The Museum of Heartbreak - Meg Leder Page 0,44

looked away, studied the cracked edge of my mug.

“Got it,” he said. “A book editor. Because clearly you have a lot to say about how Kerouac could be better.”

“No, I promise, I’m going to give it another chance!”

“I’m teasing you. You’re cute when you blush.”

I blushed four times harder.

“So, what are you going to be when you grow up?” I asked.

He told me how, starting with his great-grandfather, all the men in his family had graduated from Yale—there was even a wing of a building named after his family—and that Beckett was currently paving the way for a spot for Keats in his fraternity. His parents wanted Keats to pursue finance; Keats wanted to apply to the fiction program.

“I think my dad will disown me if I don’t graduate with a job at Goldman Sachs in hand. But I have to follow my passion, you know?”

“Maybe you could do both?” I suggested.

“Do you think the fiction idea is lame?”

“No, not at all,” I said, hurriedly shaking my head. “I told you, I love words.”

“Emily thought it was a pretty pathetic excuse for a future degree.”

I leaned across the table, wanting to squeeze his hand but not sure if I could touch him yet. “I think it’s a really cool idea, and brave.”

“You do?” He looked hopefully at me, his eyes clear and vulnerable and open.

“I do. I think it’s pretty amazing.”

He nodded appreciatively, dimples betraying how pleased he was. “You wanna get out of here?”

“Sure, yeah.”

I watched him at the counter, asking for the bill. One plaid sock and one argyle sock peeked out between his jeans and beat-up Oxfords. He was so freaking cute it hurt a little.

When he came back, he handed me a Cafe Gitane matchbook, only it wasn’t full of matches—instead it was a tiny notebook.

On the first page someone had written Scout.

Yes!

A smile started breaking through the clouds, and I turned to the next page.

Your nose.

My hand flew to my nose, but he shook his head. “Keep reading.”

The way you bite your lip.

The next page.

The way you talk about words.

“The three things I like best about you,” he said.

I felt all blushy and kind of a little bit frantic, so I tried to slow down my heart and all the blood coursing through me.

“Come on,” he said, moving to the door. “Let’s bust this joint.”

As we passed the register, I grabbed another matchbook/notebook, sliding it in my pocket for Eph—he’d want to fill it with tiny dinosaurs.

Outside, it was a gray evening and chilly. We walked, not talking about which way to go first, and ended up strolling down Mott Street, the boutiques cozy and lit. We stopped in front of a building with a huge street-art mural on the side, a really cool black-and-white anatomical drawing of a rat.

“That’s kinda creepy, but awesome,” I said.

We studied it until Keats blurted out, “It’s cold.”

I took in his thin coat. “Why don’t guys ever dress warm enough? You must be freezing!”

Keats grinned and clasped my arm in the crook of his elbow. “You’re warm,” he said.

We walked into Little Italy that way, weaving among tourists braving the cold and crowding the sidewalk, strings of white lightbulbs swaying over the street, and I couldn’t imagine ever feeling cold again.

When we got to Canal Street, I beckoned him closer. “I have to show you something.” I pulled him past vendors selling foreign fruits and vegetables, men with garbage bags of designer knock-off purses, everyone’s breath starting to show in the chill. I turned and caught him watching me. I grinned. “Almost there,” I promised.

I found the small silver food cart on Baxter Street, steam coming from within, and dug in my purse for a dollar, then handed it to the woman working, who poured batter into a honeycombed skillet. Keats leaned into the warmth of the cart, leaned into the warmth of me, and I felt his closeness, his solidness. In one fluid motion the woman opened the skillet and dumped out small, perfectly formed cakes, scooped them into a wax bag, and handed them hot to me.

“Mini hotcakes,” I said, offering the bag to Keats. He tasted one.

“Oh man, you may have questionable taste in books, but that’s good.”

I teasingly elbowed him in the stomach, lightly, so I could feel him, and with one hand he gripped my elbow and squeezed it.

“How’d you find this place?” he asked, letting go and grabbing another hotcake, biting halfway through, the steam escaping.

“Eph showed me—his mom knew about it from