The Museum of Heartbreak (16 page)

We all stood there awkwardly, George focusing intently on his tea, Annabeth still smiling but now humming an anxious tune under her breath.

“So, I have to go,” I said, holding up my wristwatch, even though I still had at least ten minutes to burn.

George seemed relieved. “Good to see you, Penelope.”

“Yeah, you too. And nice to meet you, Annabeth.”

She nodded, her lips pursed in a tight smile, and I walked as quickly out of the store as I could without actually running. Halfway down the sidewalk, curiosity got the better of me, and I backed up and peeked through the window.

George and Annabeth were exactly where I had left them. His back was to the window, but I saw Annabeth, and she was
not
happy—her face red and scowling, her hands gesturing furiously as she mouthed something.

I've always been crap at lip reading, and I was worried Annabeth would see me spying from outside, so I pulled back. But whatever she was saying, I was pretty sure it was angry and very sure I shouldn't have seen it.

I headed to the coffee shop, my new-old red cowboy boots clicking on the sidewalk, feeling queasy about what I'd witnessed. I stopped outside the shoe store next to Cafe Gitane and studied the boots in the window, wondering if I should text Eph or call him and tell him what I saw or make sure everything was okay with his parents.

But I thought about last night, and everything Eph-related switched back to weird mode in my mind, so I decided to shelve the whole thing, at least for now. Keats—it was time for Keats.

•  •  •

Cafe Gitane was dim and warm, with cozy blue-and-orange decor, and I felt like I was in Paris, or at least how I'd always imagined Paris to be. Audrey would love this place. The restaurant was tiny, so I saw Keats right away, sitting at a table, his curls even dreamier in the light and his dimples making me feel a little giddy. He was engrossed in a book, his chin propped up on his hand, his brow furrowed. Adorable.

“Hey, Keats.”

He looked up from his book, smiled at me appraisingly, and stood, giving me a kiss on the cheek. His lips were chapped. “Hey, Scout. Cool boots.”

“Thanks.” I sat down, blushing, embarrassed at how much the nickname thrilled me. “Good book?” I leaned over to see the cover of what he was reading.
Fight Club
by Chuck Palahniuk. “Ah.”

“Have you read it?”

“No, but I saw the movie with my friend Eph. He went through a period of being totally obsessed with it. I'm sure the book is better, though, yeah?”

“I've read it three times already. . . . I can lend you this copy when I'm done.”

“Oh, thanks!” I said, entirely pleased by the assumption of future interaction on Keats's part.

“But you can't be mad at me if you don't like it.”

“Never.”

The waitress came over, bedecked in a cute little jumper, and Keats grinned all dimply at her, and the awesomeness of the previous minute evaporated. I wished my hair were chic and angular like the waitress's and that I had a pierced nose. But I reminded myself that Keats was with me, and instead of feeling bad that my hair wasn't that chic, maybe I should chill. Maybe the waitress admired me for being with Keats.

“More coffee,” Keats said, handing the waitress his mug.

“A hot chocolate with skim milk, please. No whipped cream,” I said.

Keats raised his eyebrows at me, smiling. “Doesn't that defeat the purpose of hot chocolate? Skim milk and no whipped cream? You're leaving out the best parts.”

“But this way you can taste more of the chocolate,” I said.

“Ahh, I didn't know I was going out with a hot-chocolate connoisseur.”

“I have a PhD in hot chocolate.” I felt a flush of pride that my banter wasn't completely terrible.

“How's Kerouac going?”

Crap.

I chewed on my lip.

His face fell. “Shit, you totally hate it.”

“I'm not that far in,” I said, trying to reassure him.

“You can tell me the truth.”

I debated what to say. So far, it seemed like Sal and Dean were the human equivalent of those red-butt monkeys at the zoo—all chest-beating and gross. Nothing much happened in the first few chapters. And I was certain that if he were alive now, Jack Kerouac
would be the type of dude-bro who would spread his legs so wide on the subway he'd infringe upon the legroom of the two adjacent seats.

