The Museum of Heartbreak by Meg Leder

my hand, the one Keats had held, stretched my fingers, fully expecting it to be glowing with leftover moonlight.
    â€œThat’s okay. I was actually with Keats,” I said, trying to keep my voice calm, but really wanting to stand up and sing it, the hills being alive with the sound of music and whatnot. My sticky doughnut fingers were not exactly helping with the vision, but still.
    Audrey stopped, mouth halfway open.
    â€œYou were with Keats?”
    My beaming smile spoke for itself.
    She put her half-eaten jelly doughnut back on her plate and started tugging on a front lock of hair. “I didn’t know you knew him all that well.”
    â€œI didn’t. Until last night. But, Aud, it was amazing. He’s amazing. He loves all these awesome books and gave me one to read. The moon was shining in his room and it was only the two of us. And at one point . . .” I chewed my lip.
    â€œPlease tell me you guys didn’t hook up,” Audrey said.
    I looked at her, surprised. “No, but he held my hand. It was so romantic. I think Delphine has found her—”
    She buried her head in her hands. “No, no, no, this is not happening.”
    I frowned. “What does that mean?”
    She tapped the table and spoke slowly, as if trying hard to choose the right words. “Pen, I don’t know if Keats is the best guy for you.”
    â€œWait. What? Why?”
    She rubbed her hands against her forehead, like she was trying to work away a migraine. “It’s, how do I put this . . . Cherisse and Keats . . .”
    Relief flooded through me. “Oh, it’s okay! Keats doesn’t like Cherisse like that; he told me. So it’s all good. He even gave me a book—”
    â€œNo, it’s just they’ve got a really complicated history.”
    â€œSo? It’s history—in the past.” I tried to smile.
    Audrey let go of her hair, rested both palms on the table, and took in a deep breath. “Pen, you liking Keats isn’t like having a crush on some character from a book or lusting over some random from a distance. Trust me: He’s not Prince Charming. Listen . . .”
    Without knowing why, my body braced itself, like it does when you get on the Cyclone roller coaster at Coney Island, trying to minimize the bruising and shaking before the ride kicks into action.
    â€œI’m really happy you finally like a real person, but Keats isn’t a good one.”
    A real person?
    At that moment everything around me got really still, except for my heart thud-thud-thudding in my ears. My vision tunneled inward, the edges black. I realized that something terrible had unfurled. That mere seconds ago I had lived in a world where I didn’t know Audrey could hurt me. That now I lived in a world where I did.
    â€œListen, I can’t go into the details because she swore me to secrecy, but he really messed up Cherisse. He lies and he’s manipulative and acts down on himself so other people will build him up, making you feel like crap in the process . . .” She reached her arm across the table and squeezed my still hand. “I don’t want you to misinterpret anything and get hurt.”
    I physically recoiled, yanking my hand out of her grasp. “You think I’m so pathetic that I can’t tell if someone likes me?”
    She straightened, dismayed. “No, that’s not what I meant.”
    â€œYou’re happy I finally like a real person ?” My voice broke at the end.
    Her face was awake now, alarmed.
    â€œOf course that’s not what I meant!”
    â€œYou think I’m pathetic,” I half said to myself, processing the words.
    I grabbed the bag, shoved my half-eaten doughnut in, and stood up. “I need to go.” My voice was shaky, not brave.
    â€œWait, Pen, let’s talk about this.” Her voice was desperate, pleading.
    â€œI need to go,” I