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

you were better,” Kat says. “I thought you were ready to start being yourself again, to do fun things, normal things,” she rambles on. I wince as she says normal. “And the nightmares,” she starts.

“Kat,” I beg.

“They’ve only gotten worse,” she says, ignoring my plea.

“Kat.”

“You’ve been so . . . so isolated for months now, even from me.”

“Yes,” I snap. “I have been isolated. It’s because I don’t want to have conversations like this,” I say, throwing my hands against my thighs.

“Okay,” Kat says, swallowing her tongue. I realize she means well, but . . . “Well, if you don’t want to talk about it, then maybe you could erase it—or him, rather. Replace the bad memories with new good ones. Julian seems nice and he’s certainly attractive,” Kat rambles on. “Maybe you can finally get over B—”

“Don’t,” I say, pointing my finger at her. “Don’t say his name.”

Kat snaps her lips shut.

“I’m sorry, Emma,” she whispers. “I’m sorry.”

I close my eyes and rest my head in my hands.

“I know,” I whisper back.

Kat moves her hand to my back and brushes through my long, blonde hair with her fingers. Her touch is soothing, but it took months for me to accept her touch, to accept any touch from another person.

She is the only person, aside from me, who knows the truth of what happened between me and Beaux—well, the complete truth. My friends saw the bruises on my face and neck. They didn’t see the ones on my abdomen and thighs. It took weeks for all the traces of his fingers to leave my skin. My forehead crinkles as I remember back. It’s impossible to think about without feeling like I’m suffocating, drowning in my own blood. Every time I looked at myself in the mirror, I felt him. My skin burned and ached where he had once been. That’s when the nightmares started. Still, I didn’t press charges. I couldn’t. I couldn’t bring myself to accept . . . Well, I suppose I still can’t. By the time I visited my parents, all remnants of the encounter had faded, and I let them believe their own conclusions as to why the relationship failed. Not surprisingly, my mother blamed me.

Sometimes I wonder why I didn’t press charges. He would’ve been ruined, and he never could’ve hurt me or anyone else again. But I guess I knew that wasn’t exactly true. Even if I had my day in court and managed to win against one of the city’s top corporate attorneys, the scars he left me with are more than just physical.

I’ve made progress, but . . . I will never be normal again, as Kat puts it. I will never again be me.

Kat pulls her hand away and I hear her suck in air. I sit up to pull her in for a hug.

“Come here,” I say. We swing back and forth. “I am over Beaux. I have been since the second he laid a hand on me.” She winces. “But I can’t just erase the bad memories, Kat,” I say. “I can’t just repaint my room, put on a little makeup, get a new boyfriend and be fine.”

She pulls away from me then.

“Is that how it came off?” she asks. “Oh, Emma, I didn’t mean . . .”

“I know,” I say.

“It’s just, I worry.”

“I know.”

My eyes move to Julian as he emerges from his house. I bite my lip. Maybe it wasn’t fair of me to ask Kat to keep my secret. It’s clearly taking a toll on her, it’s just that it’s hard enough to convince people I’m fine as is. If everyone knew, it would be impossible.

“Even if I was ready for someone new, which I’m not,” I tell her. “But if I was, it certainly would not be with him.”

“Why?” Kat says, perking up. “He’s hot!”

“Yeah,” Oh, crap! If you give Kat an inch, she’ll take a mile. “But he’s our neighbor,” I say, before Kat jumps out of her seat.

“So?” Kat asks. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“If you think leaving him to unpack his U-Haul by himself isn’t very neighborly, then what about when we don’t work out? Did you think about how uncomfortable it would be to see him every day after being . . . intimate?” I ask.

“I guess not,” she admits with a half-hearted smile.

“You see?”

“Yeah, I just . . . I want you to be okay,” she says, her blue eyes peering into mine. “I want to know he didn’t break you.”

Her words are like a gut punch. My cheeks tighten as I hold back tears. My throat burns as I fight to not stutter.

“He didn’t,” I finally say, much to her relief. “So, come on.” I stand. “Let’s help this guy with the last of his things, brunch it up at Bessy’s, and then have a normal Sunday evening, just the two of us, watching Gilmore Girls reruns.”

“Sounds like a plan,” she says, pushing herself up from the swing. “But, um, I actually did forget something. So, um, you can go on down,” she tells me. And, once more, she is unable to conceal her happy thoughts of me in the arms of Julian. I’ll have to get his last name for the background check I plan on running.

“Of course, you did.”

“Love you!” she squeals, running back inside. I exhale.

Chapter 4

Julian’s U-Haul sits between our house and his. It’s small. He either doesn’t have many things or doesn’t plan to stay here long. I push our wrought-iron gate open and walk as slowly as possible until I round the corner of the truck. My stomach tightens. My palms sweat.

“Oh, thank God,” I say aloud. He isn’t there.

I fan my face with my hand and mentally scold myself for being so uneasy. There are only a few boxes left, a rug, a guitar case, and a painting. Hmm.

I hop inside the U-Haul and walk to the back where a large hand-painted canvas rests. On a white background, there are faint, charcoal lines that make out the shape of a woman’s face. Long hair cascades down her left shoulder