The Museum of Heartbreak - Meg Leder Page 0,28

made up from last night, but one side of her hair was sticking straight out.

Shrugging off my denim jacket, I squeezed past her, holding up the bag, grease spots shining through. “Vivien! A vanilla-with-raspberry-jam doughnut for you, a crème brûlée for me.”

“Awesome,” she mumbled.

I hung my jacket on the front rack and she followed me toward the kitchen, yawning loudly. In the kitchen, gray light was filtering in through the windows, dust motes moving lazily. “Where are your mom and dad?”

Audrey wiped sleep out of her eyes. “Visiting my grandma in Pleasantville.”

“How’s she doing in the new retirement community?”

“Eh. Not great. She’s missing my grandpa a lot. Keeps insisting he’s talking with her at night.”

“That’s hard. I’m sorry.”

“Yeah, thanks. Me too.”

“How late did you stay last night?” I grabbed two clean glasses from the dishwasher and poured us each a glass of orange juice. “I tried to find you before I left.”

“Not late.” She pulled out one of the stools and slouched over the island, yawning again. “Cherisse was too drunk to go home, so she crashed here. She’s still asleep.” She pointed at the ceiling.

The doughnuts waited for us: one for Audrey, one for me, none for Cherisse. “Oh.”

She waved her hand at me. “She won’t eat those anyway. Not vegan. Fried. Too many calories.” I slid her plate over and she scooped a big glop of jelly out of the center into her mouth. “Perfect.”

I took a huge bite of my doughnut, feeling totally content, even if my archnemesis was one floor away.

“So last night,” I started, my mouth full of chewy doughy heaven.

“I’m sorry we didn’t get to hang out more. I totally wanted to, but even though Cherisse got some water in her, she still barfed all over the backyard and was so mortified and worried that Keats would see her getting sick, I spent most of the night trying to sober her up.”

I glanced down at my hand, the one Keats had held, stretched my fingers, fully expecting it to be glowing with leftover moonlight.

“That’s okay. I was actually with Keats,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm, but really wanting to stand up and sing it, the hills being alive with the sound of music and whatnot. My sticky doughnut fingers were not exactly helping with the vision, but still.

Audrey stopped, mouth halfway open.

“You were with Keats?”

My beaming smile spoke for itself.

She put her half-eaten jelly doughnut back on her plate and started tugging on a front lock of hair. “I didn’t know you knew him all that well.”

“I didn’t. Until last night. But, Aud, it was amazing. He’s amazing. He loves all these awesome books and gave me one to read. The moon was shining in his room and it was only the two of us. And at one point . . .” I chewed my lip.

“Please tell me you guys didn’t hook up,” Audrey said.

I looked at her, surprised. “No, but he held my hand. It was so romantic. I think Delphine has found her—”

She buried her head in her hands. “No, no, no, this is not happening.”

I frowned. “What does that mean?”

She tapped the table and spoke slowly, as if trying hard to choose the right words. “Pen, I don’t know if Keats is the best guy for you.”

“Wait. What? Why?”

She rubbed her hands against her forehead, like she was trying to work away a migraine. “It’s, how do I put this . . . Cherisse and Keats . . .”

Relief flooded through me. “Oh, it’s okay! Keats doesn’t like Cherisse like that; he told me. So it’s all good. He even gave me a book—”

“No, it’s just they’ve got a really complicated history.”

“So? It’s history—in the past.” I tried to smile.

Audrey let go of her hair, rested both palms on the table, and took in a deep breath. “Pen, you liking Keats isn’t like having a crush on some character from a book or lusting over some random from a distance. Trust me: He’s not Prince Charming. Listen . . .”

Without knowing why, my body braced itself, like it does when you get on the Cyclone roller coaster at Coney Island, trying to minimize the bruising and shaking before the ride kicks into action.

“I’m really happy you finally like a real person, but Keats isn’t a good one.”

A real person?

At that moment everything around me got really still, except for my heart thud-thud-thudding in my ears. My vision tunneled inward, the edges black. I realized that something terrible had