“It's just that the guys are wankers, and I don't understand how anyone could like the book and not be a wanker—no wait, I didn't mean that. Oh, shoot . . .”

He looked stricken.

“I'm sorry, I didn't mean
you
were a wanker. Not at all. You're like the exact diametric opposite of wanker. Like a winker? Is that a thing? Like someone who gives nice winks or something? You're a really good winker. Oh, I'm so sorry,” I ended weakly.

His shoulders relaxed a little. “No! Don't be sorry. It's me—it's just my ex, Emily . . .”

“The one in the picture in your room?”

He gave a rueful smile. “She always told me I made her read stupid things. She could be really cruel.”

“That stinks,” I said carefully, as the waitress returned, putting a mug down for each of us. Mine had a paw print on top, carefully created with powdered chocolate. When I took a sip, I burned my tongue.

“So please tell me you're at least reading something half-decent if you're not reading
On the Road 
?”

“Well, I'm always reading and rereading Jane Austen. And I've been making my way slowly through
Watchmen
when I'm in the mood for something else,” I said.

He furrowed his brow.

“You know, the graphic novel I was reading that day we met?”

“Oh, the comic book.”

“Well, it's not exactly a comic book,” I started to say, but he talked over me.

“When you get further into Kerouac, it's going to blow your mind. My older brother, Beckett, and I have been trying to figure out how to do our own Kerouac road trip ever since we read it last year.”

I stirred my hot chocolate and tried to seem riveted.

“We're going to try to do it this summer. Beckett is researching the closest thing we can get to renting a 'forty-nine Hudson, so we can have the whole experience. . . .” He stopped, studying me.

“What?” I asked, my face flushing.

“You know, you're pretty cute when you bite your lip like that.”

I melted, fields of white flowers unfurling like waves.

“So where'd you grow up?” he asked.

“Here. Well, mostly here. We lived in Ohio till I was six, and then we moved for my dad's job at the museum.”

“Big change.”

“Yeah, but as soon as I met Eph, I wasn't homesick anymore. It helped to have a friend.”

“Eph, is he that tall guy with the brown hair you hang out with, the artist guy?”

I was surprised he had registered all that. “Yeah, he's one of my best friends and I've known him and his family for like forever, but we're just friends, you know? He's an old family friend. We don't date or anything—I mean, not that you asked . . .” Last night flashed through my mind and I felt a faint pang of guilt, but Eph had said it himself: It wasn't a big deal.
Chill, Penelope.

Keats ripped open a raw sugar packet and poured it in his coffee. “Actually, I was going to ask,” he said.

“That's funny,” I said, feeling brave. “A few people told me you and Cherisse have a history—”

“Old family friend,” he interrupted without missing a beat, and his smile was teasing.

“Fair enough,” I said.

“Enough of her.”

Fine by me,
I thought, warmth filling my stomach. Keats wanted to be with me; he picked me. It was a miracle, this feeling of being chosen.

As the afternoon light faded, we talked and talked. And ordered two more hot chocolates and one more coffee (decaf this time).

Keats told me his first real concert was the National, which was so cool I couldn't stand it. It took ten minutes of prodding afterward for me to finally admit mine was Selena Gomez.

I liked the way he used his hands when he talked about something he loved—college football, Cormac McCarthy books, the movie
Clerks
, Arcade Fire.

He said he was addicted to Red Hots, had to order them online because they were hard to find, showed me a half-empty box in his coat pocket, close to the chest like a pack of cigarettes. No wonder he always smelled like cinnamon.

He told me the Washington Square Park brownstone where his family used to live was haunted, and when he was eight, his mom insisted they move because the ghost was hurting her chakras. Up until last month and thanks to Beckett's influence, he had covertly smoked a cigarette every morning and every night, along with an occasional joint, but he had finally decided to quit.

