even notice me. His army-green backpack leans against the wall. Those caramel bangs conceal his face as he looks down at his screen. I panic, half-thinking I should run back down the stairs before he sees me—but too late. He glances up, and a huge smile takes over his face. He yanks out his earbuds and stands, holding out a crumpled, oil-spotted brown paper bag.
He smirks. “I got Ice Capades.” Then he shifts his weight awkwardly from one foot to the other and adds, “Actually, they’re garbage cookies. Your favorite, right?”
I freeze. Glued in place. Staring at him staring at me. Each of us in anticipation that one of us will say something else. All my words are lost. I take the last couple steps so we’re both on the landing, face-to-face. I remind myself to breathe. In and out. He lowers the bag of cookies to his side and takes a step forward, closing the distance between us. He kisses me on the cheek. I don’t move. I can’t move.
For a second it feels like he might lean in to kiss me on the lips. I have to admit, I almost lean in, too. It feels natural to kiss him, like it’s muscle memory. An echo of home. But I don’t let myself fall into that old habit.
Zaid steps back, and we smile sheepishly at each other, like seventh graders at a dance when a slow song comes on, and they’re not sure if the person they like likes them back.
I shove my phone in my bag and fish out my keys. “How . . . how did you get here?” I sputter, breaking the silence.
He grins. “On a plane.”
“Here, on my doorstep.” I’m a little terse because I’m not in the mood for dad jokes. “How did you get in?”
“I buzzed the building concierge. I told her I brought you les cookies d’amour from America. I think she found me charming.”
I have to laugh at that. “Madame de Villefort. She’s ancient and probably thought you were an actual delivery guy.”
I ignore that Zaid has now used the word love for the second time since I’ve been in Paris—a word that never crossed his lips in Chicago, at least in regard to me.
“Can I come in? Or should we do this whole thing out here?”
I’m not sure what thing he’s talking about exactly, but I unlock the door and step into the apartment, sweeping an arm toward the main room. “Voilà.”
Zaid drops his bag in our small foyer, steps into the sunlit living room, takes a look around, and then collapses onto the couch. “It’s nice; I like it.” He’s already totally at ease. Odd that I don’t feel the same way right now, even though this is my actual French home.
I step into the kitchen to grab us some water. I fill two glasses, letting my mind drift to Alexandre. I was going to text him, tell him my whole truth. And then part of that truth appeared on my doorstep. What the hell do I do now?
I walk out of the kitchen. Zaid makes room for me on the couch. I hand him his glass and take a seat at the other end with mine. “Besides charming my concierge, how did you get to Paris? And aren’t you leaving for Reed in a couple weeks?”
“My grandparents paid for it. They hadn’t gotten me a gift for graduation yet, so I asked for this.”
Must be nice. I honestly can’t imagine asking anyone to pay for a little jaunt to Paris. Zaid clearly gets the message from my raised eyebrows and quickly adds, “I think they got it with miles . . .”
“Well, then, you’re clearly not their little prince if they only bought you a ticket with miles.” I put down my glass and gently punch Zaid in the arm.
“You’re the only one that calls me out on my privilege,” he says as he takes my hand. “I like it. Sometimes I need it.”
Zaid knows how his privilege is different than mine. I’m a kid of academics who inherited an apartment in Paris that they never could have