Mad, Bad & Dangerous to Know - Samira Ahmed Page 0,69

afforded. But he has über privilege. Finance money privilege. The kind of money that may not be able to pay for a brand-new building at the school, but definitely a classroom or wing. To be fair, Zaid’s parents are pretty good about not being showy, and their politics lean left—far left—and they donate to all the right causes. I mean, we live in Hyde Park—Obama’s old neighborhood. (The dry cleaner he used to frequent still proudly displays a sign declaring: dry cleaning home of the 44th president.) And if you’re an ostentatious, conservative prick, people call you out on it. Zaid’s family, they’re gauche caviar, as my dad says. In the American vernacular, limousine liberals.

At first I pull my hand away. But his laughter and warm smiles tug at my heart, so I let him pull me closer. This banter, this space between us, it’s easy and comforting. It’s home. He puts an arm around my shoulders and draws me closer, closing the last inches between us. I lean into him.

Zaid kisses me on top of my head. “I’m sorry. I’m an idiot.”

“I know,” I say.

Leila

It’s not what they say it’s like. Death. There is no soft, beckoning light. Or feeling of peace. There is nothing but me screaming and every fiber of my body burning and ripping apart and a whooshing in my ears that is loud. So loud.

And the water, everywhere, all at once. It does not rise up slowly from my feet and ankles, but swallows me whole as I sink below the surface. I force my eyes open so I can meet Death with courage, but in front of me is only water and this burlap shroud that will hold my body until I’m devoured by sea creatures, until my bones are worn smooth and eventually become grains of sand that wash to the shore. In the end, I’m not brave. I’m nothing but writhing and failed attempts to wiggle out of the ropes that bind my hands and feet. You cannot fly with stones resting on your wings.

I pray, not for help, but forgiveness. Will my spirit ascend to jannah? Will Allah forgive me my trespasses? God knows there have been many.

My throat closes, and my organs press outward against my body. Every part of me struggles to escape these earthly bindings. This sack, these ropes, these waves, this body.

This fate.

My mind—is it my mind?—shrieks, panics.

This cannot be my last moment.

In this life where I controlled nothing, where cruel circumstance fixed my fate, I will, at the last, take this moment for myself alone. I close my eyes and see my beloved’s face, feel his cheek against mine. Then a single image rises like a benediction. A rose against my lips. His rose. A damask rose–scented night that descends into darkness.

Khayyam

My sense of ease with Zaid fades, too quickly overtaken by nerves, so I rush us outside. I’m not worried that I’ll do something I shouldn’t but rather that I’ll say something I’ll regret. I have so many questions, but I don’t think I’m ready for the answers. Even now with everything that’s happened, I know Zaid can talk his way out of anything, and I’m too easily swayed by his charm and my own sense of nostalgia and longing for any comfort that feels like home.

I steer clear of the Latin Quarter, the entire Left Bank, in fact. That’s Alexandre’s side of the city. I might have resolved to text him, see him even, but not like this. I steer Zaid toward the Right Bank. And for now, I’m going to ignore that I live on an island in the river between the two halves of the city. My brain will explode from the symbolism if I think about it too much.

Fresh air and sunshine are the best cures for Zaid’s jet lag and for my fear of too much truth before I’m ready. For now, I show him my favorite places, like Rue Montorgueil—a narrow and cobblestoned street bursting with life at all hours. Shops and cafés and their customers spill out onto the sidewalk, pushing pedestrians to walk on the road, making it nearly impassable by car and all the more pleasant. We quickly fall into step with old routines—comfortable side by side without unnecessary words.