"So," Gail said dryly, "is there any reason in particular you dragged me to the museum today?"
It was a bright and sunny Sunday afternoon, and neither of them had any plans. A perfect afternoon to lay about on the couch and do nothing, as far as Gail was concerned. And yet, somehow, she found herself walking around a small, independent art gallery in one of the converted buildings in the heart of the Distillery District.
One phone call from Holly asking if she had plans, and Gail was at the mercy of the dark-haired doctor. It wasn't the first time she'd found herself saying "yes" to one of Holly's proposed outings—first the batting cages, then some documentary on the plight of inner-city education. Just last week the police officer found herself at a retirement party for one of Holly's fellow, or former-fellow, doctors at the morgue.
And now this. An installation modeled after the weirdly-popular "Museum of Broken Relationships" somewhere over in Europe.
Somehow, somehow in some way that Gail didn't even understand herself, she'd agreed to accompany her friend to Toronto's very own exhibit, the "Museum of Broken Hearts."
Gail assumed the slight difference in the name was to avoid any accusations of copying the real deal.
"Come on, Officer Peck," Holly said as she looked over a corkboard full of greeting cards—some handmade, some Hallmark. She gently opened one of them, a simple white card with silver trim that proclaimed "A Happy New Year to the One I Love" on the outside, and skimmed over the message someone had once written straight from the heart, that someone else had once kept and treasured and likely read over and over again.
"It's kind of interesting, isn't it," the brunette continued, "the things people keep. The things that meant something to them?"
Gail rolled her eyes behind Holly's back and moved over to the collection of ticket stubs someone curated and arranged in little plastic binder inserts. Not by date, or by genre. Not by location or art form. But by color, so that flipping through the book was a little like standing before a wall of paint chips at the store, eyes moving over them, unseeing, until just the right one grabbed your attention.
"It's lame," Gail said, fingers running over one of the plastic pages, imagination filling in the blanks of what went wrong in The Merchant of Venice's relationship, wondering whether it was a first date or a last, or somewhere in-between. Why this date, this play, this stub was so important to keep. And then too important to throw away, to discard once the relationship went sour. "It's a dump, Hol, it's stuff that people should have thrown away but didn't."
Holly just hmmm'd and moved into the next room, where racks of clothes hung on hangers, and rows of shoes were lined up against the walls.
"So, you've never kept anything after a relationship ended, Gail," Holly asked from behind a grouping of hooded sweatshirts, running her hands along the sleeves and setting them swaying gently on the rack. "There's nothing you'd submit here, no mementos of a broken heart, a relationship gone bad?"
Gail huffed and kicked at a pair of ski boots, toppling one over onto the other.
"What, and you have, nerd," she asked back, her tone defensive. "Do you have a box of all the poor lady hearts you've conquered over the years? A collection of ticket stubs, or underwear? Or, ooooh, I know, blood samples. Like Dexter, but with lesbians instead of serial killers."
Holly's laugh echoed off the concrete floor. "You're ridiculous," she said, walking past a collage of torn pictures pasted onto the wall. "But seriously, Peck, I refuse to believe you've never kept anything from a relationship. You talk big, but I know you. What is it, what would you contribute to the exhibit?"
The blonde was silent for a few seconds, and Holly wondered if she'd misstepped, if she'd made a critical error with this still new, somewhat skittish friend.
"What would you bring," Gail asked, breaking the quiet. Her voice was just the slightest bit different than a moment ago, a note of uncertainty hidden in her tone.
But Holly knew better than to point it out.
"What symbol of a former relationship would I contribute," Holly said aloud, giving herself a moment to think. "Well, as much as I like your blood sample idea—and watch out, I'm totally stealing that idea for future relationship mementos—I tend to get rid of unnecessary clutter, including things from old relationships. The only things I've saved after breaking up with someone were things like a rug that we bought together or other items like that."
"Lame," Gail whispered under her breath, and cast a smirk over into the brunette's direction.
"But one time a girlfriend gave me a ficus for our anniversary," Holly continued, "and I couldn't throw that away. It was perfectly healthy. I've been waiting for it to die for years—I only barely water it—but it just keeps living, no matter what I do."
"Wait," Gail said, "that plant in your bathroom, the one that's almost taller than I am? That thing? That was a gift from an ex-girlfriend?"
Holly nodded. "That's what I'd bring to the museum," she finished, "and good riddance."
For a moment, they were both silent. But then Gail started to laugh, and Holly joined in a moment later.
"And you," the doctor asked as they walked through the final room of the exhibit, "anything?"
Gail paused in front of a wall filled with pieces of jewelry—necklaces, rings, bracelets, earrings. Different styles, men's and women's and other's that could belong to either gender.
"Dog tags," she said, not looking at her companion, "Nick's dog tags."
Holly didn't say anything. There wasn't anything to say. She knew the story, knew all of it. One night over shots of tequila and a marathon of The Real World, Gail had spilled it, Nick's betrayal, hers.
And honestly, it had felt good. Good to say it, good to confide in Holly, to trust in her.
So no, Holly didn't need to say anything.
She understood.
They finished the exhibit and walked over to a little bistro for some lunch, neither willing to part company yet. Not yet.
Later that evening, Gail stuck her hand into the pocket of her leather jacket for her keys and pulled out a slip of paper, a ticket stub just the shade of blue the sky had been that afternoon, clear and refreshing. She held it in her hands, turned it over and read the name of the exhibit on the front, The Museum of Broken Hearts, and ran her fingers over the perforations on the edge.
She held it for a moment, just looking at it, and then she pulled out her wallet, and without asking herself why she was doing it, without thinking about it, slipped the stub in-between her license and her insurance cards.
"Just in case," she said, and then put her wallet back, "just in case."