The Museum of Heartbreak - Meg Leder Page 0,42
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Cafe Gitane was dim and warm, with cozy blue-and-orange decor, and I felt like I was in Paris, or at least how I’d always imagined Paris to be. Audrey would love this place. The restaurant was tiny, so I saw Keats right away, sitting at a table, his curls even dreamier in the light and his dimples making me feel a little giddy. He was engrossed in a book, his chin propped up on his hand, his brow furrowed. Adorable.
“Hey, Keats.”
He looked up from his book, smiled at me appraisingly, and stood, giving me a kiss on the cheek. His lips were chapped. “Hey, Scout. Cool boots.”
“Thanks.” I sat down, blushing, embarrassed at how much the nickname thrilled me. “Good book?” I leaned over to see the cover of what he was reading. Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk. “Ah.”
“Have you read it?”
“No, but I saw the movie with my friend Eph. He went through a period of being totally obsessed with it. I’m sure the book is better, though, yeah?”
“I’ve read it three times already. . . . I can lend you this copy when I’m done.”
“Oh, thanks!” I said, entirely pleased by the assumption of future interaction on Keats’s part.
“But you can’t be mad at me if you don’t like it.”
“Never.”
The waitress came over, bedecked in a cute little jumper, and Keats grinned all dimply at her, and the awesomeness of the previous minute evaporated. I wished my hair were chic and angular like the waitress’s and that I had a pierced nose. But I reminded myself that Keats was with me, and instead of feeling bad that my hair wasn’t that chic, maybe I should chill. Maybe the waitress admired me for being with Keats.
“More coffee,” Keats said, handing the waitress his mug.
“A hot chocolate with skim milk, please. No whipped cream,” I said.
Keats raised his eyebrows at me, smiling. “Doesn’t that defeat the purpose of hot chocolate? Skim milk and no whipped cream? You’re leaving out the best parts.”
“But this way you can taste more of the chocolate,” I said.
“Ahh, I didn’t know I was going out with a hot-chocolate connoisseur.”
“I have a PhD in hot chocolate.” I felt a flush of pride that my banter wasn’t completely terrible.
“How’s Kerouac going?”
Crap.
I chewed on my lip.
His face fell. “Shit, you totally hate it.”
“I’m not that far in,” I said, trying to reassure him.
“You can tell me the truth.”
I debated what to say. So far, it seemed like Sal and Dean were the human equivalent of those red-butt monkeys at the zoo—all chest-beating and gross. Nothing much happened in the first few chapters. And I was certain that if he were alive now, Jack Kerouac would be the type of dude-bro who would spread his legs so wide on the subway he’d infringe upon the legroom of the two adjacent seats.
“It’s just that the guys are wankers, and I don’t understand how anyone could like the book and not be a wanker—no wait, I didn’t mean that. Oh, shoot . . .”
He looked stricken.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean you were a wanker. Not at all. You’re like the exact diametric opposite of wanker. Like a winker? Is that a thing? Like someone who gives nice winks or something? You’re a really good winker. Oh, I’m so sorry,” I ended weakly.
His shoulders relaxed a little. “No! Don’t be sorry. It’s me—it’s just my ex, Emily . . .”
“The one in the picture in your room?”
He gave a rueful smile. “She always told me I made her read stupid things. She could be really cruel.”
“That stinks,” I said carefully, as the waitress returned, putting a mug down for each of us. Mine had a paw print on top, carefully created with powdered chocolate. When I took a sip, I burned my tongue.
“So please tell me you’re at least reading something half-decent if you’re not reading On the Road ?”
“Well, I’m always reading and rereading Jane Austen. And I’ve been making my way slowly through Watchmen when I’m in the mood for something else,” I said.
He furrowed his brow.
“You know, the graphic novel I was reading that day we met?”
“Oh, the comic book.”
“Well, it’s not exactly a comic book,” I started to say, but he talked over me.
“When you get further into Kerouac, it’s going to blow your mind. My older brother, Beckett, and I have been trying to figure out how to do our own Kerouac road trip ever since we read it last year.”
I stirred my hot chocolate and tried