The Museum of Heartbreak - Meg Leder Page 0,66

my mom abruptly stood up.

“How about cake?” she asked. “Theodore, come over here and help me with the candles.”

“Sorry,” I said under my breath to Keats. “When he gets going, it’s hard to stop him.”

“I thought we’d be in there forever,” he said.

And it was weird then, because even though mere seconds ago I wanted to clobber my dad to get him to stop talking about Willo, I didn’t want Keats to agree with me. I wanted him to tell me my dad was cool.

Because he was.

He was my dad. Sure, he wasn’t old-time movie-star suave, and he was crap at picking up conversational cues, but when he talked about what he loved, his eyes glowed with pure magic. And I loved that about him.

I thought about saying something, but my parents dimmed the lights and began singing the opening bars of “Happy Birthday.” There were seventeen candles glowing above my favorite type of cake, the one I’d had for every birthday that I could remember: boxed Funfetti mix with strawberry icing.

My parents sang, and Keats smiled, resting a hand on my knee.

His palm felt like five hundred tons.

When it came time to blow out the candles, I felt strangely empty, like I didn’t have any breath left in me to make a wish, or any wish left in me to breathe. I thought about Eph’s dinosaur drawing, the one in the thrift store, about things changing, and about how a year ago I wouldn’t have been able to imagine celebrating my birthday with a handsome boyfriend.

And without Eph.

I didn’t make a wish.

Keats declined a piece of cake. “Artificial coloring,” he said, shrugging apologetically.

“Your loss,” my dad said, cutting himself an extra-big piece.

Soon after, my parents retired to the living room, and Keats and I sat quietly in the kitchen as I finished my cake.

From his pocket he pulled out the small wrapped box. “Here,” he said, pushing it my way.

“Keats, you didn’t have to—”

“I wanted to,” he said. “Happy birthday, Scout.”

The present was tiny and exquisitely wrapped.

“Nice job with this,” I said, trying to conjure up the girl I was a year ago, the one who would have given her left arm to have a curly-haired boy give her a beautiful little wrapped gift on her birthday.

“Clerk at the store,” he said, smiling, and I automatically smiled back.

I opened the box. Nestled on a deep blue velvet cushion was a tiny gold wishbone charm on a gold necklace.

My first thought was, I hate gold.

My second was, This was expensive.

And then, This is not me at all.

“Wow,” I said, pulling it out.

“Here, let me put it on you.” He swept my hair out of the way and, without asking, took off my subway-token chain, which I had rescued from my purse after the launch party. He handed it to me, putting the new necklace around my neck.

I studied the subway token in my palm, the chain kinked, the coin tarnished, as his fingers fumbled with the tiny clasp, his warm breath against my skin.

“There,” Keats said. “You’re gorgeous, Scout.”

No one had ever called me gorgeous before.

I slid my subway token in my pocket and fiddled with the tiny wishbone, sliding it back and forth on the chain.

It was my seventeenth birthday, and not only had I finally been kissed, I finally had what should have been my fairy tale, my John Hughes, everything-turns-out-awesome romance.

Only I wasn’t sure I wanted it anymore.

• • •

The next day, after school ended, we took the subway to West Fourth and then walked to his brownstone.

I thought about the last time I was there, his First of October party, and how that night was perfect.

“Anyone home?” Keats called as he unlocked the door, and when no one answered, he took my hand and I followed him, the old wooden stairs creaking slightly. When we got to his room, I dropped my bag on his floor and put my coat and scarf on his desk chair. Sitting on his bed felt too forward, so I slid down next to it and stretched my legs in front of me, leaning my head back against the side.

He clicked on his computer, and the Flaming Lips started filtering through the room like a subtle headache, one that won’t leave.

I told him I hated this band.

Keats sat on the edge of his bed and patted the spot next to him. “C’mere.”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said. “It’s just more