Miracle at the Museum of Broken Hearts

Chapter Eleven

My time at the Museum of Broken Hearts, surrounded by dozens of objects with sad histories, was bound to burst my romantic bubble a bit. But it was more than that. Seeing Heath with his mum had made me start to wonder if sometimes, people couldn’t – or even shouldn’t – be brought back together, for a variety of reasons. Not everything deserved a happy ending, and perhaps my relationship with Gareth was one of them.

I breathed in the cold air, noticing tiny flakes falling from the dark sky.

‘Goodbye, Gareth.’ As I turned to go, an overwhelming feeling of relief swept through me, and I knew beyond a doubt I’d made the right decision. I hadn’t actually wanted Gareth back; I’d just wanted a fairy-tale conclusion.

‘Wait. Rose, wait!’ Gareth’s footsteps echoed in the street. Hurriedly, I pushed into the museum, relishing the noise and warmth of the crowd.

‘Rose.’ Gareth’s voice followed me inside. ‘Rose!’

The crowd went silent and I could see the reporter from The Star inching his way closer. I was going to kill Gareth if he made a scene here. He hadn’t talked to me in months, and now he’d decided we belonged together? Mel was probably right – Gareth had seen me as a free ride, and he was desperate to keep it going.

Taking a deep breath, I turned to face my ex. Funny, even though he’d been gone for almost a year, I’d never thought of him in past tense.

‘Gareth, please go.’ My voice was calm and steady, and I met his eyes. They looked panicked, moving back and forth quickly across my face.

Gareth shook his head. ‘No. No, I won’t go. Because . . . because I want you, Rose. I need you. We belong together.’

‘You might need me to pay your bills, but you certainly didn’t need me enough to get in touch much over the past year.’

A murmur went up from the crowd, but I held Gareth’s gaze.

‘What, I have to prove how much I want you? Well then, I will.’ He sank down to one knee as I watched incredulously. Sure he wouldn’t—

‘Rose Delaney, will you marry me?’

The hum from the audience grew louder, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the spectacle of Gareth kneeling before me. What on earth was he doing? Well, whatever he was playing at, it wasn’t going to work. All the over-the-top gestures in the world couldn’t make up for the heartache and loneliness of the past year. How could I take him seriously when he’d pushed off with no goodbye, then barely even scrawled a postcard?

‘Gareth, get up.’ I sighed, shifting uncomfortably under the eyes of everyone around me.

Gareth shook his head again. ‘No, I’m not moving from this spot. Not until you agree to marry me. We’ll have a Christmas wedding. Tie the knot under the mistletoe.’

Oh, Lord. A few months ago, that very vision would have floored me. Now – coming from him – it just seemed ridiculous. A wave of exhaustion swept over me as all the early mornings, late nights, and anxiety of the recent past caught up with me.

‘Fine. You stay here. I’m going.’ And with that, I turned on my glittery pumps. The crowd parted to let me through, and I thudded up the stairs to Heath’s office, closing the door and leaning against it, trying to breathe. A few minutes later, the buzz below resumed, and I tiptoed over to the chair behind Heath’s desk and collapsed into it, tears pushing at my eyes. Bloody Gareth, turning up like that and making a scene. I’d worked so hard to make this opening professional and polished, and he had to pull a stunt like that.

There was a knock on the door, then Heath’s muffled voice came through the thick wood. ‘Can I come in?’

I smoothed my hair into place and quickly wiped beneath my eyes. If he’d come to fire me, I might as well get it over with. Not that I could blame him: first, I’d meddled with his personal life. Then, I’d caused a scene at the museum’s most important event. I was hardly the ideal assistant curator, was I? Maybe I should have stuck with Ernie the Skull. At least I couldn’t mess up his life.  ‘Sure. Come on in.’

The door opened and Heath’s head appeared around the side. ‘Everything okay?’

I laughed bitterly. ‘Well, no. Not exactly. You saw what happened?’ Maybe there was a chance he’d missed the spectacle. Maybe he’d been in the cellar . . . in the kitchen . . .

Heath nodded, and my heart sank. ‘It was kind of hard not to. You’re the talk of the party down there.’

‘Oh, God.’ I dropped my head into my hands. ‘Look, I understand if you want to let me go,’ I said through my fingers.

‘Let you go? Why would I want to do that?’ The floorboards creaked, and I lifted my hands from my face to see Heath standing right next to me. ‘I should be thanking you. You’ve given the media a perfect story. It’s not just another boring opening, like the hundreds of others they’ve been to this year. One reporter told me he was calling his article Broken-Hearted in the Museum of Broken Hearts. Your man has been down there doing interviews and photo shoots, too.’ Heath’s disdainful tone told me exactly what he thought of that.

I shook my head. Gareth had bounced back awfully quickly, hadn’t he? He’d probably have a new girlfriend to sponge off of next week. ‘He’s not “my man”,’ I said. ‘Not anymore, and not for ages. I’m so sorry, Heath.’

Heath put a hand on my back, and I shivered beneath its warmth. ‘Look, don’t worry about it.’

The room went silent and I rubbed my arms to try to erase the goose bumps that had appeared.

‘Are you cold?’ Heath shrugged off his jacket, then draped it around my shoulders. His wonderful cookie scent enveloped me and I breathed it in, my stomach doing that funny shifty thing again.

‘Thank you,’ I said, noticing my voice sounded more high-pitched than usual. I drew the fabric around me, then glanced up. Heath was staring down, his dark eyes full of that tender emotion I’d only glimpsed briefly before.

‘I’m glad to hear you say that bloke isn’t your man,’ he said, eyes still locked on mine. ‘Because . . .’

Before I knew it, Heath’s lips were on mine and his arms had snaked around my waist, pulling me to my feet and up against him. And I realised in a heartbeat that this was what I wanted. No grand gestures – just a man, pure and simple, who I cared for.

And who cared for me, too.