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

my father the side-eye. “I’m sure Emma is just tired after her long drive,” she says to my father.

Wow. I don’t think she’s ever defended me once in my entire life, let alone to my father. Maybe she took a Valium or Xanax, or both.

“No Julian?” she asks me then. Her blonde brows raise.

“Uh . . .” I stammer. I shove my hands in my pockets to keep from fidgeting.

“Julian? Who’s Julian?” my dad asks after downing what could only be his third glass.

Who’s Julian? I would’ve thought my mother couldn’t wait to run home and tell my dad about the mop-headed, tattooed boy she found at my house. Hmm. I wonder why she didn’t.

My mom looks to me as if I’ll explain, but I just say, “No. He wasn’t able to come.”

My mother nods and says, “Well, that’s too bad.” She then goes on to explain Julian to my father as a kind, interesting young man she and Eva met when they went dress shopping in New Orleans. No digs or condescending word choice. Okay, maybe three Valium. My father grunts in reply, as is his norm.

“Alright,” my mom says in a change of subject. “Why don’t you go upstairs, darling, and get changed. We’ll need to make our way outside for the rehearsal in about forty minutes,” she tells me.

“Okay,” I say.

Bill offers to help me with my luggage. I decline. Eva gives me one last hug before heading out to the rehearsal area early. And my mom fixes me a plate from the kitchen to hold me over until dinner. My dad retreats to reviewing stocks on his iPad. I leave him with a parting smile before making my way up the curved staircase to the third floor.

* * *

My room is just as I left it at eighteen, except cleaner. The floral print sheets on my bed have been freshly washed. The down duvet has been fluffed. All the wood furniture has been dusted, and the fluffy cream rug has been vacuumed.

I close my bedroom door behind me and revel in the cool air. The beige linen drapes have been kept closed all this time and therefore, my room might be the only place in the entire four-story home that is a reasonable temperature. The house is old, to say the least, and has been in my family for more generations than I can count, going back to when opening the windows, front porch sitting, and manual fans were your only hope to not sweat through your dress.

Moving further into the room, I toss my duffle bag on the foot of my bed and make my way, immediately, to my three-mirrored vanity. I sit on the gold upholstered stool and review the mementoes stuck in the crevices of my mirrors. Pictures of my friends and me clutter the edges of the frames, so much so I can barely see my reflection. I run my fingers over them and reminisce on a time filled with hope. These were taken before I met Ezra, before I realized how truly cruel this little town is. I attended bonfires and parties down at the lake. I competed in pageants and came out at cotillions. Of course, the last two were not my choices. Nevertheless, they are a part of me. Or at least, were.

I move my fingers to the glass perfume decanters and dainty jewelry that still sit just where I left them. I grab one, an old favorite. I pop the cap off and inhale. Mmm—it’s strong and sweet. It’s the perfect blend of cinnamon, vanilla, and bourbon. It makes you feel warm, in a good way. Ezra used to like this one. I open my eyes then.

“Wait. I wonder . . .” I say aloud.

I return the perfume to its place and lift my rug to expose the wood floors. I tap the wooden planks until I hear the familiar hollow sound.

“Gotcha,” I say.

I pry back a wooden plank and find an old, green box with doodles of hearts and flowers and the names Emma and Ezra written on top. I pull it from its place and begin shuffling through.

When Ezra and I started dating, I knew I needed to be careful and keep our connection a secret from my parents. So, I found a way of hiding anything that tied me to him—love letters, dried flowers, photos, even the doodles from my school notebook. I smile as I see, written on a crumpled piece of lined paper, Emma and Ezra Forever.

You know, I take back what I said earlier. I’m glad I didn’t know then how things would pan out for the two of us, how things would pan out for me. Kids deserve to be happy and to love in their childish way before life comes in and takes it all away. I just pray that life was kinder to him than it was to me.

“Knock, knock,” my mom says, entering my room.

Oh, no! In all these years, she never knew where my secret spot was. I’m here less than twenty minutes and I’m caught red-handed.

My mom’s eyes scan over the scene before her. I sit on the floor in the midst of a misplaced rug, a hole in the mahogany, rifling through a box of things that she would’ve discarded long ago if she knew they were here. This moment is teenage Emma’s worst nightmare, before she learned what it means to be truly scared.

“Chicken salad sandwich with sweet potato fries?” she asks me, holding the plate up.

“Yum,” I say.

My mom places the plate of food on my vanity along with a glass of sweet tea. I quickly replace the floorboard, adjust the rug to its previous position, and hide the box of Ezra and me underneath my duffle bag.

I sit at my vanity to eat and my mom, surprisingly, sits on the edge of the bed and visits with me until I finish.

She asks me about the drive, work, Kat, and when the basic topics of conversation run out, she