Mad, Bad & Dangerous to Know - Samira Ahmed Page 0,71
it. Okay?” I can feel my anger rising, and I take a breath before I explode. “You of all people should know how important that contest was to me. How hard I worked. And I’m not wallowing in my failure, by the way. I’m fixing my own problems. I’ve discovered a new angle. It’s about this mysterious woman who might be a connection between Dumas and Delacroix. And I probably should’ve—”
Zaid cuts me off. “Shoulda, coulda, woulda. I get it, Khayyam. You know I’m still pissed for missing out on being valedictorian. But I try not to live my life with regrets. Maybe you should do the same. Leave the past in the past. Don’t dwell on it. Live for the now. Carpe diem, baby.” He gives me a warm smile and puts his arms around my shoulders, like I’m the perfect prop for the Zaid show.
I’m too stunned to speak. Zaid has a lot of skills. Recognizing irony isn’t one of them. We continue walking down the street, a beautiful bouquet in my hand, people passing us by probably thinking we’re what we look like, a young couple on a romantic stroll. But the face of things isn’t always what they are. Because right now, Zaid and I might be walking with hands clasped, but there’s a chasm a universe wide between us, and it’s filled with my rage. For myself. For Leila. For every woman who’s been told to stop acting crazy, to calm down. For every woman who had to step back from center stage because she was told the spotlight wasn’t for her.
“You should check into your hotel,” I say. “Please don’t tell me your grandparents got you a room at Le Meurice.” We haven’t talked about his sleeping arrangements, but even if my parents are out of town, he knows he could never stay at our place. I’d never offer anyway, especially not now.
A shadow of disappointment passes over Zaid’s eyes before he answers.
“That’s cool. I can grab a nap before we get dinner. And for your information, I’m not staying at a fancy five-star hotel. I wanted to be close to you, so I got a room at a little hotel in the Marais—the Beauchamp. It’s a few blocks over that bridge . . . Pont Marie, I think.” He tucks his hands into his pockets. “I left my bag at your place, though.”
We head home. My pace is brisk. I don’t speak. I don’t look at him. The air between us is heavy with confusion and all the words we’re not saying. I’ve been gripping the flowers so tightly, the tissue paper wrapped around the stems is crinkled and damp with sweat.
After an excruciating silence, Zaid finally speaks, trying to fill the awkwardness with conversation, telling me what he wants to see and do in Paris in the next few days. He’s acting like the last hour never happened. Like we’ve rewound time, like it’s before our pseudo-goodbye and before him making cameos all over Instagram and before me trying to make him jealous with pictures of Alexandre. Before Alexandre, period.
We’re halfway across Pont Marie when I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. He smiles and tries to touch my cheek, but I turn my head away. “Aren’t you going to say anything about the pictures?”
“What pictures?” Confusion passes over his face.
He can’t be this oblivious, can he? “The pictures on Instagram of you with every other girl at Lab sitting on your lap.”
Zaid’s mouth hangs open for a second. “Are you serious? That was nothing. I mean, literally, nothing. Lucien had a party, and Rekha and I were hamming it up for stupid selfies.”
“She wasn’t the only one.”
“C’mon, babe. I don’t want to fight,” he says and tries to take my free hand. I pull it away and ball it into a fist at my side. I can feel my temperature rise like I’m a cartoon thermometer and the red mercury is about to burst out of the glass.
I turn away and start running home. God, I’m such an idiot. Zaid runs after me, calling my name. He catches up with me across the street.
“Khayyam, listen, I’m sorry. Okay? I didn’t know it would bother you.