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

chair overlooking the pond. If it weren’t for Eva’s wedding, it’d be impossible to see at this time of night. Due to the special occasion, my mother had the entire grounds doused in string lights. The whole yard seems to glow.

I make my way to the rocking chair and manage to sit despite the amount of tulle filling out the skirt of my blush floor-length gown. It’s quite beautiful, with floral patterns made out of lace scattered all over the bodice down to the hips. It’s an A-line cut with a deep sweetheart neckline and fitted waist, held up by spaghetti straps adorned with tuffets of lace. I never would’ve picked it for myself, but I suppose it wouldn’t be a wedding if the maid of honor wasn’t dressed in something she otherwise wouldn’t wear.

I exhale and sip my champagne as I rock back and forth on the wrap-around porch. Inside, the chatter was so loud I could barely understand the people next to me, which I used as an excuse to leave the attempted conversation altogether.

I imagine my parents’ divorce will come as a shock to all of them. They certainly know how to play the parts of the much-in-love husband and wife. They walk, hand-in-hand, around the party greeting guests. They talk highly of each other and laugh as loud as anyone here. Of course, I, nor anyone else, should be surprised. The more people pretend to be perfect, the less perfect they actually are. And my parents have been pretending to be perfect my entire life. And Eva has followed in their footsteps.

Don’t get me wrong, she and Bill make a lovely couple, and I have no reason to think they are anything but. But . . . I see in her so much of my mother. She smiles and laughs and rubs her husband, or soon-to-be-husband’s, back. She sits back and lets him take charge of the conversation and probably everything else. With everything my mother is going through now, you’d think she would say something to her. But, as adults allow children their naïve happiness, so do the divorced allow the married to think it will never happen to them.

Of course, I’ve been told I project my own insecurities and trauma onto my sister’s relationship. And for that, I pray. Because in no way do I want to be right about this. And in a weird way, I don’t even want it to be true about my mom and dad. I hate the concept of divorce. I’ve always thought of it as this easy way out for when people stop trying. And the ripple effect is selfish. Divorce never affects only the couple. It affects the children, the parents, the friends. But recent events have shown that’s a naïve perspective. Whether my mom knows it or not, it is for the betterment of us all that my parents part ways. Still, I don’t want it to be true, just like I don’t want it to be true that my father is a member of Club Gent and all that entails. Nevertheless, this is my life, my family. I just hope my sister’s way out is more effective than mine ever was. Whether she realizes it or not, the only chance her marriage has at making it is if she stays far away from this family and Presley, Louisiana.

“Emma?”

The hairs on my arms rise in response to his voice. I glance down at my champagne glass and question if I’ve had one too many. Surely it can’t be . . .

I turn and before me stands Ezra St. Germain, more handsome than ever, dressed in an all-black suit.

“Ezra!” I say.

I stand, a bit too quickly, and trip over my dress as I move toward him. I fall, scraping my palms as I catch myself.

“Ow,” I yelp. My hands are chapped and bleeding.

“I see not much has changed,” Ezra says, kneeling to help me up. He has a goatee now and his hair is buzzed short. Still, his eyes . . . they’re just as I remember, dark and mysterious.

“If you only knew,” I say. He smirks and takes my hands in his to examine them. “Ah,” I gasp. “It stings.”

Ezra smiles. “Not too bad. If you have some peroxide and bandage wrap, I could clean this up for you,” he says.

“I, um, I . . . sure,” I say.

Ezra helps me to my feet, and we sneak past the party guests to my bathroom upstairs. My mother, despite her newfound fondness for me, would have a coronary if she sees me with a white bandage wrapped around my palms. For one, because it’s white and I am not the bride, and two, because it would completely ruin the fairytale inspired Pepto Bismol look she so carefully picked out for me.

Ezra tells me to sit on the bed while he searches for the supplies in my bathroom. I watch him as he does. Life has been kind to him. Well, at least, it appears to. He’s tall, much taller than he was when we were together. And his muscles . . . even in a suit jacket, I can see the indentions. Still, it’s not his appearance that attracts me to him, or did. It’s his nature. He’s so calm and protective. He sees past all the bullshit and just sees me. Much like someone else I’ve come to love.

“Found it,” he calls from the bathroom.

“Yay,” I say.

Okay, so I’m a bit awkward. He was my first love and the way things ended . . . I haven’t seen or spoken to him in almost ten years. And the last place I’d expect to run into him would be my parents’ home. To say I’m surprised to see him would be an understatement.

“Yay?” Ezra comments. He sits next to me on the bed and places my hands on his lap. “Spill it,” he says.

I smile and just like that, I feel sixteen again and all the pain of the last nine years falls away.

Turns out, Ezra went on to become a doctor, which explains how