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

My headache has started to ease, as has my stomach. And since Julian has somehow made it a habit of being in my life, it’s high time I get to know him better. And what better way than a deep dive into his digital past?

I go to Facebook and have to try a few different search options before finding him under the name J. Lorenzo Cole. His profile isn’t set to private, but it isn’t exactly easy to find. That tells me he’s a private person, though I wouldn’t have guessed it from his photos. Julian has over five thousand photos spanning less than ten years. Most of them are of him at parties, probably for his music label.

He wears a lot of suits and expensive watches and drinks a lot of expensive alcohol. I can tell by the glass it’s served in and the hue of the brown liquid—Macallan 25. Beaux used to drink the same thing and dress the same way and surround himself with the same types of people. As does my father. Suddenly, my nausea returns.

Before learning that Julian was the new owner of Lucid, I told Kat all big businessmen are the same. And in these photos, Julian looks just like the type. Yet, he doesn’t look like himself, at least not the Julian I know.

Julian hasn’t posted a picture with a girl, a musical instrument, or even a selfie in two years. What was that he said? The painting in the U-Haul, he said he’d painted it two years ago.

“What happened to you?” I ask aloud.

Julian adjusts himself on the couch, and for a moment I think I’ve woken him. A few grunts and heavy breaths, and he’s back to a state of sleepy bliss. With Julian settled, I continue my search through his past. The photos of Julian start to change two years prior. No more t-shirts or smiles. He became Mr. Cole, the person he doesn’t like. I soon realize I won’t find the answer as to why on his Facebook. It doesn’t even look like his.

Next, I search for an Instagram. If he’s been painting, he probably has pictures of his work there and maybe some other facets of the real him. Sure enough, I find two Instagram accounts linked to him—one for Mr. Cole, the facade presented as Julian on Facebook and one with his first name only—Julian. It’s a private account.

I contemplate sending him a follow request but realize that may come off as stalkerish. Still, my hope is restored in knowing he is more than the person his life demands him to be.

In my final search for answers, I google Cole Creative, the name of his record label. Wow. He represents a lot of artists. Well, his company does. But wait . . . If it’s Cole Creative, then who’s the other Cole? If Julian is the Director of A and R, then who’s the president?

I find the About page in hopes of learning more about Cole Creative’s Founders. Unfortunately, I find my answers and the source of Julian’s pain.

Two years ago, Cole Creative founders John and Alyssa Cole were killed in a single-vehicular crash. Their sons Mason and Julian continue their legacy and love of music as the President and Director of A and R for Cole Creative.

I look to Julian as tears fill my eyes. He lost them and in them, he lost himself.

I wipe my eyes, sip my coffee, and pull up my article for The Hub where I left off. It seems I have a few more things to add.

Chapter 11

I clasp my hands at my knees to hide their shaking. “Mom. Dad? I . . . um,” I begin. “Unfortunately, Beaux and I have decided not to get married,” I say, a bit too quickly. “We’re no longer together.”

I hardly recognize my voice as I speak. Perhaps it’s reality that doesn’t seem real. I never imagined Beaux and I wouldn’t get married. Even after finding him in bed with another woman, I gave myself a month to think things over before ending it. I thought I was doing the right thing, the sensible, honorable thing. Turns out, all I did was give him hope, or rather feed into his ego.

He’s a powerful man because people think he is. People give him power by being in awe of him, even afraid of him. Even when I thought I was different, when I thought I was standing up for myself and taking away his power to hurt me . . . he hurt me in ways I never imagined being hurt. He showed me his true strength when I thought I’d beaten him. I was a fool and for once, my mother will be right about me. I ruin things. But not my relationship with Beaux. No, that was . . . that was already dead. Instead, I ruined myself by allowing myself to believe I could defeat Beauregard Thomas, that I could stand strong in his presence. Now, I’m not sure I’ll ever stand strong again.

I work overtime to avoid my mother’s sharp gaze as she and my father process the news. She is a woman with many talents, most of which I’m ashamed to know, yet her ability to spot a liar is beyond reproach or criticism. And though it’s true Beaux and I are no longer together, my answer to my parents’ follow-up question won’t be. It can’t be. I can barely stand to be in my own skin, my bruised, beaten, tainted flesh. To speak the truth—the sheer thought riddles my body with needle-like anxiety.

My father leans forward in his seat, moving the brown liquid in his crystal glass back and forth. The sunshine beaming in through the antebellum windows of my childhood home in Presley strike his dark hair and illuminate strands of silver gray. He looks older now, older than a mere fifty years.

My mother, beautiful as ever, looks to him from her seat across the room. I know that look. It’s the one she points at him as if to