Mad, Bad & Dangerous to Know - Samira Ahmed Page 0,75

him.

“Is it true, what he said? You were using me to make him jealous?” Alexandre asks.

The apartment still echoes with Zaid’s departure as I study the mess. I look up at Alexandre. I stand up, stepping carefully over the broken pieces of my grand-mère’s teapot. I walk into the kitchen to get a dustpan and broom, but I stop and lean against the bar to steady myself. My head hurts, and my eyes burn. I take a deep breath and turn to face Alexandre. He’s made his way to the sofa. But I hover in the kitchen, keeping a little distance.

“Is it true? What you did? Deceiving me about still being involved with . . . with—” Maybe it’s childish to mimic his words back to him, but I don’t care.

“With Haydée.” Alexandre clears his throat and nods.

“Yeah, her. So what right do you have to be mad at me?” I ask, crossing my arms in front of me.

“I never faked my feelings for you. I didn’t use you to hurt someone else,” he responds. His words slam into my chest.

“No. You hurt me directly, all by yourself.” My voice cracks as I speak.

Alexandre’s shoulders sag. “I always liked you, Khayyam, from the moment we met. I ended things with Haydée before—was trying to end them, anyway. It’s complicated. At least I wasn’t posting pictures of us in the garden and my library and kissing you on the cheek to make her jealous, I—”

I’m about to apologize, but I pause. “Wait. How do you know what I’ve been posting? Are you stalking me on Instagram? I made my account private before my family came to Paris. Before you and I even met. I haven’t approved any new followers since. So how?”

Alexandre stands up. Then sits back down. “I-I followed you before then.”

“What the hell? No way. No. Not possible. I would’ve recognized someone named Alexandre Dumas on my follower list.”

“My handle is Georges Munier.”

“Who the hell is Georges Munier?”

“That story I mentioned, that Dumas wrote before Monte Cristo? Georges is the main character—not a slave but a descendant of slaves. Not completely white, but absolutely passing as white.”

I step toward him. This is too much. I can’t process it. My head throbs. I clench my fists. “That is friggin’ twisted, Alexandre. Oh my God.” My breathing is shallow, my pulse pounding in my ears. I feel light-headed. I try to slow my breathing, suck in some oxygen, so I can speak. “You knew I was going to the Petit Palais. I posted that. Did you—what the—you have been stalking me.” I cross my arms in front of my chest.

“No. I haven’t. I’m not a stalker. I would never . . .” Alexandre stands up and takes a step toward me, but I put my hands up and he stops. “Merde,” he says, scratching his head. “I’m sorry. It was my uncle. He—”

“What does your uncle have to do with this?” I’m half rage and half utter exhaustion.

“I know how this looks, but it’s not like that. I would never hurt you. My uncle and I, well, we’re the only ones left who seem to care about Dumas’s legacy. And well, Uncle Gérard has all these web alerts set for any news on Dumas, and you use the #AlexandreDumas hashtag all the time. There was an article about the Art Institute Young Scholar Prize that mentioned your essay and how you tried to link Dumas and Delacroix. He suggested I follow you and . . .”

I cannot believe this is actually real life. My life. There was one tiny article in a stupid online art blog that I didn’t think anyone read. My worthless, catastrophic essay is biting me in the ass again.

I’m still too stunned to speak. My brain cannot process all of this at once.

Alexandre continues. “When I saw you were coming to Paris, my uncle suggested that I try to find a way to meet you, because . . . because we think that you were onto something. You were the one who made us believe there could be a missing Delacroix that belonged to