I told him how I thought John Hughes was a genius and that he needed to watch
The Breakfast Club
stat, that “Fake Plastic Trees” was the saddest song in the entire world, that I hated the Flaming Lips. I said that the best place I had ever been was Costa Rica, on a trip with my parents, that I had seen a tiny poison tree frog there that was so exquisite, it made me cry, but that if I could, I would live in a mews in London, a place with flower boxes in the windows.

I told him the three things I liked best about myself: my handwriting, my eyelashes, and my ability to stand on one foot for extended periods of time.

We segued mysteriously into NYC pizza, and whether Di Fara's was worth the wait.

Me: Yes, a thousand times yes.

Keats: Overrated.

Keats leaned forward when I talked, his eyes focused on me, and I pulled out details of myself to show him. I liked how he asked for more.

“So, Scout, what are you going to be when you grow up?”

I shrugged. “Well, there's biology, but I don't really love it. I mean, I'm good at it, I know that.”

Keats raised his eyebrows.

“That sounded braggy, I didn't mean it like that.”

“No, you only brag about your handwriting and eyelashes and balance, I get it. Keep going.”

“Hey!” I said, feeling like the best, most flirty version of myself. He grinned. “I don't care a ton about science. I mean, it's fine and all . . .” My voice trailed off.

“What do you care about?”

Besides you?
I wanted to say.

“Words. I really, really like words.”

He stroked his chin, sizing me up, and the silent focus embarrassed me, so I looked away, studied the cracked edge of my mug.

“Got it,” he said. “A book editor. Because clearly you have a lot to say about how Kerouac could be better.”

“No, I promise, I'm going to give it another chance!”

“I'm teasing you. You're cute when you blush.”

I blushed four times harder.

“So, what are you going to be when you grow up?” I asked.

He told me how, starting with his great-grandfather, all the men in his family had graduated from Yale—there was even a wing of a building named after his family—and that Beckett was currently paving the way for a spot for Keats in his fraternity. His parents wanted Keats to pursue finance; Keats wanted to apply to the fiction program.

“I think my dad will disown me if I don't graduate with a job at Goldman Sachs in hand. But I have to follow my passion, you know?”

“Maybe you could do both?” I suggested.

“Do you think the fiction idea is lame?”

“No, not at all,” I said, hurriedly shaking my head. “I told you, I love words.”

“Emily thought it was a pretty pathetic excuse for a future degree.”

I leaned across the table, wanting to squeeze his hand but not sure if I could touch him yet. “I think it's a really cool idea, and brave.”

“You do?” He looked hopefully at me, his eyes clear and vulnerable and open.

“I do. I think it's pretty amazing.”

He nodded appreciatively, dimples betraying how pleased he was. “You wanna get out of here?”

“Sure, yeah.”

I watched him at the counter, asking for the bill. One plaid sock and one argyle sock peeked out between his jeans and beat-up Oxfords. He was so freaking cute it hurt a little.

When he came back, he handed me a Cafe Gitane matchbook, only it wasn't full of matches—instead it was a tiny notebook.

On the first page someone had written
Scout
.

Yes!

A smile started breaking through the clouds, and I turned to the next page.

Your nose.

My hand flew to my nose, but he shook his head. “Keep reading.”

The way you bite your lip.

The next page.

The way you talk about words.

“The three things I like best about you,” he said.

I felt all blushy and kind of a little bit frantic, so I tried to slow down my heart and all the blood coursing through me.

“Come on,” he said, moving to the door. “Let's bust this joint.”

As we passed the register, I grabbed another matchbook/notebook, sliding it in my pocket for Eph—he'd want to fill it with tiny dinosaurs.

Outside, it was a gray evening and chilly. We walked, not talking about which way to go first, and ended up strolling down Mott Street, the boutiques cozy and lit. We stopped in front of a
building with a huge street-art mural on the side, a really cool black-and-white anatomical drawing of a rat.

“That's kinda creepy, but awesome,” I said.

We studied it until Keats blurted out, “It's cold.”

I took in his thin coat. “Why don't guys ever dress warm enough? You must be freezing!”

Keats grinned and clasped my arm in the crook of his elbow. “You're warm,” he said.