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

what you did, and there is no justifying it. And I’m not going to justify it for you. You should be taking responsibility,” I say, throwing my hands up in frustration. Now, my clarity is fading into anger.

“So, let me take responsibility,” he begs. “Let me make it right,” he says, turning to face me. “Let me have a lifetime to make it right.”

He places his hand on my thigh as if the simple gesture will change my mind, will make me remember the good times, the intimate times. But all it does is make me angrier.

We had something. We . . . And in all his explanation, he hasn’t once told me why he did it, why he felt the need to be with someone else.

“Why?” I ask. My voice cracks as I speak.

“What?” he responds. His face contorts in confusion.

“Why do you want to make it up to me?” I ask. “Why did you throw this party tonight? Why are you pretending you care?” I ask, moving his hand from my thigh.

Rage bubbles inside me as I speak. I can’t hold it in any longer.

“I . . . I do. How can you not realize that?” He attempts to move closer to me once more, but I stop him with my words.

“Because you cheated,” I say. Verbalizing it is powerful. Calling him out to his face is powerful. He blushes and stutters as he attempts to deny it, to justify it, to explain it. Again, I stop him.

“You slept with someone else, a client no less,” I tell him. “And now, you expect me to believe you care about me, that you love me, that you want to be with me?”

“Yes, that’s what I’m trying to tell you,” he says, raising his voice.

“No!” I yell. “You can’t love me and cheat on me. You can’t rebuild the trust that’s been broken. You can’t make this up to me, like all the times you canceled dates because something came up at work,” I say. “Was that even the truth? Was it really work all those times, or was it someone else?”

“Emma,” he says. I hear his patience waning, but still, I press on as salty tears drip down my face into my mouth.

“That night,” I say. “That night you chose someone over me. You chose a one-night stand—or maybe it was two, maybe it was three—regardless of how many times, you chose someone over the woman you promised to live the rest of your life with. And you can never take that back,” I tell him. “So, don’t pretend to care for me and love me now when you don’t.”

My chest burns with a fire that is unquenchable. I want him out of here, out of my sight, and out of my life. Any hope for a respectful end is gone.

“Emma,” he says once more. That tone! That annoying, condescending tone. It’s like I’m a child that needs scolding. “You . . . you’re overreacting,” he says. “I had sex with her, yes, as you saw. And . . . I’m sorry you had to see us,” he rambles.

“Us,” I scoff. “Shouldn’t you be sorrier you gave me something to see?”

“Yeah,” he says, exhaling. “And . . . I am, but . . .”

“But,” I repeat, shaking my head. Just as I thought, he’s not sorry he did it. He’s just sorry he got caught.

The flames of rage burn out inside me, leaving me charred, raw, and exhausted. I can’t do this anymore. I can’t stomach this fight.

I stand from my place on the bed and walk to my dresser. My fingers find the ring box in the top drawer, and for a second I consider not giving it back to him. After all the pain he’s caused, I should keep it for severance pay. But I can’t. Keeping it would allow me to hang on to the better parts of him when I need to forget they ever existed. It’ll be easier this way.

I pull the ring box out of the dresser and take one step towards him. That’s when he stands, towering over me.

“Think carefully before you say another word, Emma,” he warns me. “I don’t take kindly to those who back out on a deal,” he says. “You should know that by now.”

Anger consumes him. His face turns a deeper shade of red. His fists clench. It’s a side of him I’ve only ever seen a few times and never directed toward me. I take a moment to compose myself.

With resolve, I say, “Beaux, I don’t pretend to be perfect. I . . . I don’t know why you cheated, but I realize now that I made it easy for you to. I didn’t hold you accountable or pressure you to put me first. I made it easy for you to do whatever you wanted behind my back, because I trusted you not to. Maybe I even let my mother convince me that you were better than me and that I’d never have better than you. But what I know now is that I do deserve better. And one day, I’ll have it,” I tell him.

I am surprisingly calm as I speak. As if our relationship is a door cracked open, I take one final opportunity to close it.

“What I know is that we’re done,” I say.

My hand is heavy as I offer him the ring box. Enclosed inside the velvet-clad box is more than a ring. It’s all the plans we made together, the house we envisioned living in, the children we hoped to have. It’s the family holidays, the dates, the dreams we both hoped to achieve with the other by our side. It’s our life together enclosed in fabric the color of blood.

Beaux stares at me for a long while, then shifts his eyes to the wall. He once made love to me as he pressed me against it. At least I thought it was love. It was rough and exciting. But, as time has shown, that can only last so long.

I exhale, roll my eyes and . . .

Beaux knocks the box to the floor