The Museum of Heartbreak - Meg Leder Page 0,43

to seem riveted.

“We’re going to try to do it this summer. Beckett is researching the closest thing we can get to renting a ’forty-nine Hudson, so we can have the whole experience. . . .” He stopped, studying me.

“What?” I asked, my face flushing.

“You know, you’re pretty cute when you bite your lip like that.”

I melted, fields of white flowers unfurling like waves.

“So where’d you grow up?” he asked.

“Here. Well, mostly here. We lived in Ohio till I was six, and then we moved for my dad’s job at the museum.”

“Big change.”

“Yeah, but as soon as I met Eph, I wasn’t homesick anymore. It helped to have a friend.”

“Eph, is he that tall guy with the brown hair you hang out with, the artist guy?”

I was surprised he had registered all that. “Yeah, he’s one of my best friends and I’ve known him and his family for like forever, but we’re just friends, you know? He’s an old family friend. We don’t date or anything—I mean, not that you asked . . .” Last night flashed through my mind and I felt a faint pang of guilt, but Eph had said it himself: It wasn’t a big deal. Chill, Penelope.

Keats ripped open a raw sugar packet and poured it in his coffee. “Actually, I was going to ask,” he said.

“That’s funny,” I said, feeling brave. “A few people told me you and Cherisse have a history—”

“Old family friend,” he interrupted without missing a beat, and his smile was teasing.

“Fair enough,” I said.

“Enough of her.”

Fine by me, I thought, warmth filling my stomach. Keats wanted to be with me; he picked me. It was a miracle, this feeling of being chosen.

As the afternoon light faded, we talked and talked. And ordered two more hot chocolates and one more coffee (decaf this time).

Keats told me his first real concert was the National, which was so cool I couldn’t stand it. It took ten minutes of prodding afterward for me to finally admit mine was Selena Gomez.

I liked the way he used his hands when he talked about something he loved—college football, Cormac McCarthy books, the movie Clerks, Arcade Fire.

He said he was addicted to Red Hots, had to order them online because they were hard to find, showed me a half-empty box in his coat pocket, close to the chest like a pack of cigarettes. No wonder he always smelled like cinnamon.

He told me the Washington Square Park brownstone where his family used to live was haunted, and when he was eight, his mom insisted they move because the ghost was hurting her chakras. Up until last month and thanks to Beckett’s influence, he had covertly smoked a cigarette every morning and every night, along with an occasional joint, but he had finally decided to quit.

I told him how I thought John Hughes was a genius and that he needed to watch The Breakfast Club stat, that “Fake Plastic Trees” was the saddest song in the entire world, that I hated the Flaming Lips. I said that the best place I had ever been was Costa Rica, on a trip with my parents, that I had seen a tiny poison tree frog there that was so exquisite, it made me cry, but that if I could, I would live in a mews in London, a place with flower boxes in the windows.

I told him the three things I liked best about myself: my handwriting, my eyelashes, and my ability to stand on one foot for extended periods of time.

We segued mysteriously into NYC pizza, and whether Di Fara’s was worth the wait.

Me: Yes, a thousand times yes.

Keats: Overrated.

Keats leaned forward when I talked, his eyes focused on me, and I pulled out details of myself to show him. I liked how he asked for more.

“So, Scout, what are you going to be when you grow up?”

I shrugged. “Well, there’s biology, but I don’t really love it. I mean, I’m good at it, I know that.”

Keats raised his eyebrows.

“That sounded braggy, I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, you only brag about your handwriting and eyelashes and balance, I get it. Keep going.”

“Hey!” I said, feeling like the best, most flirty version of myself. He grinned. “I don’t care a ton about science. I mean, it’s fine and all . . .” My voice trailed off.

“What do you care about?”

Besides you? I wanted to say.

“Words. I really, really like words.”

He stroked his chin, sizing me up, and the silent focus embarrassed me, so I