When he stood, it was on shaky legs, but he felt surprisingly calm. Maybe it was because he’d finally said, out loud, the things that had been making his chest hurt, his stomach churn, since Delysia had left him standing alone in that airport. At least, he thought, he could never say that he hadn’t said it. And that, in itself, was freeing.
Alexander headed to the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face slowly, methodically, then dried his face and hands with the rough paper towels in the bathrooms. He felt flushed; perhaps it was the brandy. Out of a habit he’d only recently cultivated, he turned on his phone; comments were pouring in to the posted video, still, but one notification in particular made his heart leap into his throat.
Delysia’s handle, a single heart emoji. And only a few words, but ones that made the blood rush from his head so rapidly he had to lean against the counter.
Mum’s better. Talk soon.
* * *
When Delysia was a child, her mother had gifted her a series of books about children who took a magical journey through a mirror, wandering through a land of monsters and lions and queens and fantastical elements. When they found the mirror and returned home, no time had passed; it was they who were greatly changed.
Coming home made Delysia think of this story. Dubai had changed, yes. It had grown bigger and more sprawling, and there were new stores and clubs and franchises and things to do. The years were written on the faces of her uncles and aunts, and her little cousins, some barely walking when she left, were tweens and teens. However, Dubai felt the same—warm and safe and all-encompassing, placing her in a cocoon of feeling that everyone who loved her deeply was well within reach.
Her mother had been living with her uncle Abraham for months; after a week in her hotel Delysia was installed in a large airy bedroom with twin fourteen-year-old cousins, both of whom were determined to be the next YouTube celebrities, and quite in awe of her. They chatted night and day, cajoled Delysia into participating in hair and makeup tutorials, accompanied her on trips to the grocery and the suq and the salon, and kept her so busy in general that she had no time to think of New York, or Faye, or the million-plus followers held in limbo with a message that she was taking time off to “care for a sick parent.”
She wouldn’t have even seen Alexander’s video if her cousins, who had followed every moment of their carefully curated romance with enough breathless attention to thrill Faye for life, hadn’t brought her the phone after dinner the night it had gone live, screaming with teenage, fan-girl ecstasy when he’d shared his feelings with the whole world.
“You gotta answer, of course,” said Amani, the eldest of the twins. Her sister Iman agreed, and the two of them pressed round faces over each of Delysia’s shoulders, peering down at the hailstorm of comments dropping into the little screen with Alexander’s talking face on it.
“Girls...”
“Say something!” Amani stared at her accusingly. “Wait. Are you still together?”
“We—” Delysia could feel her cheeks warming, and her teenage cousins stared at her, mouths agape. Then she collected herself long enough to order them out of the room, vowing inwardly to look for a villa for her and her mother the next day.
She did think of Alexander, though. The thoughts came in during quieter moments when she could hear her own thoughts, gently insistent, drawing from vivid memories of their time together. New York had faded to a pleasant, general recollection of noise and smell and speed and energy and productivity, but Alexander stood out in her mind’s eye, sharp and specific, and popped up at the oddest times. She remembered him spouting obscure facts while thumbing through a trivia book while in line at Kinokuniya. She remembered his coffee-stained Southampton University mug while standing behind a group of NYU Abu Dhabi students at Starbucks, gossiping about classes and how they were late to catch the shuttle. She even thought she’d seen him once, standing in a group of Sudanese men chatting and laughing on the walkway by the Sharjah Corniche; the man’s short dark curls and dark brown blazer had been what caught her eye.
At night, it was harder. The twins loved sleeping under a blast of AC that rivaled Arctic winds, and Delysia lay in her bed, huddled in the warmth of the threadbare sweatshirt she’d worn so much on the Gilded Express. Her mind raced with thoughts of her mother and her recovery and where they would live afterward and what her life here would look like...
Sometimes she actually had to get up those nights, creep silently over cold tiles into the villa’s enormous kitchen, and brew herself a cup of tea, wanting something else to blame for the way her skin bloomed with heat. She remembered his touch as palpably as if she’d just left his bed, and those memories—she closed her eyes. She could still feel his hands, warm on her skin, his lips on her hair and neck.
It wasn’t even about the sex, though that had been amazing. It had been a feeling of nearness, of peace. For the first time since she’d moved overseas, she’d felt like she was in the right place at the right time. Cherished. Loved.
Being with Alexander felt like being at home, and the thought of what that might imply—
She hadn’t been ready to deal with her feelings then, and she certainly wasn’t now. Still, it wasn’t fair to leave him hanging. She’d be devastated if she had told someone she loved them and they’d headed off to another country to stay indefinitely without saying anything concrete back. Hell, that had happened to her. But Alexander hadn’t demanded it from her. He didn’t demand anything from her, except that she do exactly what she wanted.
So what the hell are you going to do about him, Delysia?
Delysia picked up the phone, scrolled to Alexander’s page, to the recording that had streamed live only hours ago. Her fingers flew as of their own volition; the message was short.
Mum’s better. Talk soon.
