The Museum of Heartbreak - Meg Leder Page 0,36

me again. I ran to catch up with him, fiddled with a gum wrapper in my coat pocket, and waited for him to say something.

Nothing.

“Would you mind if we stop at a vintage shop in the East Village before the comic-book store? We have time to walk over after, right? I need to look for something.” I thought of Audrey’s beautiful homecoming dress. Maybe I could find something equally cool. “Keats and I are going out tomorrow—did I tell you that?”

“Yeah, we have time,” he said, ignoring my news. I decided to let it lie.

“So I’ve been thinking more about your dinosaur illustrations. The world should get to see them—not just the Coney Island Sideshow poker crew,” I said, nudging his elbow, hoping to call him back from the surliness threatening our evening.

The result was a halfhearted grunt.

I chewed my lip, debating my next move. “I think they’re good, Eph, really good. Like Pratt Art Institute good.” I waited for him to open up to me, to share that he wanted to go to art school, to tell me that his new drawings were from all the secret parts of him, the parts that woke up sweaty and racing in the middle of night or that put unwarranted big hope in fortune-cookie predictions or that still believed, like he had when he was six, that there were real dinosaurs living in the museum.

Instead he jogged down the subway steps, sidestepped a used condom, and pulled out his MetroCard.

“Hey, I’m talking to you, if you didn’t notice,” I said, grabbing his hand. It was bone cold. “Jesus, you’re freezing.”

I clasped both my hands around his, trying to warm him up. He jerked away, scowling and shoving his hands in his pockets.

“I’m fine, Pen, okay? Drop it.”

My insides curled up, like they had been kicked.

Jerk.

• • •

When our D train finally arrived, it was crowded but not impossible, with Friday night energy pulsing through the car—the couple sloppily making out in front of us, the kids in basketball uniforms good-naturedly shoving each other in the aisle, the old woman with lavender hair smiling benevolently at everyone around her.

When we transferred to the F at Rockefeller Center, Eph flopped down in a seat across from me, eyes closed, his head leaning against the wall, which was fine because I didn’t much feel like continuing to try to elicit conversation when he was clearly being an a-hole. Oblivious to Eph’s Mr. Hyde mood, a small boy decked out in Yankees regalia plonked down next to him, his mom standing watch overhead, and after scoping Eph out, the little boy leaned back and closed his eyes too, mimicking Eph.

After no less than one stop he was sound asleep, his tiny crew cut resting against my Eph’s shoulder as if he’d always known him.

I swayed with the movement of the car on the tracks.

My parents fought. But their fights weren’t fights—more like tiffs or disagreements—small irritations discussed and bickered over until one or both of them got past it.

But Ellen . . . Ellen was shipwrecked. Like it was about so much more than George working late, like the very fate of her heart was at stake. And George’s frustration had boiled to the surface so quickly, so angrily, it scared me.

I couldn’t imagine seeing my parents fight like that and not talking to Eph about it. I talked to him about everything.

A mariachi band got on at the next stop, playing loudly, but the little boy’s mouth stayed open and he snored slightly. The kid’s mom smiled gently at me while a guy with a guitar plinked out “La Cucaracha.”

Finally, when we reached Fourteenth Street, the small boy leaning against Eph sat up and screeched, “Mom, I’m hungry!”

Eph startled awake and I stood, gathering my bag and grabbing Eph’s, too. Some Batman comics poked out from the top.

“Exactly how many did you bring to get autographed?” I asked.

He ignored me, grabbing the bag and saluting the little boy, and we headed up the station steps. Outside, kids were break-dancing on the sidewalk, a crowd watching and cheering, tourists filming it on their iPhones. I smelled charred meat from a halal vendor, wove around a drunken bachelorette party debating whether or not to get tattoos. The city’s weekend energy was creeping into my bones.

I was going on a date with Keats tomorrow! My first real date!

Eph must have felt the energy too, because as soon as we came aboveground, he seemed lighter, his parents’ fight behind