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

I’ll add it to my to-do list,” I tell her in my oh-so-Emma way, despite my urge to smile.

Kat smirks. We toss our purses over our shoulders, grab our keys from the hook, and are ready to go.

We open the front door to bright light and blazing temperatures, and I instantly regret not bringing a ponytail.

“Cheers to Mother Nature,” I say.

“Oh,” Kat says, her tone perky. “Looks like they found someone to take Mr. Turnip’s old house. And by someone, I mean a fine someone. You should go introduce yourself,” she nudges.

“Um, yeah. I’ll get right on that,” I say, turning to lock up.

“Come on!” she begs. “The fact that the guy now lives in Mr. Turnip’s old house, it’s like his spirit is blessing the union.” I roll my eyes in response. “Fine,” she concedes. “But if Mr. Turnip were here, he’d make it a point to introduce himself, just like he did with you and me. Besides, what hope does our neighborly relationship have if we walk right by while he sweats in the southern heat unpacking that U-Haul all by himself?” Kat asks.

Her ginger brows raise as if daring me to disagree, and she has a point. Helping the guy out would be the neighborly thing to do, and Mr. Turnip wouldn’t have it any other way. But something tells me that’s not her motivation for the kind gesture.

I shove my keys in my pocket and turn, following her line of sight.

The nameless guy looks to be about twenty-six, maybe twenty-seven. He has black, tousled hair, which is too perfect to be natural, tattoos that cover his tanned arms, and icy eyes that stare into mine. Wait! Stare . . . into . . . he’s staring . . . I’m staring. Shit!

I turn, awkwardly, and face our front door like I forgot something. Which, clearly, I have—my mind. Our cat, Grey, pokes her head through the curtain and watches me with inquisitive emerald eyes. She knows it too.

“Well, that was just great,” I mutter, giving Kat the side-eye.

“Oh, stop,” she whispers to me. “Hey, there!” she calls over to him, her voice rising in pitch. You’ve got to be kidding me.

“Uh, hey!” he says back. His voice is deep and raspy, but not like a smoker raspy, more like a . . . a soulful raspy. “I’m Julian,” he says. Hmm. He’s definitely not southern. He must not be from around here.

“Nice to meet you, Julian,” Kat says with all her charms. “I’m Katherine, but everyone calls me Kat, and this is . . .” She looks at me with blue bulging eyes and pokes at my stomach until I face him. Finally, I do, shrinking away from her aggressive tactics.“And this is Emma. She’s single.”

I feel like a prize on The Price Is Right, but I can’t say I expected anything less.

“Say something, Emma,” Kat says, leaning into me.

“Um, hi,” I stutter, giving him a small smile and an awkward wave.

“Put your hand down. Put it down,” she scolds me.

“Hi,” Julian says back. His wide lips draw into a smile. Clearly, we amuse him, and I can’t say I blame him.

“We were just on our way out, but you seem like you could use some help,” Kat says, returning her attention to the black-haired boy, man. My insides twist. “How about we give you a hand and then you can join us for Sunday brunch,” she offers.

“Really?” I ask, turning to face her. I don’t want to seem rude, but . . .

“It’s the neighborly thing to do,” she says to me.

“Or the slutty thing,” I say back. My face scrunches in protest.

Julian, sensing my hesitance, doesn’t accept Kat’s offer. “Oh, um, thanks, but it’s really okay. You girls have plans. I don’t want to interfere.” Thank God.

“Nonsense,” Kat says. “What are neighbors for? I just need to grab something from inside, but Emma will be right down,” she assures him.

Realizing Kat is not one to take no for an answer, he gives in. “Cool,” he says, grabbing another box from the truck. I give him one last smile as he makes his way inside his new home, then . . .

“Are you insane?” I screech.

“Oh, come on, Emma,” Kat begins, but I cut her off.

“No, you come on,” I tell her. “How could you do that? How could you just volunteer us for manual labor and then brunch with a complete stranger? He could be a serial killer or one of those perverts who become obsessed with anyone who shows them the slightest kindness,” I say, looking over my shoulder to ensure he didn’t hear.

“Not to mention,” I turn back to her, my voice low. “You made me seem like a desperate crazy person by broadcasting my relationship status. God! I knew you would do this,” I say, moving past her to the porch swing.

There’s a noticeable silence between us.

“I’m . . . I’m sorry,” she finally says. Her sun-kissed cheeks flush in embarrassment. I obviously caught her off guard with my outburst.

Kat and I met at Tulane, in a communications course, actually. How ironic? And ever since I’ve known her, she’s been the overbearing, pushy friend that keeps everyone on their toes, and I love her despite it because she’s also the friend you can count on, the one who understands, the one who doesn’t judge. But God, on days like today, it takes great effort to remind myself of her redeeming qualities.

“I know,” I say, plopping down on the swing. “And I forgive you.”

I drop my eyes to my wrist and move my bracelets back and forth. I don’t like it when we fight. I don’t like to fight with anyone, but sometimes it’s necessary.

“It’s just . . .” she begins, but stops herself.

“Go ahead,” I tell her. “You can say it.”

Kat breathes heavily and takes a seat next to me.

“We don’t talk about it,” Kat says quietly. Her fingers fidget back and forth in her lap.

“No,” I say coldly. “We don’t.” My skin begins to itch with the reference of it.

“When you decided to clean out your room and start sleeping in there again, I thought . . . I thought