your caravan if my lord agrees to allow me—us—passage beyond Pasha’s lands.”
“And if your treachery is discovered?”
“A sack of stones as a shroud. Water my grave. But fear not for your own life. An English nobleman would not fall at the hand of Pasha. Indeed, perfidy is almost expected of Europeans.”
“Perhaps as it should be.” The poet chuckles. “You are truly a singular woman. By my troth, I am at your service.”
“Thank you, my lord. A thousand thanks.”
He kisses my hand again. “What a tale I will have to tell. An elegy offered to me on a damask rose–scented night. The dream of a poet, come to life.”
Khayyam
When I got home yesterday afternoon, after researching at Alexandre’s house—and by research, I mean kissing, the kind of kissing that put a swoony, if temporary, halt on looking through archives—I posted more pictures on Instagram. Macarons and artfully angled Paris shots and me and Alexandre amidst piles of books in his library. He and his library are Insta-perfect. They also might be insta-solving a lot of my problems. And are prime Zaid clickbait—if only he would fall for it.
I kind of feel like I should tell Alexandre about Zaid. I can hear my mom’s voice right now: Honesty is the best policy, beta. But it’s also absurdly complicated. I already told Alexandre about my art history prize essay fail; does he also need to know about my love life fail and about how he is, unwittingly, charmingly, maybe, helping me fix both? Sigh. I want something to be simple and easy, even if it means I have to deny reality—or push it to the sidelines for now.
But messy and complex is how my life usually is. I reach for my phone, and on cue, I see a missed message. I may have deleted Zaid’s number, but I still recognize it. He texted at 3 a.m. Paris time: Miss you
Of course he texted when I was asleep. He knows the time difference. But still. I check Instagram and see that he liked a selfie of me making a kissy face in front of the Stravinsky Fountain at Pompidou with the giant red lips sticking out of the water in the background. He didn’t like the pics I posted with Alexandre at the secret garden or in his library, but now he knows the truth: another boy exists. My heart leaps.
Et voilà, I’m suddenly back in Zaid’s viewfinder. Competition in absentia. The distance. Paris. Alexandre’s undeniable, factual hotness. It all adds to the challenge. Zaid seems chill, but in class he’s super competitive. Like, he wouldn’t even share notes with other kids. He wasn’t valedictorian, but close, and I know it burned him when his B in English lit cost him the top spot.
Zaid likes the chase. Right now, I’m the quarry that’s out of reach.
I don’t know why I didn’t realize this sooner about Zaid. If I had . . . honestly . . . I don’t know what I would’ve done differently. I’m still attracted to him. And at the same time, I want to clobber myself for being a dunce. Ugh. I want him to want me and miss me.
I was never good at playing hard to get. I hate stupid games. But maybe sometimes they’re necessary. Didn’t I say the art of French flirting is knowing what to conceal? Maybe being back in Paris actually is upping my dating game.
The thing is, I want Alexandre to want me, too. There’s a fluttery feeling in my stomach, and I can’t figure out if it’s good or not. I pause. The flutters turn into queasiness. I run my fingers over my lips. I can still feel Alexandre’s kiss against them. I’m seeing him later this afternoon. And I want that, too. None of this makes sense, exactly, but I’m not sure how to ignore everything I desire.
I turn my phone over. I need to text Zaid back. But if I want to keep up that fa?ade of hard-to-get, aloof but alluring French girl, I can’t. But how do I make that me if it’s not? Fake it till I make it, American style? I think of what Julie would say to me if she saw me pining away: Get