The Museum of Heartbreak - Meg Leder Page 0,48

sighed.

“Five minutes?” I teased.

She blushed. “Yeah, I know. Miles is always making fun of us because Kieran’s and my drama is not dramatic at all. He calls it ‘dramatic minus the drama, which leaves ick.’ But my last ex was terrible, and that drama was seriously not good, so I’m fine with ick. It’s better than liking terrible guys and getting hurt.”

I bit my lip, thought of Audrey’s warnings about Keats.

“Besides, Miles has got a great guy right in front of him. Isn’t Oscar awesome?”

“That Miley Cyrus thing makes me laugh every time I think about it.”

“He’s so deadpan, it’s brilliant.”

Right then I spotted Eph at the entrance and waved, then realized he didn’t see me because all his attention was currently focused on some curvy girl with spiky punk rock black hair. She kept touching his elbow.

I rolled my eyes. What about the ethereal Mia? Was she not a big deal either?

Eph typed something into the girl’s phone—presumably his number—and she gave a coy wave good-bye. As soon as he turned his back to her, I saw her give a silent squeal and delighted little jump up and down with her friends.

Eph was smiling, pleased with himself, but when he saw me watching him, his shoulders tightened up and Serious Face won out. He walked toward us, skateboard under his arm, his knit cap making him seem even taller than normal. I tried to shove any lingering effects of the no-big-deal kiss down way deep inside.

When he reached us, he scanned my outfit. “You know, someday I’d like that sweatshirt back.”

The last time I saw him we had kissed, and this is what he had to say?

“Eph,” I said, resisting the urge to point out he was being a jerk, “this is my friend Grace.” Because she was my friend. I had a new friend. “Grace, this is Eph.”

“Ephraim,” he corrected.

I rolled my eyes, and Grace shook his hand.

“Rad shirt,” he said admiringly, checking out her Hüsker Dü tee, and then, like some scene from some terrible frat movie, his eyes lingered obviously on her chest a beat too long.

Grace’s face turned scarlet. I elbowed him in the gut, hard.

“Ow.” He shot me a nasty look and I ignored him, pulling Grace with me down the first aisle.

“So how do you guys know each other?” he asked, poking his face over my shoulder.

“Nevermore,” Grace said. I guessed the tone of her voice was the one she used when she was trying to pretend everything was all right. Ugh, Eph.

“What’s that?” Eph asked.

“The literary journal—remember, I told you about that,” I said, trying to regain my balance, our balance.

“No you didn’t.”

“Um, yeah, I did, remember? I was thinking you should send some of the dinosaurs to the journal for consideration.” I turned to Grace. “You guys publish lots of cool art, right?”

“We do,” Grace started, when Eph interrupted her.

“When did you tell me this? Was it in the middle of you talking about how Watchmen is just like Hamlet? Because sorry, Pen . . .” He pretended to yawn.

My bottom right eyelid began twitching. “I told you about it on the way to that vintage shop. Or was that”—I made finger quotes—“ ‘not a big fucking deal’ either?”

He flinched, and I felt momentarily victorious.

“Language, Penelope,” he said, bouncing back smugly, and I scowled.

“I just want good things for you, Eph. I thought people should see your art.”

“If I wanted people to see my art, I’d show people my art.”

Grace glanced between us. “So yeah, I’m going to check out these books.” She practically ran across the aisle.

Eph whistled under his breath, watching her. “She. Is. Hot.”

“What is wrong with you?”

“Uhhh, nothing?” He took off his cap and ran his hands through his hair.

The kiss sat between us like a particularly ugly hangnail. I knew picking at it would make the situation worse—a hangnail so red and sore your finger hurt more than it should for longer than it should—but I couldn’t stop.

I crossed my arms. “Nothing? Really?”

“ ‘Nothing? Really?’ ” he echoed.

My top left eyelid started twitching along with the bottom right. Great.

“So we’re not going to talk about what happened on Friday?”

“What happened on Friday?” he asked casually, and my blood reached its boiling point.

“You kissed me!” My words came out sputtery and jagged, incredulous, clearing space around us with the volume. The bearded man standing behind the booth we were at chuckled, presumably at me, and I wondered if “accidentally” knocking over his table of button trays would get me arrested.

“You