The Museum of Heartbreak - Meg Leder Page 0,49
kissed me back,” Eph said nonchalantly, picking up a particularly hideous red plastic miniature Santa, bringing it to the bearded man.
“Two dollars,” the guy said.
Eph pulled out his wallet, the chain clipped to his dark jeans, handed the guy two singles, stood the Santa up on his palm, and offered it to me.
“I don’t want that. Why in the world would you give me that?”
“It’s cool?”
“Good luck,” the bearded man said meaningfully to Eph, and Eph gave him a look that said Right? and everything in my vision went red and spotted.
I swatted at the Santa, and it tumbled to the ground, plastic clattering on the blacktop.
“Hey!” Eph said, bending down to pick it up.
“That kiss was a big deal for me!”
“Whoa, killer. You’re the one who said it was weird.”
“No I didn’t!”
“Uh, yeah, you did.”
I decided to pretend that hadn’t happened.
I folded my arms across my chest. “And then you invite yourself to the Flea, sauntering in like you’re the best thing since sliced bread”—he lifted his eyebrows at the lame insult, and I internally cringed but kept barreling forward—“and you’re flirting with every single female in a ten-mile radius, sleazy old-school Captain Kirk–style . . .”
An amused snort.
“. . . and then you ogle my new friend Grace and you don’t even ask me how my date with Keats went and instead you buy me that.” I pointed distastefully at the Santa.
“Trust me: At this point I’m sorry I bought you anything,” Eph said dismissively.
“I don’t think I want to hang out with you right now,” I finished.
“Um, yeah. The feeling is mutual.” He leaned over, stuck the Santa in my purse’s outer pocket, so its head was peeking out. “Tell Grace I said ‘later.’ ”
I watched him angle through the crowd, knit cap a head above most of the people there, until I couldn’t see him anymore.
The subway token lay under my shirt against my skin, a witness, so I pulled it out and off, dropping it in my bag, and shoving that Santa monstrosity in deeper so his stupid red face—why was his face red?—couldn’t watch me.
When I found Grace, she was poring over a beautiful old book with intricate fairy-tale illustrations.
“Where’d Eph go?” she asked.
“We’re not getting along.”
“I sort of noticed.”
“I’m sorry. He’s not usually like that. I’m not usually like that. I don’t know what’s up with us.”
Liar.
She nudged me and held up a book, a big smile on her face. “Have you read Anne of Green Gables?”
“About eight times,” I said.
And we both said, “Gilbert Blythe!”
“Oh my God, I was so in love with him,” Grace said. “Maybe you should make Keats read it, to balance the book equality?”
I laughed.
“So,” she started, as she picked up a pink paperback of Valley of the Dolls, “can I be totally nosy and ask if you guys kissed?”
Birds stopped mid-sky.
Horns stopped mid-honk.
A baby stopped mid-cry.
I thought of Eph bending closer, his eyelashes fluttering, the taste of his lips.
Wait.
Grace meant Keats.
Grace asked me if I kissed Keats.
The world resumed moving—people talking, a baby screaming, a pigeon pecking for crumbs at the edge of the sidewalk, a car driving by blaring the Rolling Stones.
Of course. Duh. Chill. Making everything too hard yet again.
But then, a sinking feeling.
“No, we didn’t kiss. Is that bad?”
“Nah. It took Kieran and me eight whole dates to even touch lips. When it finally happened, I was so freaked out. Things with my last boyfriend were really fast, but with Kieran, I didn’t want to rush it.”
“Really?” I asked.
Grace shrugged. “Yeah, I know it’s weird . . .”
“No, no, it’s not that at all.” I wanted to tell her that knowing her made the night sky feel, if not crowded, at least a little less lonely—my star shining a little brighter with the company.
“Let’s go get something to eat,” I said instead. “My treat.”
That afternoon, when I got home from the Flea, waiting for my parents to get ready for the movie, I thought about throwing the Santa away.
But some impulse in me couldn’t go that far, so instead I crammed it in the back of a dresser drawer, behind all my sweaters where I couldn’t see it.
Handwritten list
Tabulae manu scriptae
Helvetica Cafe
New York, New York
Cat. No. 201X-15
THE NEXT MORNING AT SCHOOL, I was walking to my locker, when someone squeezed my elbow, and a thrill ran electric through me.
“Hey, Scout,” Keats said, and I marveled again at the reality of him wanting to be with me. My heart pulsed in my chest, like it was