The Museum of Heartbreak - Meg Leder Page 0,80

same reasons.

I remember Keats’s hand moving through his dark curls and how I loved it so much; how he made me glow; how I don’t like that he cheated on me or that I fell out of love with him or maybe never really loved him at all, but how without him, there wouldn’t be a Museum of Heartbreak.

I think of my parents, how I get my worrying from my mom, my restless fidgeting from my dad, but how they love things like I do, dinosaurs and bird-watching and people—with their wholly, fully, marvelously ordinary love.

I remember Ellen crying, George ashamed, what they had, what remains.

And of course I think of you, Eph.

When we met, a tiny Superman putting his hand in mine, how you folded my fingers so gently around yours.

Watching your parents kiss, and later, your voice when you said you saw a real dinosaur, how we both wanted to believe it.

The red of the blood streaming down your face when I hit you, the ache of my knuckles for days after.

And our first kiss in the thrift shop, the freckles across your nose, salt water and mint, my lips meeting yours, the way our roots grow deep.

7:05, 7:10.

I don’t know what our future will bring, but I remember.

I’m nervous and my armpits are getting sweaty, and it’s 7:25, and I’m just starting to feel myself despair when you walk in, Eph.

You are stiff in the doorway, your hands shoved in your coat pockets, knit cap pulled down over your ears, your eyes taking in the room, the lights, the objects, what remains.

“Hey,” I say softly, trying to ease you in.

“What’s all this?” you ask, and I hear furious galaxies in your voice, the way broken things are crashing into each other.

“It’s for you.”

You don’t move forward, your chin jutted out.

“An old Kit Kat wrapper? Thanks for that, Pen.”

“No, it’s a museum. A museum of us, of what got us here.”

Your eyes narrow and your shoulders stiffen, but you step forward—one step, then another—cautiously taking in the other objects.

You stop in front of the note from Keats, the one asking me out. “Seriously?”

“Without it, we wouldn’t have kissed, at the thrift shop.”

You look up at me, your face unreadable.

“And this?”

“A pottery shard I got from Dead Horse Bay.”

You wait.

“It got me thinking about all these things that are broken or gone, but how new things come too. . . .”

You lift the dinosaur charm, and I see the memory of that night cross your face—the way your world ended.

“Eph, I’m sorry I hurt you. I’m so sorry. I need you to know how sorry I am. It’s just that what you said fucking terrified me.”

You study the charm, then look up, the hint of a smile forming.

“Language, Penelope,” you say.

I wave my hand, brushing it away, and step closer to you.

“The past week without you has been the worst ever. Since the night at the museum, my heart hurts—like it literally, physically feels terrible and achy and weird.”

You wince, kick the floor again. “I’m sorry I sprang all that on you. And I get why you don’t want to be with me, with Mia and Autumn . . . and with the way my dad is.”

I can see you pulling into yourself, your face starting to harden, your shoulders stiffening.

“No, that’s not true, not now. Please know that. You have to know that.”

I start to put my hand on your arm, but I stop halfway, not sure if I’ve earned it yet. “Eph, look at me. Look at me. You broke my heart that night.”

You scoff. “I broke your heart?”

I shake my head hurriedly. “Yeah, you did, a little. But so did Keats, and Audrey, and Grace and Miles and Oscar and May . . . and my parents and your parents . . .”

You wince.

“And I know I broke yours. And for that I am so, so sorry. But Eph, all that heartbreak? It got us here.”

“Where’s here?” you ask, and I see you when I met you, a small brown-eyed Superman, boldly showing me dinosaurs, telling me how the last one on earth lived in the museum, wandering the halls at night. But I also see you now, knit hat, bangs in your eyes, taller than me, handsome and familiar, kind and amazingly irritating all at once, and miraculously, cautiously, opening back up to me.

My heart beats underneath all these bones, and it is loud and awkward and real.

I walk over to you, get as close