The Museum of Heartbreak - Meg Leder Page 0,4

run of the Buffy comics,” he said.

He was right over my shoulder—I smelled the Doritos and the sweaty-guy stink and, underneath, the other parts of Eph: mint, fresh-cut grass, the ocean.

He needed to apologize.

“I think maybe one of the actors is involved too? And get this: The guy at the comic-book store said he heard a rumor that they’re finally bringing back Marcy, the invisible girl. Awesome, yeah?”

I resisted the urge to point out that while Marcy was fine, they should have been bringing back the witch Tara. Now that would have been awesome.

Eph continued to talk while I waited to cross Sixty-Ninth, watching a curly-haired woman talking to a bald man, her small black-and-white dog eagerly running circles around his giant gray Muppety one, making me dizzy. Ford would have stood for absolutely zero percent of any of that.

“. . . and I’m thinking that now is maybe when they’ll finally end the Angel and Buffy crap once and forever.”

WHAT?

Eph knew how I felt about Buffy and Angel’s cosmic destiny, how they were meant to be. He was 110 percent picking a fight.

I bit my tongue, forced my gaze forward, refused to be baited, and watched the dogs run into the park.

“Because Angel? The worst. Mr. Existential Crisis. I’m glad she shoved him into the fucking Hellmouth. Now, Spike? He’s her real friend. That’s who Buffy should be boning.”

I whirled around to shoot Eph the stink eye. He kicked the skateboard to his hand, and I could tell he was being all purposefully tall, looking down at me with the sun shining behind him so it was right in my eyes and making me feel like I needed to squint.

I refused to grant him the satisfaction.

My index finger was pointy against his ribs. “Buffy shoved Angel into the Hellmouth to save the world. And don’t be vulgar. It’s frakking.”

He stood one foot on his board again, rolling it back and forth. “She wouldn’t have had to save the world if he hadn’t turned all evil, thanks to her sleeping with him.”

His figure was dark in front of me, and the sun spots floating all around him made me dizzy. He was ruining my afternoon. “Stop slut-shaming Buffy,” I said, pushing against his chest for emphasis.

I pushed harder than I planned.

With a look of surprise on his face, he toppled backward, the board shooting out from under his foot, and crashed hard on the sidewalk, his elbows slamming against the concrete, his half-zipped backpack spilling open.

“Eph!”

I dropped to my knees and leaned forward, too anxious to touch him in case something was broken.

“I’m so sorry,” I said under my breath, mentally counting the three freckles across the bridge of his nose, his Orion’s belt, scanning his arms and legs for anything that seemed jagged and broken, counting his freckles again, the bridge of his nose crooked from when I punched him in fourth grade for lifting up my skirt on the playground.

What if he’d broken something?

“Are you okay? I didn’t mean to push that hard, I . . . I’m sorry.”

His eyelashes fluttered, like he was dreaming, but the rest of him was dead still.

What if he had a concussion?

“Eph . . .”

He slowly opened one eye; the other one stayed scrunched, shut tight.

“Pen,” he whispered. “Do you . . .”

I leaned closer, so I could hear him.

“Do you admit you’re wrong about Buffy’s one true love now?”

Wait. WHAT? I straightened as he opened both eyes and pulled himself up, examined his elbows (both skinned), and smiled his infuriating cocky smile.

A few of the onlookers (because we had onlookers plural now, as if the whole thing weren’t embarrassing enough) started clapping, while a short, dowdy, disapproving woman murmured loudly to her friend, “She pushed him.”

Right then a super-tall, thin, strawberry-blond-haired, willowy girl, who probably had traveled on a unicorn straight from some mystical elven city to this particular moment, kneeled down next to Eph, handing him his skateboard like she was paying tribute to some king, and I barfed a little in my mouth.

“Are you okay?” she asked; even her high cheekbones were all concerned. “I’m Mia.”

“Ephraim,” he replied. “And I am now.”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” I muttered.

She smiled, all eyelash batting and lip puckering, and I felt my hackles rise in protest, full of self-righteous indignation. She was hitting on him right in front of me. What if Eph and I were together? Was that so hard to imagine? I was of dateable age, wasn’t carrying around a stuffed