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

Starting over, that’s what we’re doing.

He bought us a home—us, because we’re together and in love. It’s a two-story galley style home in the Garden District, much like the one I once envisioned myself living in with Beaux. You would think it would bother me to live the life I planned to live with Beaux with Julian. But it doesn’t. I realize now, the life I envisioned with Beaux was never his and mine. It was mine, mine to live with the man I love. Julian is that man, and despite everything, I’m happy.

I’m happy to have left The Hub. I’m happy to be re-renovating Lucid Records with Julian. We’re going to run it together while Julian scopes out local talent to sign to his new record label, one that is free from the sins of our past. And I’m happy, happy to be in the city that embraced me when no one else did, happy to have Kat blab my ear off about everything I’ve missed the past year. And I’m happy to see my mom, the new Anne Marshall.

She moves around the kitchen, dressed in a billowy linen dress and flip-flops. Her hair is down and wavy without the confines of the hot iron and hairspray. Her face is fresh and free of most makeup. She hums as she cooks.

When my father turned himself in, he admitted to all of his crimes, as well as the affair he was having with a woman in Dallas. My mother had no resistance in divorcing him and securing all the marital assets, which she then sold. She split the money between my sister and me, even giving a lump sum to my father’s mistress for their unborn child.

As I watch her now, I see her with new eyes. She was a kept woman, plagued with the responsibility of perfection. Much like Beaux, she worked her entire life to create an image so pristine no one would ever see the truth. Unlike Beaux, she embraced the pulling back of the curtain. She allowed herself to grieve her marriage to my father and most of all, the years she spent being a shell of the woman she was always meant to be. But now, she is not a shell. She is not perfect. She is real and free. And she is my mother.

She accepts me for my choices and who I am, not because of who I’m dating. She accepts Julian despite him not being what she considered the ideal companion. She admits she was wrong to put so much pressure on me to date a man who she truly did not know.

Learning of Beaux’s crimes against me was the hardest truth of all for her to accept. She blames herself for what happened to me, for not noticing the pain her daughter was feeling, and for continuing to bring up Beaux even after I told her not to. But I don’t blame her for this. I don’t think I ever did. I knew I was keeping the truth from her, and I knew it wasn’t fair to her.

Still, I don’t regret keeping my assault to myself, and only speaking when I was ready to. Nor do I blame the women who continue to keep their truth to themselves. There is no handbook for surviving this most intimate assault. But I am thankful to have survived, thankful for God, for Kat, for Mr. Turnip, for Julian, and even Mason. Mason, who has done terrible things, but has also shown me that growth and change are possible.

“So, where did you say Julian is?” my mom asks then.

My cheeks flush red and my lips draw into an awkward smile. My mom and I are trying to build a new relationship on honesty and respect. Still, she doesn’t know Mason was a member of the brotherhood or that he contacted Julian shortly after we moved back to New Orleans. Julian has gone to see him now, to bring him money from the sale of Cole Creative, and to . . . to say goodbye. It won’t be safe for them to have a relationship, nor would it be safe for Mason to turn himself in. We have evidence of that in my father’s untimely passing.

“He’s um,” I start. “He went back to LA to get the last of his things. His move to New Orleans was never meant to be permanent.”

She gives me a knowing look. Oh God! Bad choice of words. Bad choice of words. My mom smiles.

“I guess there’s something about this city,” she says. “You know, I’m in need of a new place and I noticed there’s a house for sale just down the street.”

“Okay . . .” I scoff, moving to the fridge. “Anne Marshall in New Orleans, my how things have changed.”

“Ha,” she laughs. “Hey, are we doing wine or sweet tea?”

“I think Kat is . . .” I start but am stopped by a loud noise coming from the front door.

My mom and I share a look of concern at the sudden interruption. I suppose one year without visitors will do that to you.

I close the fridge and grab a knife from the butcher’s block. I motion for my mom to grab the skillet from the cabinet. She does, and we both move slowly to the front door.

“Come on, bitches!” Kat yells. “This stuff is heavy, and I miss my best friend!”

“Ah!” I squeal.

I drop the knife and yank the front door open, sending both mine and Kat’s hair flying.

“Kat!” I say, pulling her in for an embrace. Kat leans into me awkwardly as she holds onto the giant pitcher of margarita.

“Emma,” she says.

“Here, let me take that,” my mom says, grabbing the pitcher from Kat.

“Thanks, Mama Marshall,” Kat says.

My mom retreats to the kitchen while Kat and I catch up on the porch swing.

“God, a year,” Kat says. “It doesn’t seem real.”

“I know,” I tell her. “I never would’ve imagined how things would turn out, how the brotherhood covered their tracks, Julian and I being on the run,