The Museum of Heartbreak - Meg Leder Page 0,67

comfortable.”

I rose, smoothed my skirt, and sat down next to him.

Without another word Keats leaned over and started to kiss me, slow and careful, starting at the exposed spot on the slope of my neck and moving up, until he kissed my eyebrows, the spot between them, the gold wishbone sitting against the pulse of my throat.

My fingers felt cold.

Keats moved to my lips and I kissed him back, returning to the familiar taste of his mouth.

His hands pushed my shoulders down, and I lay on the bed, and he was above me, kissing my collarbone, the hollow dip in my neck.

I raked my hands through his curls, the softness of them.

“Your hair smells good,” I said, and he was sliding my shirt up halfway, running a hand lightly across my belly, and I shivered, and he was leaning down and kissing my stomach, gently.

“Keats,” I said, and my skin was tingling awake, and I realized no one had touched my stomach like this before, it was new land that he was discovering, and he lifted my shirt higher.

I closed my eyes, letting him kiss me, letting go . . .

. . . and I saw:

Miles looking affectionately at Oscar.

Kieran’s confidence around Grace.

The three freckles across Eph’s nose . . .

My eyes shot open. I pushed out from under Keats.

“Do you want me to slow down?” He seemed so regretful that I wasn’t sure what to say.

He traced my clavicle, and goose bumps rose on my arms. I bit my lip.

No. I needed to be sure about this. This, this was a big deal.

I stood up, straightened my shirt down, smoothed my hair back into place. As I did, my eyes fell upon the picture of Keats and Emily, still sitting on his bedside table.

He saw me notice it.

“Crap, I knew that was going to make you mad,” he said, grabbing it and shoving it facedown in a drawer.

I frowned, pulled on my peacoat, looped my scarf around my neck.

Keats let out a weighty sigh. “Scout, c’mon . . .”

For the first time, the nickname was grating.

“No, I gotta go,” I said, leaving his room, a terrible sneaking suspicion dawning on me with every step that took me farther away from him.

I liked the idea of Keats.

But I wasn’t sure I actually liked Keats.

Silver necklace

Monile argentum

New York, New York

Cat. No. 201X-20

Gift of Ephraim O’Connor

THE EVENING OF MY DAD’S Willo event coincided with the first snow of the season—a much-too-early November snow, fat flakes sticking on shoulders and hair.

I walked up the front museum steps in my red cowboy boots, shivering and scratching my neck where the lace collar of my vintage green velvet sheath dress met my neck. I was sweating profusely, the armpits of the dress too tight, the velvet too warm. And I hadn’t really thought much about the red-boots-and-bright-green-dress combo until I was halfway there. I was going to be the big, sweaty Christmas weirdo in the room.

I followed the line of people trickling in the main entrance: men with suits, women with fur-collared coats, benefactors and socialites and science people all mingling together.

Entering the main hall, I felt about two degrees better and calmer, because there was the familiar giant blue whale hanging above me. And the entire room was magical, dimly lit with blue lights, the underside of the whale glowing luminescent, the square glass windows reflecting turquoise.

I thought about how when my dad had first started working here, he’d come home every evening singing that old Beatles song to himself, the one about an octopus’s garden. He’d pull me up and spin me around. “I work under the sea, darling daughter,” he’d say, and when my mom came in, he’d let go and pull her into a waltz, dipping her crazily, not stopping until she laughed so hard she cried.

I’d forgotten that about my parents.

I searched for them on the dance floor, but my dad was on the side, gesticulating excitedly to an older man, while my mom talked to the woman with him—benefactors, I was guessing.

“So, there you are.”

I spun around. Eph was standing behind me, being totally wrongly handsome—no, hot—in an old brown vintage suit, an indigo tie somehow working with the whole thing.

I nodded, feeling weirdly shy.

He self-consciously smiled. “Mom made me change out of jeans. I found this in my dad’s closet. I don’t think it’s what she had in mind when she said to borrow something from his closet. But if the suit fits . . .”

I scoffed at