The Museum of Heartbreak - Meg Leder Page 0,38

for tomorrow?”

My bottom left eyelid starting twitching, the energy from my leg needing another outlet. “Let’s go to Forbidden Planet. Tomorrow’s not a big deal anyway.”

“Huh,” he said, a little surprised. He kicked the sidewalk for a second before turning decisively, like he knew exactly where he was going to go.

“Forbidden Planet is that way,” I called.

“I know.”

“We’re not going to get to the talk in time.”

“I know.”

I was tired of myself. I wanted to be the kind of person who didn’t freak out when she was going to a party, who didn’t want to vomit when she saw a guy she liked at school, who was able to find the perfect first-date outfit without having an anxiety attack.

If I didn’t move now, I’d lose Eph in the crowd. I thought about the way Keats had handed me the note, the way I’d seen his hair curl on the nape of his neck, and I sighed, jogging to catch up.

Eph was moving ahead of me like he was on a mission, beat-up boots kicking stray leaves along the sidewalk. I bet he was cold again. I sped up to match his long strides, and out of the corner of my eye I saw him slowing down to match my shorter steps, and after a few seconds we found an even rhythm.

The thrift store we entered was regular and unglamorous and old. No hipsters or hipster music here, only an old lady with a cart full of sweaters, some elevator music, weird bluish industrial lighting, and a musty rest-home smell.

I followed Eph as he browsed a section of old T-shirts and pointed out a few, in his words, “dope” ties.

We ended up in the shoe section, weaving around a tall drag queen who was admiring a pair of silver leather knee-high boots.

“Sweet,” Eph said. “Kind of old-school Star Trek.”

“Thanks, darling, that’s what I think,” she said, taking the boots and heading toward the counter.

The bench in the middle of the aisle was calling my name, so I sat cross-legged on it, watched him scan the rows of worn shoes.

Eph grabbed a pair of old green-and-yellow neon Nikes, checked the size, frowned, and assessed my feet.

“No. Absolutely not. Stranger foot sweat,” I said.

He pointed at a pair of battered combat boots splattered with paint, and I shook my head.

“Too clunky.” I paused. “Eph, why aren’t we at Forbidden Planet?”

“You need something for tomorrow. That last place sucked.” He held up a pair of bright orange stilettos with marabou puffs at the vinyl base.

“I don’t think I’m going to go tomorrow.” As soon as I said the words, the anxious questions buzzing around in my chest disappeared, leaving behind stillness. And maybe a little disappointment.

He put the shoes back on the shelf. “What? That’s fucking ridiculous.”

“I was thinking more about it. Maybe Audrey’s right,” I said. “I couldn’t even go to that party without freaking out. Every time I think of Keats, my heart gets all fast and my hands get all clammy, but not in a good way. There’s something wrong with me. I should be over the moon. And I am, but . . .”

Eph wordlessly held out a pair of cherry-red cowboy boots that were scuffed at the tips, the outside parts of the heels worn down to an angle.

I automatically untied my high-tops, kicking them off, sliding one boot over a rainbow sock, then the other, continuing. “I mean, what do I do if he kisses me and I mess it up and he laughs at me? I’m almost seventeen and I can’t even find an outfit for a date without freaking out.”

“If he laughs at you, he’s an asshole,” Eph said.

“But . . . ,” I said, exhaustion with my own anxiety making my voice crack. I buried my head in my palms, rubbing my eyes with my hands so hard I saw stars.

The bench shifted as Eph sat next to me.

“Pen?”

“Yeah?” I mumbled.

“Will you look at me?”

“No.”

“Will you at least look at the boots?”

I spread my fingers and opened one eye, then the other.

The boots were, in a word, magnificent: beat-up but still bright, the fit so perfect it was like the previous owner had been me in an earlier life. I stood, walked up the aisle and back, testing the feel of them on me.

The boots reminded me of a picture book my parents had read to me when I was little—a book about a mouse with red cowboy boots and a purple purse. I adored