The Truth About Unspeakable Things Emily Myers (love story books to read TXT) 📖

I was struggling, and he put in a good word for me with the owner at Lucid. That was the first time since leaving home that anyone showed me kindness. And Lucid quickly became my cornerstone. Without it, I’m not sure New Orleans ever would have felt like home. Well, it, and Mr. Turnip.

“I miss him,” I tell her. My eyes move from the drink in my hand to my feet. My toes are like sausages about to split open under pressure. Red and achy, I already feel blisters forming.

“I know,” Kat says once more. “But that’s why this interview is big and why you’re the best person to do it. You love Lucid and you appreciate its past. If you can’t include it in your article, then maybe you could share it with the new owner,” Kat suggests.

My lips lift into a small smile. Her words ease the pounding in my head, at least a little bit, and I take a moment to inhale the rich scent from my thermos. This is my favorite part of the day. Pure silence, caffeine, and warmth. It’s a shame it doesn’t last longer.

“And who knows? Maybe he won’t be so bad,” she says. And, like clockwork, moment over.

“Yeah,” I scoff. “I’ll carry that token in my back pocket, but the truth is, they’re all the same. Men like . . .” I stop myself by biting my lip. I barely allow his name in my thoughts, let alone in the words I speak. I shake my head. “Anyway,” I say, my forehead scrunching. “Men, powerful men, all they care about is money, because the money allows them to keep their power, their status. This guy will be no different,” I tell her, taking another sip of my coffee.

“Well, I guess that explains the all-white power suit,” she says, looking me up and down. “You only wear that when you have something to prove, and prove you will,” she says, yanking open the fridge in search of more sustenance.

“Thanks, Kat,” I mumble, remembering back to the last time I wore this suit. It was the day I first brought Beaux to my hometown to meet my parents and in that moment, I did have something to prove. Not that Beaux was a great guy or worthy of their approval, but that I was. I knew they’d love him. Hell, we’ve been broken up for nearly a year and my mom still prays we’ll reconcile. But me? I was the one who left town to escape their proverbial watchful eye, who had the courage to do things her way, who gave up the security of family money, and who chose not to return after graduation. I’d gone my own way, and I was determined to prove to them that I was right and I hadn’t made a mistake in doing so.

In hindsight, I think that’s why I looked past so many of Beaux’s red flags. I wanted it to work, but maybe not for all the right reasons. I wanted to make them proud, even if it meant giving up a piece of myself to the accomplishment of marrying a powerful man and the life that would come with him. I loved him, don’t get me wrong, but . . . I didn’t require him to love me, not in the way I deserved at least. I thank God for revealing Beaux in all his horror, before it was too late. Still, I guess that’s up for debate.

“You know, I think I’m going to change,” I tell her. “I don’t have anything I need to prove.”

* * *

I swapped my heels for black flats and my white pant suit for black jeans and a navy blouse that’s slippery on my skin. My feet thank me as I stroll down uneven sidewalks lined with mid-morning musicians and street art. Soft moans of the trumpet fill the thick air. I’m tempted to pile my hair on top of my head but decide against it for the sake of professionalism.

I see the music studio up ahead. With its bright blue exterior, it’s impossible to miss. I can practically smell the old paper sleeves of the records and the dust piling up in the corner. Oh, and of course, the damp brick walls shrouding it all in salty darkness, with the exception of the hanging fluorescent lights.

The words that came out of my mother’s mouth the day she discovered where I worked almost rival the words she spoke the day she found out I wasn’t returning home after graduation. I can’t say I was surprised. While college in the Crescent City intrigued me, I never planned on living here.

I wanted to come to New Orleans to expose myself to cultures untouched in my hometown of Presley. I wanted to meet new people, learn new things, become my own person and have my own life rather than the one my parents were ready to push me into. And I guess you could say I did what I set out to, a little too well, because when the time came to pack my bags and move back upstate, I didn’t. I couldn’t.

I found a family here in Kat and Mr. Turnip and the few others in our tight-knit circle. A family that didn’t judge, without predetermined plans for me or expectations for how my life would turn out. I let go of everything that had been drilled into me since birth. And yet, somehow, I ended up with Beaux. The fact that my parents loved him should’ve been enough to send me running in the opposite direction. But after years of being a disappointment, it was nice to make them proud, nice to fit into their plans for once.

The night I broke things off with Beaux should’ve been the night my home felt like home again, but with Mr. Turnip’s passing, Kat’s new relationship with Demetri, and now the selling of Lucid, New Orleans has been anything but home since the night of my broken engagement.

I