Mad, Bad & Dangerous to Know - Samira Ahmed Page 0,76

our family. That rumor you uncovered about the possibility—that gave us hope.”

“Cherchez la femme, trouvez le trésor,” I whisper. “Oh my God. You planned this whole thing so I could help you find the treasure? You are a stalker. And a liar.” Tears splash down my cheeks. “You wanted to use me for . . . for what? My research?”

“Khayyam, please. I’m sorry. I saw you post about going to the Petit Palais that morning, and I went to introduce myself to you and to ask you about your project. But when I got there, everything happened so fast. There you were, cleaning merde off your shoe, and—”

“Dog crap. You’re blaming dog crap for your lies? For this whole charade?”

Alexandre shakes his head. “No. No. I’m not explaining it right. I went there, all business. Then when we met, it was so . . . spontaneous, and I was charmed by you. And it felt, I don’t know, like we were always supposed to meet. And I wanted to see where things would go naturally.”

“Naturally? What is wrong with you? You deceived me. You used me.”

“I swear, I wasn’t trying to hurt you. I was trying to save my family.” There’s a pleading quality to Alexandre’s voice, but I honestly don’t care about his feelings right now. Or his family. It’s not lost on me that this is the second time this afternoon that a guy I like—who I thought I knew and trusted—has told me that he would never intentionally hurt me, so how come it keeps happening?

I twist away from Alexandre and move toward the balcony. There should be dark clouds. There should be storms. But I step outside into a clear, bright afternoon. I hear him turn on his heel and shuffle away. He closes the door softly behind him. I don’t turn back to look.

There should be a universal law that when you need your best friend the most, she can just magically appear and not be on some retro technology-free family sabbatical. Julie would probably tell me to go for a run by the river. But currently, I’m getting my wallow on. How long is too long for romantic wallowing? Is there a prescribed length when it moves from therapeutic to pathetic? I think there should be a chart. Obviously for serious breakups, like divorce, or finding out that your spouse has a whole second family or something, then I think days—if not weeks or months—of lamentation are definitely in order. What about for two doors slammed in my face by two different boys who both hid things from me? Who lied to me? What about then? When it’s not clear because I hid things, too? When it’s a mess of porcelain shards waiting to cut you? A few hours? It seems like a few hours is fair.

A few hours to contemplate what was almost surely a goodbye with Zaid. It would’ve been nice if we’d had a softer ending—one that was kinder to both of us. He may not have been perfect, but neither was I. And there were things between us that were good, a space that was warm and felt like home once. A hand that was so often there for me when I needed it, without me even having to ask. There was laughter, too.

Then there’s this other nagging thought in my head. Well, there are a million. But one sticks out. What did Alexandre mean when he said he was trying to save his family? Like save them from what? And how could I possibly help? I know he’s worried about the Dumas legacy and all, but saying he’s trying to save them seems a little melodramatic.

I force myself off the couch and grab my laptop and do what I should’ve done when I first “coincidentally” met Alexandre. How could I ever have believed it was an actual coincidence? What I should have realized, what I know, is that the probability of us meeting without outside intervention was actually infinitesimal. It’s math! Yet I bought it without question, without even bothering to check out Alexandre’s story. Celenia Mondego’s criticism about my “slipshod research” passes through my brain yet again. Point taken. I’m not the one on an Internet-free holiday. But I was too focused on the dead