As it stood, she could not offer more than this—her life was here. And in the deepest part of her heart, she wasn’t sure it could ever be more. She’d retreated so far back into herself that she wasn’t sure she’d be able to find her way out, even if she wanted to.
Delysia turned off her phone, then headed back to her room for yet another night of restless sleep.
She had to call him. She wasn’t sure what she could possibly say, but she had to call him.
She owed him that, at least.
Chapter Fourteen
Dubai, United Arab Emirates
When Alexander stepped off the flight and onto the tarmac at Dubai International, the wall of heat that hit him ejected a surprised breath from his body. He had expected it to be warm, of course—a summer in the Gulf should produce nothing less—but this felt as if he’d walked right into the jet’s engine wind. He hurried onto the bus waiting for the passengers, weary from their nonstop flight from JFK.
Alexander had spent the fifteen hours in the air in more comfort than he’d ever had at home. Faye, when hearing he was to travel to meet Delysia in Dubai, sent out a call to “a few friends,” and secured Alexander a first-class ticket in exchange for a “fun, unbiased narrative.” Once he’d arrived at JFK, Alexander was subjected to an absolutely bewildering experience featuring champagne, concierges, and a ridiculous variety of food. He was relieved when he was ensconced in the little cocoon of luxury that was his first-class suite, and could breathe, wrap himself in the softness of cashmere wraps and his own thoughts, and muse.
Delysia. She’d called him after the AMA, on video, looking very tan, very rested, more than he had ever seen her. Dubai looked good on her.
“I’m so sorry,” she said, and quietly, “I’d come if I could, really I would, Alexander. But—I’ll be in Dubai with my mother, until she doesn’t need me, now that she’s out of hospital. We don’t have anything worth risking, not yet.”
Nothing worth risking? The look on his face must have been telling, for she bit her lip hard—and then spoke again.
“I do like you,” she said
softly, “very much. The Gilded Express was an absolute dream. But I have to be realistic, Alexander. And so do you.”
“I do love you, Delysia,” he said then, quietly, the words nearly lost against the chasm of cyberspace. It was not a grand or dramatic declaration; it was what was in his heart. He hadn’t known Delysia for long, but he did recognize her look: she was unsure. Conflicted. He supposed it wasn’t fair to do so, but he did want to tip the scales in his favor if he could.
Surprise crossed the face that had become so dear to him over those past few months—and she smiled. It was quick, bright, and completely unrehearsed. She looked like he’d just given her a present, and the joy on her face made something ache deep in his chest. Her face lit up to such a degree of radiance that he held his breath, but then it was gone as she caught herself, and she stepped back.
“You—you’ve got no idea how much that means to me,” she said, and there was a husk in her voice that hadn’t been there before.
“I think I might,” he said gently. He wanted nothing more than to take her in his arms, but that of course was impossible here, and he took a breath instead. “You once said you weren’t going to feel ashamed for—wanting me. I feel the same way about this. I meant it, Delysia. And that holds true whatever we end up as, or don’t.”
Her chin wobbled, just a little. “I’m not going to lie,” she said. “I don’t think I’m planning on coming back anytime soon. I broke my lease. But I promise”—and her voice here was almost fierce—“that I won’t disappear on you. I promise.”
“I’m not worried.” This was not entirely true, though, and she knew it. She opened her mouth, closed it.
“It really is all right, Delysia.” He smiled, just a little. “That’s—a gift, I guess. Not a request. Stay safe.”
She’d smiled, raised her hand, cut off the call. And now, he was on a flight to Dubai at Delysia’s request.
It wasn’t something that had happened immediately, this reconnection. Delysia, true to her word, had not disappeared—she’d popped up on his page, liked a few images, left a few comments. Comments had led to DMs; DMs had led to text messages, text messages had led to phone conversations, phone conversations had led to video chats. It had felt as if they were navigating the shaky waters of a new relationship, only on real terms this time.
“I know,” she’d said, voice so soft over the phone he could barely hear her, “that this is a dreadful imposition, but I just want you to see what my life here is. That is, if you want to. And that is anytime. No rush.”
His heart had been pounding at the other end. “So this means—”
She paused. “Can you come?”
He did allow himself to feel foolish at the thought of flying halfway across the world to meet a woman who’d rejected him.
Love is a gift. Freely given, freely received. And it went beyond whatever their relationship was, or would be. He would do anything for her, and going against that would be going against himself.
When he agreed, she asked hesitantly if he wanted to do any events with her while she was there.
“No. You’re enough of a reason to come, Delysia. Don’t think you need to make it up to me if I don’t get the answer I want.”
There was an inhalation of breath at the other end, and then—
“All right then, I’ll see you soon.” Soon was longer than he would have liked; there was his class to consider, a TA to prep, virtual work for the last few weeks. Luckily his department head was almost thrilled to see him go. Was this how it was, being a celebrity? he wondered. People willing to waive behavior no one else would get away with?
The old Alexander never even would have tried, but he felt an urgency about this that overcame his usual reticence, his usual sense of responsibility. He wasn’t sure whether this was good or bad. All he knew was that he wanted to see Delysia, and badly.
