as I take a seat at a highboy table overlooking the stage.

“No,” I say. “It’s just me.”

She smiles and takes away the empty water glass and extra napkin opposite me. The simple action sends a sharp pain through my chest.

On the night of my little sister’s engagement, I’m alone at a bar. And if that isn’t painful enough, I don’t trust myself to uphold the promise I made to my mother. I don’t trust myself to keep my opinions to myself. And that breaks my heart, because if Beaux had never . . . if he had never cheated, if he had never hit me, if he had never broken me, I wouldn’t be so jaded. I . . . I would still believe in love, in the concept of honorable men, and I . . . I could be the maid of honor—the sister Eva deserves.

Tears fill my eyes, blurring my vision. I’m not sad. I’m not. I’m angry, angry that among everything else, Beaux gets away with this too. I wipe the wetness from my eyes with the inside of my black t-shirt and wave the waiter down as he passes.

“Hey, can I get a margarita on the rocks with salt and the chicken tacos,” I ask.

“Sure thing,” he says.

I adjust my chair, yank my jeans up to make sure my behind doesn’t show, and put my cellphone on silent in my purse.

“All right, this next performer is new to our stage. All the way from Los Angeles, California, please welcome Julian Cole on the violin.”

I turn at the announcer’s remarks and watch as Julian, dressed in the same black t-shirt and ripped jeans as earlier, takes a seat underneath the spotlight and begins to play.

Chapter 6

I am entranced by Julian. Well, his music. It’s soft, tortured, and tangible. As he moves his bow back and forth across the strings of his instrument, triceps clenched, jaw sharp, the music moves around me. It caresses me and forms a warmth in my chest and a swelling of tense emotion in my cheeks. I want to cry, like really cry.

He doesn’t make eye contact with the audience. Instead, his eyes are closed, and he moves his head back and forth with the movements of his bow. The bodies on the dance floor beneath me mimic his movements. In an eloquent symphony, they dance.

The waiter comes and places my drink in front of me. I grab it and sip at it mindlessly without removing my eyes from Julian. He’s a musician, a true musician, the kind who moves people without a word.

“Hey! Is this seat taken?” I turn at the unexpected, husky voice. Across from me stands a red-faced man with bulging drunken eyes.

“Yes,” I tell him. I move my gaze back to Julian.

“Oh, really?” he says, pulling the stool out. I cringe, closing my eyes. “Because it doesn’t seem like it,” he slurs.

I fight through the pit in my stomach and turn to face him once more, placing my drink on the table between us. “Well, it is,” I say, attempting to add more bass to my voice. “Please leave.”

“Oh, now you don’t mean that,” he says, plopping down. He smells, and not just like alcohol. My head throbs and my fingers tingle as he moves closer to me.

“I assure you, I do,” I say, but it’s no use. He’s firmly planted on the stool across from me and doesn’t look like he plans to move anytime soon. If he takes another sip of the half-empty glass of beer he’s holding, he won’t be able to stand even if his manners return to him.

I groan and reach for my purse, which sits in the middle of the table. He places a heavy hand over mine. It’s wet with sweat and sends electricity racing through me—not the good kind.

“Now, where do you think you’re going?” His words twist my insides into knots and draw the sweat from my pores. My cheeks flush.

“Away from you,” I scold him. I snatch my hand from underneath his and grab my purse. I didn’t even get my tacos.

I get up and make my way toward the staircase, checking my peripheral to make sure he doesn’t follow me. Perhaps his level of intoxication will work in my favor.

Reaching the