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

seat. I don’t know what his father did to him, but if my own experience with my mother provides me with any inclination, it’s that parents are capable of anything when it comes to their children, even despicable things done in the name of providing one with a better future.

“Well, enough about me,” Julian says, adjusting in his seat. “I want to know more about you.”

“Well, I’ve already told you about my sister and—”

“I know,” Julian says. “I want to know more about you.”

“Well, I, um . . .” I start. “I’m not sure I know where to begin?”

“What’s your favorite color?” Julian asks. His face is stone cold serious. I blush.

“Pink,” I admit. “But only in theory. I prefer to surround myself with neutral colors,” I tell him, matching his tone.

There’s a brief moment of silence after which we both burst out laughing.

“Now, that wasn’t so hard was it?” Julian asks. His face lights with laughter.

“I guess not,” I say, using my fork and knife to cut off another bite of chicken.

“No, in all honesty, I’d like to know more about you before New Orleans. Like why is it the second you got the chance, you left your hometown and never turned back?” he asks.

I’m caught off guard by his question and find myself shuffling remaining bits of food on my plate as I consider how to answer.

“I, um, I think we’ll need more wine if we’re traveling down this rabbit hole,” I tell him.

* * *

“I was sixteen when I fell in love for the first time. His name was Ezra St. Germain, and he was of mixed race,” I say. “He was a senior, and I was a sophomore. We dated in secret for months, because I knew my family wouldn’t accept our relationship.” I look down in shame as I remember back. “I grew up going to cotillions and society parties. I was a southern belle in our town’s Civil War reenactments. My childhood home is a refurbished plantation for Christ’s sake,” I tell him. “Despite all this, I never thought of my parents as racists or even the people in my town, yet as I got older, they would tell me things like, ‘Don’t bring home a black boy’ and ‘Your cousin Samantha got on drugs because of the black boys at her university, so stay away.’ I was immature and naïve not to see the extent of their prejudice before it was too late.”

“Too late?” Julian asks.

I nod and take a deep breath.

“Ezra and I were at a party when someone saw us. I . . . I was careful around my parents and at places like the diner and church, because I knew my mom had eyes everywhere. Southern women could make gossiping a professional sport if they tried,” I say. “But I wasn’t so careful around friends, or at least, around people I thought were my friends. We were spotted and, it didn’t happen instantly, but eventually people started treating me differently. The girls threatened to tell my parents. The boys looked at me differently, like I was damaged or impure in some way,” I reveal.

“Ezra and I never even had sex,” I tell him. “But that didn’t matter to them, because it wasn’t about sex. It was about the color of his skin,” I say, nodding. “That’s when I realized that all the things my mother had preached about—perception and reputation—were true, and I was disgusted with my hometown.”

I take a few more sips of wine and blot the tears from my eyes. Like Julian with his parents, I haven’t talked about this in some time, nor have I thought about it. The memories bring too much pain to be healthy.

“My parents eventually found out,” I tell him. “By that point, Ezra was eighteen, and I was technically a minor.”

“They didn’t?” Julian asks.

I nod. “They had Ezra arrested the day of his high-school graduation. At the ceremony, they announce all the scholarship offers you’ve received and where you’ll be attending college,” I continue. “It was a moment for him to say shove it to everyone who doubted him, regardless of reason, and because of my parents, he missed it.”

I wipe a falling tear as it drips down my cheek. My heart aches for Ezra, even after all these years.

“He and his family were denied that proud moment,” I say. “And to make matters worse, my mom bribed the principal to exclude his name from the list of graduates. They made it seem like he never even existed, because if people forgot about him, then they’d forget about us and my . . . indiscretion, as my mother called it,” I say.

“Did it work?” Julian asks.

“Yes and no,” I say, taking another sip of my wine. “No one forgot. They just had enough respect for my parents that they didn’t bring it up. But still, the damage had been done, and I knew then Presley was no longer my home,” I tell him. “And Ezra never spoke to me again.”

* * *

After dinner, I help Julian clean up. We compile the remaining food and soak the dishes in hot water. I demand a to-go plate for me and Kat. Julian laughs and obliges. Before I know it, it’s past eleven and Julian is leading me to the couch.

“Now, I never did find Mr. Turnip’s missing checkerboard, but I just so happen to have one of my own,” Julian says. We sit on the velvet blue couch and before us, on the coffee table, is a checkerboard and score cards.

“You really do listen,” I say.

“I do,” Julian says. “But don’t take my good manners for weakness. I’m a pretty good checker player, if I do say so myself.”

“Well, I’ll be the judge of that, Mr.,” I respond. “But hey, can I just say, I really am sorry.”

“For what?” His eyebrows crinkle in confusion.

“For . . . for putting that information about your parents in the article on Lucid,” I say, crossing my legs beneath me. “I crossed a line and I shouldn’t have included it