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

her book. Until I introduced her to Beaux. Beaux was—is handsome, wealthy, and comes from a well-to-do family. He rivals my dad in career success. He hunts game with the best of them. He has a charisma and humor that allows him to control any room he walks into. And, perhaps most important of all, he looks good on the family Christmas card. He’s been on three of ours to be exact.

Beaux represents an answered prayer for my mother. Now, instead of being ashamed to mention her daughter who flew the nest to Louisiana’s most dangerous and sin-filled city, she can brag about her daughter, the travel writer, and her hunky, rich fiancé.

I won’t lie. It was nice. It was nice to be back in her good graces, to feel like I had a mom again. Even though I chose to leave Presley and stay in New Orleans despite her and my father’s protests, I wasn’t prepared for the emptiness I felt without them in my life.

When I told her about Beaux, she was proud of me and excited for me. Maybe she even felt like she could relate to me a little more. After all, she met my father at about the same age, and he was older than her by several years, like Beaux is for me. But my dad has never cheated on my mom. He’s never made her feel like she couldn’t trust him. Despite their other issues, they have a foundation of trust, a foundation I no longer have with Beaux. And if her text is any inclination, without Beaux and our upcoming wedding, there isn’t much else tying us together.

It’s sad, but, I think part of me hoped I could find a way to forgive Beaux, not for the sake of our relationship, but for the sake of my relationship with my mother. Beaux brought us together in a way we’d never been before. With him out of the picture, I’m afraid of what my relationship with my mother will turn into. That is, if a relationship will exist at all.

The house is quiet now except for the sounds of Chef Jean Black and his team clearing the food and packing up their catering truck. Beaux will be in to see me soon. And, if my mom’s text is worth the time she spent typing it, this conversation is going to be even harder than I thought.

As I wait, my heartbeat quickens. My palms sweat. I’m not sure what to expect of Beaux. Will he fight for us? Will he yell and throw things? He hates nothing more than being embarrassed in public. And, if my mom is right, that’s exactly what I did. I embarrassed him. Yet, in this moment, I’m not sure which version of him I’d prefer. I’ve seen Beaux angry, though his anger has never been directed at me. But when Beaux wants something, his persistence is unmatched and unwavering. It’s one of the things I’ve always loved about him. He doesn’t give up. But, this time, he doesn’t have a choice, and I’m not sure how he’s going to take it.

Beaux swings the door open. His face is beet-red. His jacket is off, and his top button is undone. Slivers of blonde hair have worked their way out of the massive amounts of gel he uses to suffocate them.

I guess I’ll find out.

* * *

Beaux sits next to me on the bed. He doesn’t speak. Neither do I. I wrap my arms around myself as my forehead throbs. I contemplate what to say, and just when I think I’ve got it figured out, my tongue swells in my mouth. In all the time we’ve been together, we’ve never been this quiet. It’s strange, strange to just be with him. And soon it becomes too much for me to stomach. As Beaux’s breathing slows, I work up the courage to face him, turning on my bottom so I cannot easily turn away from him.

“Beaux,” I say.

“Don’t do this,” he whispers, cutting me off.

I bite my lip and drop my eyes to my clasped hands. My cheeks feel tight as emotion swells behind them.

“Beaux, I . . .”

“I love you,” he says, turning to face me. His blue eyes plead with me, the same blue eyes I found myself captivated by when we first met. In them I see a piece of him I’ve only ever seen once before—desperation.

He confuses me. How can he seem so confident before, arrogant even, and play the crowd as if everything is fine, and then turn around and beg for me to forgive him? None of this makes sense. When I don’t respond, he continues.

“Emma, I’m sorry. I know I messed up. I know I hurt you, but . . .”

But. I close my eyes as that word radiates through me. Nothing good ever comes after but.

“It was meaningless. It was only one time. It was a mistake I will never make again,” he tells me.

I want to believe him. For the sake of three years, for the sake of my heart, for the sake of my mother, I want to believe him. But . . .

Opening my eyes, I ask, “But how can I believe that? How can I believe you when you say it was only one time and it will never happen again? I . . .” I pause to compose myself. “I trusted you.”

I exhale as my swelling emotion leaves me. Clarity replaces it.

“I trusted you and you broke that trust,” I say. “And I don’t even understand why you cheated in the first place. You didn’t act like you were unhappy. There were no signs that I’m aware of, so how can I believe that it would never happen again, if I never even thought it would happen the first time?”

“Emma,” Beaux breathes. He leans forward and buries his face in his hands. “I know I broke your trust,” he mumbles into his palms. “But . . .”

“Stop saying but,” I say, cutting him off. “But is an excuse, a way for you to justify