When Alexander exited immigration into the chrome, glass, and palm tree–lined splendor of the airport, it was hard not to wander about and goggle, but his eagerness to see Delysia eliminated any tangents.
“Don’t call me, it’s sinfully expensive,” she said the night before they left, as they were hammering out logistics. “Just meet me at the pink taxicabs. You’ll know them when you see them.”
He saw Delysia before he even noticed the taxis, which were indeed, very pink. She was waving from a distance, her dark hair forming a halo around her head. He hurried over. Much to his relief, she laughed her old laugh, lifting her arms to wind round his neck.
“You look like such a tourist,” she said, and kissed him on the cheek.
“I am a tourist. Faye dressed me anyway, so if anything is amiss you have to blame her.”
“I think she did a good job.” Delysia’s dark eyes flickered over his blue linen trousers, cuffed carefully at the ankle, soft driving loafers, white linen button-up. “You look,” she said with a laugh, “like a very well-off English academic on his yearly holiday.”
“She missed all but the nationality, then. And the taxis are pink,” he said with some surprise, peering at them.
“Yes, but they’re for ladies only, so sorry, no ride.”
A housewife in a rhinestone-studded abaya shot them a scandalized look, then disappeared into one. Delysia laughed and extracted a pair of Ray-Bans from her handbag, handed them to him. “Consider this a welcome to Dubai. You’ll actually need them, here. How’s the weather back in New York?”
“Warming up,” Alexander answered, slipping them on and tugging the handle of his luggage. His hand was already slick with sweat. “Nothing like this, though.”
“It’s like stepping into Satan’s mouth.”
“Oh, but it’s splendid.” Alexander peered over her shoulder into the dusty haze, from which a magnificent skyline loomed, while Delysia knocked on the window of the nearest non-pink taxi, giving the driver an address. The man eased himself out of his car and deftly began navigating Alexander’s battered leather duffel into the boot.
“It’s one of the oldest places in the world, Delysia,” Alexander added, excitement bleeding into his voice. “Incredible landscape, the sea right there, and you know, the existence of this place spanned the Neolithic period. David Miller published a paper about it a few years ago. I think that it’s one of the earliest proven civilizations outside of Africa, and—”
He stopped when he saw the driver and Delysia staring at him. The driver muttered something, shook his head, and scuttled back round to the driver’s side.
“Sorry,” Alexander said a bit sheepishly, and Delysia laughed out loud.
“Are you hungry?”
“Not terribly, but I wouldn’t mind something...”
Safe in the back seat of the cab, Alexander reached out and placed his hand over hers. She looked over at him, smiled, and exhaled shakily.
“You don’t have to worry,” he said simply.
She nodded.
* * *
The day had finally succumbed to dusk, and Delysia and Alexander were in the closed courtyard of the villa she shared with her mother. The older woman, Delysia had explained to Alexander earlier, was in Deira with an aunt, and would be back tomorrow—to cook Alexander injera, and vegetable stew, she promised in a phone call. “You couldn’t get decent Eritrean food in the city.”
Alexander looked pleased, then horrified. “She isn’t clearing out the house for me, is she?”
Delysia laughed out loud. “She expects you to stay in the guest room, like a gentleman.”
Instead of one of the glittering, luxurious haunts usually favored by social media stars in the Emirates, Delysia took Alexander to a small Turkish restaurant in Sharjah’s city center, one of her favorites. The ride was long, but worth it; they shared a platter of mixed grill and shawarma, and rice made rich and yellow with butter, saffron, spices that clung to and perfectly complemented the sizzling beef and l
amb. Alexander seemed quietly content. He piled his bones neatly on the paper tablecloth and answered her questions about New York thoughtfully and told her, with one of those lightning-quick smiles of his, that he was being considered for tenure, and his roster for the next spring was already filling up.
“Alexander, that’s wonderful!”
He’d nodded. “It is rather nice.”
“And you’ve become a bit of a social media star,” she said dryly, alluding to his many endorsements and the rush of followers that had come after she’d left. Their photo shoot’s release had cemented it—and even Delysia was more in the public eye than ever before. Not that she cared about that right now. Her account was safe in the hands of interns who had enough content to keep up a continual stream for six months.
He chuckled. “Your fans miss you—the live videos, I mean. You aren’t fooling anyone having an intern run your account, you know. I don’t have an interaction without you being mentioned at some point.”
“I know.” Delysia’s voice was wistful, even to her. Her posts in Dubai were much less frequent—only about once a week—and they tended to focus on more abstract things—art, poetry, inspirational things she’d come across. She missed the glittering part of her life, but the hiatus from the New York City social scene had been wonderful. It had been wonderfully healing to be Delysia Ephrem again, just a Tigrayan girl with a funny first name. Still, people had been reaching out. Just that morning a local Emirati influencer who made dance videos with his wife had reached out for a collaboration, and she’d been invited to several local dress shops...
She smiled and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.
“Also,” Alexander said, as if he were just remembering. “I’m to tell you that there’s a spot open on the influencer circuit. Apparently Nicky Kim was busted for possession.”
The Sweetest Charade Page 23