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

of drunk assholes, and I certainly don’t think you need to cut the carbs.”

I bite the inside of my mouth to keep from smiling, but it’s no use. “It is what I want, thank you,” I say, moving past him. He smirks and follows beside me.

“On the bright side, I did get to hear you play,” I tell him, glancing between him and the sidewalk ahead.

“That’s a bright side?”

“Your modesty is cu . . . nice,” I tell him. “But yes, it was. I was honestly impressed.” He returns my compliment with a coy expression. “As a journalist who covers the culture scene of a city known for its music, I was impressed,” I clarify. “Though, I will admit, surprised.”

“How so?” he asks, dropping his head.

“Well, I—I hope this doesn’t come off as ignorant, but I’m surprised someone from LA plays that well and . . . with that much pain,” I say. My voice grows soft. Did I just cross a line?

He smiles a small smile, more to himself than to me, and the flutter in my stomach subsides.

“Well, I guess you’re not the only one whose mind is plagued by the unspeakable,” he whispers.

“I guess not.”

Porch lights welcome us home. The TV in the living room illuminates Kat and my cottage. I better keep this quick before she sees me with Julian.

“Well, um, thank you—”

“Listen, Emma,” Julian cuts me off.

“Yeah?”

“I was just going to say, um . . .” Julian fidgets, shoving his hands in his jean pockets. “I know tonight was crazy and probably not how you planned on spending it, but maybe one good thing came of it,” he says.

“And what’s that?” I ask, watching him closely.

“I know you don’t want to talk about it now and I get that. Trust me, I do,” he says. “But . . . if that changes, and for some reason Kat isn’t cutting it, well, at least you know you have another friend close by.”

His words shake me. I can’t tell if he’s trying to assert himself into my life after knowing me for less than twenty-four hours or if he’s placing himself permanently in the friend zone? And I’m not sure which one pisses me off more. Even more so, I’m not sure I’m comfortable with caring.

“Emma? Did you hear me?”

“Yeah, um,” I take a step back. “The thing is, we’re not friends,” I tell him. “You—you played beautiful music and I complimented you on it. And when I was at risk of being attacked, you stepped in, like any decent human being would. And we walked home together, because we live next door to one another. So, we’re not friends. We’re neighbors. Neighbors,” I tell him, as I push the gate open.

“Is this you running away from another problem?” he asks. His lips draw into the playful smile I’ve come to love.

“You are not a problem,” I assure him. “You’re my neighbor, a neighbor,” I tell him, removing any sense of possession from my verbiage.

“All right, Emma,” he says, taking the few steps necessary to reach his property. “Well, goodnight—neighbor.” He laughs.

I roll my eyes, fumble for my keys, and leave him to himself, slamming the door behind me.

Chapter 7

“Crap! Is there any coffee left?” I ask, stumbling out of my bedroom as I slip into my black, strappy heels.

“Woah! It’s been a while since I’ve seen the stripper heels,” Kat says as she slurps down her cereal. “What’s the occasion?” she asks, nodding her head toward the half-full coffee pot.

“Oh! Thank God!” I groan, stomping across the kitchen to my only hope for survival. “I woke up late, again,” I say, grabbing a thermos. “And I barely had time to review my notes for today’s interview. Not that it matters,” I mumble under my breath. I move to the fridge, grabbing the milk.

“Fran was adamant that this is meant to be a fluff piece, a welcome-to-the-neighborhood, ooey gooey sap story no matter the fact that we’ve had enough big business come in and take all the charm out of our Mom and Pop shops!” I find myself raising my voice and force myself to take a pause as I search for the sugar.

“Oh yeah!” Kat exclaims. “Today’s your big interview with that music exec who bought Lucid.”

“Yeah,” I exhale, tossing way too much sweetener into the warm liquid. “And I wouldn’t call it big as much as I would cheap.” I turn to face her, leaning against the kitchen countertop.

Ever since Beaux and I broke up, I haven’t felt safe traveling alone. I’ve been taking less and less assignments with Conde Nast and more here in the city. Which only amplifies my rage when a story like this is given to me. I went from traveling the world, immersing myself in different cultures, and telling the truth through an undiluted lens to being concerned with local politics and big business.

“You know, I love Fran, I do,” I say. “But New Orleans is known for its rich musical history, and Lucid Records has been a privately-owned staple in our community for over a hundred years. It’s not right for such an iconic legacy to be snuffed out by increased rent prices,” I tell her. “That’s the story I should be telling,” I say, loud enough for Fran herself to hear.

I sip my coffee in the hopes it will calm me down. No such luck.

“I know,” Kat says. Her blue eyes soften as she lets her spoon slip into the milk before her. “And I also know that Lucid was the first job you had when you moved to the city,” she says with pause. “And that Mr. Turnip helped you get it.”

I nod and exhale.

Kat and I met freshman year at Tulane, but it wasn’t until sophomore year that she moved in with me. Freshman year was tough. I was alone in an incredible yet dangerous city. I had no friends. I barely had enough money to survive. My parents didn’t approve of me attending college so far from home, so they didn’t help much. But Mr. Turnip knew