met. Or any guy, for that matter. Zaid knew that instinctively. Kissing in front of parents would’ve been too disrespectful, too lacking in tameez.
My parents burst into the apartment laughing.
They stop abruptly when they see us.
This is it.
The moment my parents meet Alexandre and when the parts of my life I’d kept separate start to cross and tangle.
Yes, they know about Alexandre. They know about Dumas and my search for the raven-haired lady because I told them. Alexandre knows that I bombed on that Art Institute essay. But each knows things the other doesn’t. And I want to keep it that way. I’m one hundred percent not ready to tell Alexandre about Zaid. And there’s no way I’m telling my parents what Alexandre and I actually did tonight. I need time to stop. I need this meeting to happen when I’m ready. Which is not now. Too many variables and too many ways for this to blow up in my face. At least I’m the only one who knows the real reason I’m posting to Instagram. But that’s not even the worst of it. What if my parents say something about how lucky I was to meet Alexandre for the sake of my research? What if he thinks that’s the only reason I’m hanging out with him? What if my parents blurt out something about Zaid? I’ve been utterly careless. Twice in one night.
I jump up, thinking I can avert the disaster that is about to play out in my living room. Instead, I hit my shin against the table. I right myself before falling. But this is going to bruise. I shake my head. Typical. I try to prevent a painful situation, but instead, I induce it.
Alexandre pops up from the couch, and my parents step over, converging on me as I rub my shin.
“Are you okay, beta?” Mom asks. She nods at Alexandre with a smile. My dad grins. Ugh. Too many knowing looks.
“Uh, yeah. That table is a hazard,” I say with an uneasy chuckle. “But um, anyway: Mom, Papa, this is Alexandre.”
He steps forward to kiss my mom on both cheeks and shakes my dad’s hand. My parents have these wide, goofy grins on their faces, and it’s mortifying.
“Um, Alexandre was actually heading out,” I say, taking him by the elbow.
“Beta, where are your manners?” my mom scolds. “Alexandre, would you like to join us for some tea?”
“He can’t. He has to get home,” I say.
My mom raises an eyebrow at me. “I believe he also speaks.”
Alexandre chuckles. “That is kind of you, but Khayyam is right, I must be on my way.”
I’ll have to thank him later for following my lead. I could imagine Zaid in this same situation being utterly amused, and lingering. He loves lingering at the most embarrassing times. From the twinkle in his eye, I think Alexandre is finding this moment pretty funny, too.
But my parents don’t step aside and bid him adieu. Of course they don’t.
“Alexandre,” my dad begins in French, “Khayyam tells us you are a descendant of Alexandre Dumas. Fascinating.”
My mom jumps in, also switching to French. “And Khayyam tells us you are in pursuit of a raven-haired woman mentioned in a letter—”
“Yes. We are searching for a lady with raven tresses who Delacroix and Dumas mention in correspondence about the Club de Hashischins.”
“And perhaps more? It would certainly be an incredible find. I’m sure you’ll be sharing credit for any noteworthy discoveries with our daughter. Planning on authoring any papers?” Yup, my mom went there, because it’s never too early to warn your daughter’s date about intellectual property theft.
This can’t end soon enough.
Alexandre seems taken aback. “Absolutely. I hadn’t considered . . . Of course I will. We will. Khayyam is as much a part of this as I am.”
“Good,” my mom says with a smile. “I’m sure she’s told you we’re professors.”
God. This is the Hyde Park academic version of meeting a gentleman caller on the porch with a shotgun. I position myself behind Alexandre, shooting daggers with my eyes at