I mean, we weren’t . . . together anymore. And anyway, you were posting pictures with the gangly French guy.”
I grit my teeth and start walking away, even angrier than before. I know that what Zaid said earlier is true. Maybe I should leave the past in the past and live in the now. I’m always reacting and never leading. It’s like all my choices have been taken away. In perpetuity.
Zaid jogs to catch up with me. “Hang on. I have to get my backpack.”
Begrudgingly I pause, and we continue the short walk to my apartment. My heart thuds in my ears, and I slap my soles against the pavement like a four-year-old having a tantrum. My thoughts are a mess of crossed lines and wrong connections and regrets—a loading wheel that keeps spinning. I’m not a tech genius, but even I know when you need to pull the plug and reboot.
I let Zaid into my apartment and step into the kitchen to put the flowers in a tall glass of water. I have no desire to search for a proper vase right now. I plop down on the sofa. Zaid’s standing in our little foyer, his backpack slung over his shoulder.
He turns toward me, but his gaze is on the floor. “Khayyam, look, I’m not sure what happened. I thought we were having a good time. I thought you were happy to see me.”
“Were you not listening?” I yell, then lower my voice, thinking about the neighbors. “I am glad to see you. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t also hurt. Those pictures on Instagram with Rekha . . . you make it all seem like a little innocent flirting. But you forget that I know you. It had to have been more.”
He rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “Fine. Okay. Yes. It was more than flirty pictures on Instagram, but you got on a plane to Paris, and I’m heading to Reed in a couple weeks. It felt like a goodbye, you know? Without all the unnecessary drama.”
I thought an admission from him would be like a hammer to my heart. It’s not. It’s more like lemon juice on a paper cut. It smarts, and I can feel the tiny sting behind my eyes. But I don’t cry. This moment is not fall-on-the-fainting-couch, weep-my-eyes-out, nineteenth-century-novel pain. It’s more melancholy . . . regret, maybe. And anger. I take a breath. Then another. I soften the sharp edge in my voice. “Why did you come here?”
“I wanted to see you and—”
“And all those pictures of me and Alexandre made you jealous.”
“That’s his name? Alexandre?” He slips the bag off his shoulder and joins me on the couch.
I nod.
“All this time you’ve been pissed about Rekha sitting in my lap, but you’ve been . . . what . . . making out with a French dude all over Paris?”
“No. That’s not how it was. I didn’t even meet Alexandre until after you’d ignored all my texts and were getting handsy with half of Hyde Park.”
“That’s not true or fair. Besides, you used that guy as some kind of revenge or something? That’s warped.”
Zaid calling out my hypocrisy in this situation infuriates me, and it’s hard to parse out who I’m most angry at—him or me.
“No . . . I . . . uh . . . I thought maybe the pictures would get your attention. And obviously, it worked because you flew to a different continent to . . . I don’t know . . . assuage your guilt!” I lower my voice almost to a whisper. “And you wore the CTA tee in that shot with Rekha.”
Zaid frowns down at the Brown Line ‘L’ T-shirt he’s also wearing right now, pulling at it between pinched fingers. Then raises his eyes and meets mine. “What does this stupid shirt have to do with it?”
“I got you that stupid shirt for our one-month anniversary. Because of our first date? While You Were Sleeping, remember? Kissing under the Brown Line ‘L’? Or did you bury that memory and leave it in the past, too?”
Zaid’s shoulders slump, and he runs his fingers