Mad, Bad & Dangerous to Know - Samira Ahmed Page 0,9

and then head to Place des Vosges.” One good thing about being stuck in Paris for the summer is the comfort of an afternoon pastry. Or three.

They laugh a little. My mom blows me a kiss. My dad tells me to text them when I get to Place des Vosges as he settles in next to my mom on the sofa. My parents exchange another loving glance. I swear, you’d think it’s their third date. I wonder what it takes to sustain that kind of adoration for over twenty years. Or even twenty weeks . . .

I push open the centuries-old wooden doors to our apartment and step into the dark hall. Maybe I should keep more secrets from my parents—less chance of getting trapped in an awkward conversation about my nonexistent love life. I sigh and sidestep the claustrophobia-inducing elevator—it’s the size of a double-wide coffin. We’re on the fifth floor, but I take the stairs up and down every time. Halfway down the wide, winding staircase, my phone buzzes.

Alexandre: Bonjour. I have spoken with the mayor of Paris, who has agreed to clear your path of merde—both real and figurative—for the rest of your stay.

Me: . . .

Me: . . .

Me: Who is this?

If Alexandre is the diversion the universe has presented, I might as well have fun.

Alexandre: Is that American humor?

Me: Ha! Touché.

Alexandre: I lay down my épée. Shall we meet?

Me: Place des Vosges? Thirty minutes?

Alexandre: Perfect. I will bring a surprise.

Me: A surprise?!

Alexandre: I will make it an American surprise so it comes with many exclamation marks!!!

Me: I see I’m not the first American to get a surprise from you?

Alexandre: You’re by far the most beautiful.

This guy seriously knows how to turn on the charm. Sadly, some of that charm is lost on me. I don’t feel completely enamored; I feel a little resigned. Because cute as it is, it’s not the text I was hoping for. My memory of Zaid is the anchor weighing me down. Zaid, whose easy smile and warm embrace felt like home no matter where we were. He was my home, but now he’s packed his bags and moved on. Why can’t I do the same?

Maybe the real question is, why are my own feelings a mystery to me?

Leila

“Haseki,” he whispers.

I cringe at the word. It is no title, but bondage.

“Giaour,” I whisper back. Infidel.

He pulls me into the heart-hollow of the twinned trees.

I place my hand on my chest, drop my eyes, pause. Then raise them to him in a flash. “I may be Pasha’s favorite, I may be confined here, but I still own my name.”

He lifts my chin toward him. “Leila,” he murmurs. “You think you are powerless, but I am under your command.”

“Thus the world is as it should be.” I smile and remove the diaphanous veil I’ve wrapped over my head; it wafts gently to the ground.

He smiles back. Flecks of gold dance in his hazel eyes. He traces an index finger over my lips. His touch is coarse, nothing like Pasha’s, whose hands are massaged with scented oils by girls of a lower rank before they slip on his silken sleep gloves. But Pasha is not soft; I harbor no such illusions. He could slash us both down with the curve of his kilij in two deft strikes.

“Did you forget to wear your riding gloves again?” I chide.

“I’m sorry.” His hand falls away. “You deserve much better.”

He plucks the fuchsia rose from his vest and gently brushes the petals against my lips. They say the scent can drive men mad.

I close my eyes and lean back against the smoothed trunk in the hollowed heart of our tree. He leans his body into mine and kisses me just above the jugular notch between my neck and collarbone. The stubble of his beard grazes my skin and makes it burn with want. He unwound his sarik before I arrived, so I run my fingers through the soft dark brown waves