The Truth About Unspeakable Things by Emily Myers (novel24 txt) 📕

me. The feeling is mutual. “Why are you calling me? It’s 3:00 a.m., not that that’s what’s surprising me.”

“I know,” I say, rolling my eyes. “I’m as surprised as you are. I just . . . I want to try to understand,” I blurt.

“What?” Beaux asks. “Understand what?”

I take a deep breath and say a small prayer. Whatever happens, God, please don’t let me make things worse.

“I um . . .” I stutter. “I want to understand . . .”

Emotion swells inside me. I’m not sure if I can manage to say it. How will he react when I do? I feel like I could cry, but there are no more tears left inside me after this morning.

Finally, I say, “I want to understand why you raped me and all those other girls.”

Beaux is quiet. The only noise between us is that of my heavy breathing.

“This isn’t a trick,” I say, breaking our silence. “I’m alone and I’m not recording you. I just—I need to know. I need to understand,” I beg.

“Emma, I . . . I don’t know what to say,” he finally tells me. “I think you’re confused, I didn’t—”

“I found the sealed court records. I know about you, about what happened to you,” I continue. “And I know about all the other girls. Well, going back the last ten years, at least.”

Again, Beaux is silent.

“Like I said, this isn’t a trick. I just . . . I need to know if you’re sorry; if you have any regret at all,” I say.

I think back to my dream, to the moment we got engaged. Beaux said I was the best thing in his life, even more so than his job. It was hard to believe then, and even harder to believe after everything that’s happened. Was it ever real? Does it even matter? How could he hurt the person he loved so viciously and personally? Of course, how could his father abuse his own son? How could his mother sit back and let it happen?

I exhale and in a last-ditch effort to understand the man I almost married, the man who has henceforth ruined my life, I ask, “Did you ever love me?”

Beaux exhales and I hear a rustling noise. Perhaps he’s walking. Glasses clank against each other. Liquid pours. He’s at his bar cart in his home office. He must’ve been up late working. He drinks his scotch in one fell swoop and sets the glass to the side. Another two minutes pass.

I should’ve known better. He isn’t going to admit to anything. All I’ve done is expose my strengths and put myself and the ones I love in even more danger. I exhale and let my phone slip to my hip.

“This was a mistake,” I mumble to myself.

Just as I lift my phone back up to my ear to tell Beaux to forget it, he breaks his silence.

“I didn’t love you, Emma,” he says then. “Not at first.”

My ears perk up at the sound of his voice, and I wonder if I should lie and hunt for my recorder. Instead, I stay put.

“What constitutes at first?” I ask, pulling my knees into my chest.

“The first year,” he admits.

“What? Then why did you stay with me?”

Oh, God. If only he would’ve dumped me, or if only I’d had the wisdom to leave him.

“I don’t know,” he admits. “Maybe because I knew it wasn’t your fault I didn’t love you. I just—I didn’t know how to love you or anyone else, for that matter,” he tells me. “So, I . . . I tried to make the best of the situation I was in.”

My lips part. I drop my eyes to my covers. I didn’t expect him to open up like this. He’s always kept a wall up. Even before I knew it existed, it was always there, separating him from the world, from love.

“But . . . I don’t know. Then things started to change,” he says.

Glass clanks through the speaker of the phone as he pours himself another drink.

“How so?” I ask.

I watch myself in the mirror before me as moonlight streams through my bedroom window and pools around me. I look like a ghost in my white nightshirt. I feel like one too, empty yet filled with pain. If only he’d been honest with me, or at least himself, he could’ve saved us both so much hurt and time.

“I recognized a desire in you, a desire to create a life for yourself separate from your parents, from your childhood. And, you had an ambition that was admirable. You worked hard and loved what you did,” Beaux says. “I guess, you still do. But . . .” he pauses then. “Most of all, you—you had a heart filled with love and a respect for commitment. The more time I spent with you, the more I felt I could . . . I could count on you, count on you to stay with me, to love me. But, um . . . I wasn’t fair to you,” he says then.

“What?” I ask. His words take me by surprise.

Beaux clears his throat. “It wasn’t fair of me to expect you to love me and stand by me in ways that I knew I never could for you,” he tells me.

My chest tightens as Beaux’s words race through me. I want to be angry, to curse him, and hang up. He has this revelation now? So perfectly he can discuss his feelings, but when we were together, nothing. He never would’ve admitted this. Even when I caught him cheating and even when he begged for my forgiveness, he never admitted any of this. And yet, for some strange reason, I feel one emotion more than anger—understanding.

“If . . . if you’re aware of those records, then you must also be aware of why it was difficult for me to love, not just you, but anyone. But you were the only one,” he says, clearing his throat. “You were the only one to truly love me and because of that, I never meant to hurt you, Emma.”

I’m taken aback. My chest tightens and my throat closes. I feel his hands on me as