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

one worth mentioning showed up, nor did anything of an intimate nature occur,” I clarify.

Again, he nods. I exhale. And just when I think I’m in the clear, he says, “If that’s what you want.”

Chapter 10

“I’m not going,” I grumble into my pillow.

“Yes, you are!” Kat says, struggling to pull me out of bed by my legs.

It’s been a week since I last saw Julian. Well, a week since I last saw anyone. After Mimi’s, I did my best to avoid him and anyone who might ask too many questions, namely Kat. Why? Because I have no idea what to say. The kiss was unexpected at best and incredible at worst. I can’t have feelings for Julian—not yet, maybe not ever. The scars from my last relationship take precedence over any desires I may have for a new one. And if Kat caught the slightest whiff of something between me and Julian, it would inevitably lead to the fact that Beaux is the reason we shared a kiss. And that can of worms is even more complicated than the first.

“Uh!” I groan. I move the covers off me and push myself to a standing position. I knew my shot at getting out of Friday night drinks was slim.

“Fine,” I tell her, “but don’t act funny when I have nothing to say.”

“Oh, you’ll have something to say,” she tells me. Her tone makes me feel like a child again. My mother used a similar one when forcing me to go to pageants and social dinners I couldn’t have cared less about.

“You’ve been quiet and scarce all week,” she says, ripping through my dresser. “You know what that tells me?”

“Nope,” I say, adjusting my bun.

Kat turns to face me. Her coral lips droop in disappointment. “You’re hiding something and from me of all people,” she says.

Her blue eyes look even bluer when she’s upset. She drops her head and returns to my dresser in search of something way too revealing.

“And I don’t like secrets, Emma. And I don’t want you to feel like you have to go through life alone. That’s why we started Friday nights at Brocatos in the first place,” she tells me, as if I need reminding.

“I know,” I tell her, exhausted.

“So, put on your big-girl pants and get ready to drink up and tell all,” she says, tossing a pair of ripped, black skinny jeans at my face. I slip them on while she searches for a shirt.

“Oooh, how long have you had this?” she asks, holding a silk silver tank top. It’s backless and barely has enough chest coverage for a fourteen-year-old.

“High school,” I tell her, snatching it away. “And no, I’m not wearing it. I don’t even know why I still have it. I bought it sophomore year to get back at my mom for pimping me out to the senator’s son. I told her if she wanted to treat me like a slut, I might as well dress like one too. She nearly fainted when I came down the stairs in it.”

“Well, Mama Marshall may not have approved, but I sure do. You should wear it,” she says, plopping down on the edge of the bed. “I mean it’s not like anyone here is going to scold you, and you should take pride in your body, in your sexy womanness,” she tells me.

I nod, moving the thin fabric between my fingers. “Maybe next week,” I tell her.

Kat approves of my more conservative, all-black look as long as I let my hair down. Apparently, it looks sexier that way. I oblige and we head to Brocatos, our Friday night spot since senior year of college.

* * *

Brocatos is dark, the only light coming from ancient glass chandeliers and the row of windows looking out on the water. Unlike Mimi’s, there’s no live music and no clusters of humans swaying to the beat. Soft tunes play from the speakers overhead. Booths line the exterior wall overlooking the gulf with small bar tables filling up the rest of the space. I inhale as the chef prepares my favorite crawfish dip.

“Emma! Kat!” Ethan and Kris wave to us from our regular booth.

“Hey!” Kat squeals. “And they already have the apps and first round,” she whispers to me.

“Gotta love their punctuality,” I whisper back.

I met the blonde haired, brown-eyed Ethan sophomore year when I started helping out in the theater department. He’s charming, sarcastic, completely in love with his boyfriend, Marcus, and an amazing actor. He was just cast in the off-Broadway production of My Fair Lady here in New Orleans. The three of us met Kris junior year when she harassed us at the cafeteria to sign a petition against racial segregation in on-campus Greek communities. Her name starting with a K sealed the deal for Kat, and the four of us have been best friends and weekly drinking buddies ever since.

“Nice of you to show up,” Kris says as Kat and I take our seats.

“Emma and I had a disagreement on attire this evening. Not to mention she wanted to bail altogether,” Kat reveals.

“What?” Ethan and Kris say in unison.

“It’s fine. I’m fine,” I assure them. “Let’s just talk about something else,” I say, downing the purple shot in front of me.

The three of them watch as the purple liquid sets my throat ablaze. I open my mouth to suck in air, but it only makes it hurt worse.

“Oh, God! What the hell was that?” I ask, finally catching my breath.

Ethan and Kris look at each other.

“It’s called Purple Death, honey,” Ethan says. “We were waiting to see which one of you would be stupid enough to try it first. Looks like we both lost.”

“Hey!” Kat yells, and the three of them laugh. If it weren’t for the instant buzz, I’d be angry. Nevertheless, I join them in their fun, fully aware that I’m not making it out of this bar without saying something I’ll regret.

Three drinks later, I can barely feel my toes or sit up straight