Mad, Bad & Dangerous to Know - Samira Ahmed Page 0,73

through his hair. “Khayyam, I didn’t realize . . . I’m sorry.” He takes my limp hand in his. “You know I’m not good at remembering stuff like that. I would never hurt you on purpose. Don’t you get it?”

“Get what?” I stare at him. This beautiful boy I was pining over who somehow still doesn’t understand what is important to me, who doesn’t understand that this moment isn’t a vacuum—that the past isn’t something you can simply ignore.

“You’re important to me. That’s why I flew over here. It’s the big gesture. Those pictures of you and the French guy did make me jealous. Like, I was going out of my mind thinking of you kissing him. And it made me realize that I didn’t want to lose you. Those other girls don’t challenge me like you do. We belong together.”

My body relaxes for a moment. I look into Zaid’s eyes. I understand that this is a big gesture for him. But the big gestures aren’t important if the little ones don’t exist. He flew across an ocean to proclaim that he finds me challenging? It’s not finally declaring, I love you. It’s not the what’s important to you is important to me assurance. It’s still about him. And I finally see the obvious—this is all he can give.

Zaid tucks a stray hair behind my ear and looks into my eyes. My anger has mostly melted into disappointment. I open my mouth to say something, but a knock on the door interrupts me. As I get up to answer it, I see Zaid smile—I think it’s more at himself than for me. Of course it is. I shake my head and open the door.

Alexandre is standing in the hall, a giant bouquet of purple and pink flowers in front of him.

Leila

Si’la says that humans cry salt tears because we emerged from the sea searching for a new world to conquer, but are bound to carry our first home with us forever. A blessing. A curse. A reminder of what we lost.

And it is to the ocean’s waves I am destined to return.

Is it possible to cry when you are drowning? Can you distinguish between the salt of your tears and the salt of the sea? Does the ocean weep with you?

God, grant me safe journey from this darkness.

The sea swallows my prayer as water fills my mouth.

Khayyam

Since I was a kid, people have given me quotes from Omar Khayyam as gifts—embossed on journals or lovely framed prints. There’s one postcard my mom sent me when she was away at some conference that I keep tacked to the bulletin board above my desk: Be Happy for This Moment; This Moment Is Your Life. My mind flashes to that saying as I stare at Alexandre and the beautiful bouquet in his hands, because if this moment is my life, my life is a rotten-blue-cheese-level-stinky mess.

“Khayyam, I’m really sorry. I hope you—” Alexandre’s gaze darts past me into the living room; he purses his lips when he sees Zaid.

Oh God. This is happening. And there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

I stumble over myself while stepping out of the way to let Alexandre in. Zaid rises from the couch.

“Alexandre,” I say, “um, this is, um, Zaid. A . . . friend from Chicago.”

They give each other the guy-sizing-up-the-other-guy head nod. Alexandre absentmindedly hands me the flowers; I drop them on the kitchen bar as I watch him step fully into the living room. He’s taller than Zaid, but Zaid is bulkier. And I can feel them trying to figure out this situation. Though I guess it’s self-evident.

Zaid finally walks forward and extends a hand. “Boyfriend. I’m her boyfriend from Chicago.”

My jaw drops. Not only has he never called himself that; he’s never even said he loved me, and now suddenly he’s acting possessive?

Alexandre turns to look at me. “Khayyam,” he begins, then shakes his head. He doesn’t even need to say anything else. I can imagine what he’s thinking: You have a boyfriend? You’re angry because you saw me with an ex, but you’ve had a boyfriend this whole time?

“Alexandre. Désolée.” My brain whirs, but the right words