Mad, Bad & Dangerous to Know

by Samira Ahmed

  I let Zaid into my apartment and step into the kitchen to put the flowers in a tall glass of water. I have no desire to search for a proper vase right now. I plop down on the sofa. Zaid’s standing in our little foyer, his backpack slung over his shoulder.

  He turns toward me, but his gaze is on the floor. “Khayyam, look, I’m not sure what happened. I thought we were having a good time. I thought you were happy to see me.”

  “Were you not listening?” I yell, then lower my voice, thinking about the neighbors. “I am glad to see you. That doesn’t mean I wasn’t also hurt. Those pictures on Instagram with Rekha . . . you make it all seem like a little innocent flirting. But you forget that I know you. It had to have been more.”

  He rubs the back of his neck and sighs. “Fine. Okay. Yes. It was more than flirty pictures on Instagram, but you got on a plane to Paris, and I’m heading to Reed in a couple weeks. It felt like a goodbye, you know? Without all the unnecessary drama.”

  I thought an admission from him would be like a hammer to my heart. It’s not. It’s more like lemon juice on a paper cut. It smarts, and I can feel the tiny sting behind my eyes. But I don’t cry. This moment is not fall-on-the-fainting-couch, weep-my-eyes-out, nineteenth-century-novel pain. It’s more melancholy . . . regret, maybe. And anger. I take a breath. Then another. I soften the sharp edge in my voice. “Why did you come here?”

  “I wanted to see you and—”

  “And all those pictures of me and Alexandre made you jealous.”

  “That’s his name? Alexandre?” He slips the bag off his shoulder and joins me on the couch.

  I nod.

  “All this time you’ve been pissed about Rekha sitting in my lap, but you’ve been . . . what . . . making out with a French dude all over Paris?”

  “No. That’s not how it was. I didn’t even meet Alexandre until after you’d ignored all my texts and were getting handsy with half of Hyde Park.”

  “That’s not true or fair. Besides, you used that guy as some kind of revenge or something? That’s warped.”

  Zaid calling out my hypocrisy in this situation infuriates me, and it’s hard to parse out who I’m most angry at—him or me.

  “No . . . I . . . uh . . . I thought maybe the pictures would get your attention. And obviously, it worked because you flew to a different continent to . . . I don’t know . . . assuage your guilt!” I lower my voice almost to a whisper. “And you wore the CTA tee in that shot with Rekha.”

  Zaid frowns down at the Brown Line ‘L’ T-shirt he’s also wearing right now, pulling at it between pinched fingers. Then raises his eyes and meets mine. “What does this stupid shirt have to do with it?”

  “I got you that stupid shirt for our one-month anniversary. Because of our first date? While You Were Sleeping, remember? Kissing under the Brown Line ