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

ceiling. I wince as the sounds of the party grow louder. It’s as if Beaux wants to remind me that he’s still here, that they all are.

“You know, when he announced Chef Jean Black as the caterer, I felt guilty. Angry, but guilty.”

“Why?” Kat asks.

“Because he’s trying, at least, that’s what I’m supposed to think,” I say. “It’s what I want to believe.”

“But you don’t believe it,” Kat says. “You don’t believe he’s being genuine?”

“No. Maybe it isn’t fair of me to think this, but . . . I think he wants me to forgive him, but I don’t think he’s sorry,” I tell her. “And if Chef Jean Black doesn’t save the fragments of our relationship, then Beaux at least wants to use him to save his reputation. If the truth came out about what he did, not just that he cheated, but that he cheated with a client, everything he’s worked for will be lost,” I say. “But if everyone we know witnesses him offering this expensive, romantic gesture to me upon my return, no one would believe an accusation against him. No matter what happens between us, tonight was his way of saving face.”

“So, what now?” she asks.

I close my eyes and listen to find Beaux’s voice amongst the crowd. He’s talking about his most recent conquest at work, a female CEO whose board of directors wants her out on the basis she spends too much time with her kids. I wonder if he’ll have sex with her. Maybe he already has.

I open my eyes then, finally ready to answer Kat’s question.

“I can’t do this anymore,” I whisper. “I can’t be in a relationship where there is no trust and he . . . he destroyed my trust in him. So, I need it to be over. I need these people gone. I need time to process,” I say. “I just . . . I can’t prolong it anymore.”

Kat nods and shoots up to a sitting position. “Consider it done.”

Chapter 2

I give Kat a small smile as she leaves the room to send everyone home. I hear her tell them, despite their protests, that I have a jetlag-induced migraine. Thanking God that that is not the case, I stand and find myself in front of my mirror.

I look tired. My long blonde hair drapes down my chest, limp and lifeless. The pale skin beneath my green eyes is sunken in exhaustion. My cheeks are hollow, and my natural curves depleted from the lack of grease-laden food in, no pun intended, Greece.

I exhale and move to my dresser to grab a ponytail. Not finding one on top, I open drawer after drawer in search of where they hide. As I do, my fingers trip over something heavy. I close my eyes, recognizing the soft touch of the burgundy velvet ring box Beaux proposed to me with. Inside it rests a stunning, two point five-carat diamond, emerald cut on a solid gold band. I suspect it costs more than mine and Kat’s rent for a year, which is exactly what I thought when Beaux gave it to me. Well, that and damn, it’s heavy, and do I really get to wear this for the rest of my life?

I slip the emerald cut diamond onto my finger one last time. The gold band is cool against my skin. Yet, it no longer feels heavy. Perhaps because the weight of the ring was never measured in metal. It was measured in promises, vows. Promises that are now broken, and vows we never had a chance to make.

My thoughts are interrupted by a sharp ding that makes me jump. I pull out my phone to find three missed calls from my mother, two angry texts, and one voicemail from my father. I listen to the voicemail first.

Hey, Sweetie! Just checking in on you. Kat said you weren’t feeling well. I guess maybe it was too much excitement after twenty hours of travel. Feel better. Call us if you need anything. Love you!

That’s my dad for you—short and to the point, but always there when you really need him. My mom, on the other hand . . .

Emma Louise Marshall—how selfish of you to send guests home without entertaining them, without even a goodbye. Your father and I drove over five hours to be here. Not to mention all your other guests, including your boss, who took time out of their schedules to show their support for you. I thought I raised you better than that. And Beaux—you embarrassed him. And, based on the look on his face, I’d expect to hear about it. What have I always told you, Emma? Men like him don’t come around often. Look at your father and me. We’ve been married for twenty-five years and have two beautiful children. Don’t you want that? Well, it doesn’t come without sacrifice and humility. You messed up, my dear. Now, apologize and make it up to Beaux. He went through a lot of effort to organize this. Call me tomorrow to let me know how it goes and we can talk about your hair for your wedding. I was thinking with your face being so, well, wide, you may want to leave your hair down. Having it up would just accentuate things you don’t need to accentuate.

I roll my eyes, turn my phone off, and place my engagement ring back into its velvet box.

Before I introduced my parents to Beaux, my parents and I hadn’t spoken in six months. They were heartbroken when I chose to stay in New Orleans after graduating college. Perhaps, even more so, my mother was ashamed of me, ashamed she had a daughter so strong-willed—or disobedient, as she views it. For six months, the only communication I received from her were texts on Sunday that read, “I’m praying for you.”

Maybe I’m being ridiculous, but if you knew my mother, you’d know how condescending she is. Anything that doesn’t go according to her plan is a sin. I was destined for Hell the second I left home in