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

and strangers dressed in white chef outfits move about as if in a fit as they prepare a meal—I bet more delicious than anything I’ve ever tasted. And yet, in all the perfection, in all the beauty, is an underlying feeling of dread.

“Welcome home!” everyone cheers, and by everyone, I do mean everyone. Kat, our friends, my boss, coworkers I never speak to, my parents (Oh God!), and, of course, my fiancé, Beaux Thomas, stands in the middle of them all.

He’s dressed in a gray suit, per usual, with a wide grin spread across his face. That, that is why I can’t get past this. I can’t forgive him, because I don’t believe he’s sorry. He stands here now, the orchestrator of this grand gesture, with an air of confidence about him. If he thinks some pretty decorations, pressure from my family, and a delicious meal are enough to make me forget his infidelity ever happened, then he is sadly mistaken. He may be a master negotiator and one of New Orleans’s top corporate attorneys, but that won’t get him out of this one.

My insides twist as Beaux moves toward me with quick pace. I feel myself go pale. I move my hand to my stomach to help ease the pain.

I can’t do this now, here, in front of everyone I know. If I had to guess, it’s probably why he took the initiative to plan such an extravagant party the night of my return. He wants to prolong the inevitable in a last-ditch effort to get me to change my mind. He knows he messed up. He just doesn’t know how to admit it.

I release my suitcase from my grasp and shove my hands in the pockets of my sweatpants as Beaux embraces me. My legs grow heavy as he pulls me into his arms. His touch is fire to ice. And where our bodies used to fit together seamlessly, there are now holes and gaps left in the wake of his actions.

“Welcome home,” he whispers, nuzzling his nose into my long blonde hair.

Beaux kisses me as the crowd cheers. His lips move against mine like the many times before. But I don’t give in to him. As if strapped to the table of a psychotic doctor, sedated yet conscious, I stand still and allow Beaux to put on a performance for the both of us that rivals my parents’ very best. Any remaining ember of our connection is snuffed out by the memories of us being replaced by the memories I have of him and the woman who is not me.

As our kiss ends and Beaux pulls away from me, I find a glimmer of confusion in his crystal-blue eyes. The red excitement in his cheeks fades. His lips droop. He knows our relationship is over. With this shared realization, my chest aches.

Three years—I gave three years of my life to this man. I confided in him, relied on him. He met my love for adventure and expanded it in so many ways. He served as a pallbearer in my grandfather’s funeral. He spent holiday after holiday with my family. I trusted him. I trusted him to protect me, to never hurt me. I imagined a life with him where I would stand next to him through his success and failure and he would do the same for me. Was it perfect? No. But it was the life I chose for myself, and he was the man. Now, it’s ruined. And I’m left heartbroken and questioning our entire relationship.

I turn to face our guests and take a deep breath as I prepare an excuse to cut the party short. Beaux and I need to . . .

Before I get a chance to speak, Beaux turns to our guests. “Thank you all for coming tonight and helping me celebrate my fiancé’s return,” he says. “As many of you know, being apart this past month while Emma worked abroad has been uncomfortably difficult for us both.”

I cross my arms over my chest and bite my lip to keep my composure. This isn’t how I want to do this. I thought he and I would talk first, one-on-one, at least have a respectful goodbye considering the time we’ve spent together. But perhaps it’s better this way—abrupt and raw, just like his infidelity.

“But now, she’s back and hopefully not running off again anytime soon,” he says.

His words send electricity through my bones. I look to meet his gaze. Blood rushes to my brain as his lips spread into a smile once more. I manage a small one of my own so as not to cause a scene. Though, my cheeks burn as Beaux’s motives become all too clear. If he can’t convince me to stay with him, he’ll make our breakup appear to be my fault.

Everyone laughs as Beaux continues his doting, yet manipulative speech.

“So, in honor of our upcoming nuptials and Emma’s return, tonight we will enjoy the incredible food of Chef Jean Black, who will also cater our reception,” Beaux informs us all.

My flesh ignites as Beaux rubs salt in the wound he created. Chef Jean Black was one of two components of our dream wedding that evaded us. He’s world-renowned and expensive, even for Beaux, not to mention booked until kingdom come. And yet, by some miracle, he’s here and it doesn’t matter because Beaux cheated.

Maybe I should be grateful that he’s trying to make it up to me with a party and Chef Jean Black. Maybe this is his way of saying he’s sorry. But . . . I hesitate.

Everyone cheers, praising the Chef, and Beaux prompts me to do the same by nudging me in the back. Not wanting to cause a scene, I oblige and join in with everyone’s applause as Chef walks us through the grazing station. Crab dip, bruschetta, stuffed mushrooms, and homemade focaccia. It all looks delicious. And like Beaux’s presence, it weighs heavy on me as I take this final hour to mentally prepare for the conversation I