The Museum of Heartbreak by Meg Leder Read Free Book Online Page B

date (a deep pink peony).
    For the rest of the afternoon I tried to pretend everything was normal.
    But after I waved good-bye, I rounded the corner where they couldn’t see me and slumped against a building, relief rushing through me, my toes uncurling, my fists unfurling.
    The feeling was terrifying.
    I had never felt so out of sync with Eph and Audrey.
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    For the new few days, I worked on convincing myself that missing out on the festival wasn’t a big deal, that our disastrous Chipotle interaction had been a hiccup.
    I wasn’t very persuasive.
    Instead I became 100 percent absolutely positively convinced that the Fall Festival was a harbinger of doom, my friends were ditching me, and I would be alone for the rest of my life.
    It didn’t help that eleven chemistry classes after our initial meeting on the first day of school, there had been no discernibleprogress regarding my crush on Keats. There had been no lab partner assignments, no random encounters in the hallways, no meet-cutes outside a coffee shop.
    In fact, one could argue (if one were feeling really contrary and down on oneself) that I had actually made negative progress with Keats. On Wednesday of the second week, there had been a potential half wave sent my way, and my heart started to burst out in song, but when I waved back (too fast, too eagerly, too everything ), I saw that the dude in front of me was returning a subtle cool-guy wave to Keats and realized that the initial greeting had not been for me after all, so I tried to make it seem like my wave was only a stop on the path to running my hand through my hair, that that had been my intention all along . But then my oversize amber flower ring snagged in my hair, so I had to run to the bathroom with my hand on top of my head to untangle it.
    Insert definition of “hopeless.”
    By the time Saturday, the day of the Fall Festival, rolled around, I felt lower than the rats that live in the subway tracks and eat garbage. I trudged into the kitchen wearing sweats, yesterday’s mascara smeared under my eyes, my hair flat in the back but aggressively bushy in the front.
    Dad lowered the New York Times , scanning my attire.
    â€œRough morning, darling daughter? Or maybe I should say afternoon?”
    I looked at the clock—it was almost noon.
    â€œI’m fine,” I said, the prickliness in my voice an unfortunate giveaway that I was anything but.
    â€œWell, if you want to talk—”
    â€œI don’t.”
    â€œHmm. The darling daughter is distinctly lacking in darling today.” He chuckled to himself.
    I rolled my eyes, wishing at least for the five billionth time that there was a moratorium on dad humor on the weekends.
    â€œYour mother was looking for you, by the way.”
    I wanted to point out that our apartment in the brownstone was only so big, that there were only so many places to look, but I bit my tongue instead.
    Boy oh boy, was I was feeling ugly on the inside.
    To cheer myself up, I pulled out my favorite glass—the one with the illustration of the boy holding his nose underwater—filled it up with skim milk, and added chocolate powder.
    Sitting down next to my dad, listening to him hum along with classical music, I decided I needed to change my frequency. Sure, I wasn’t going on a date with Keats or anyone else, and sure, I didn’t have people to go with me to the Fall Festival. But I had a delicious glass of chocolate milk and a full Saturday afternoon ahead of me in one of the best cities in the world. Maybe I’d go to the Met and read by the pool at the Temple of Dendur. Or perhaps I’d pick up a sandwich at Chelsea Market and read on the High Line. Who needed boyfriends? Who needed friends? I had New York City and the e-book of the Complete Works of Jane Austen at my fingertips. What more could a girl want?
    â€œPen! There you are.” My mom stood in the doorway holding her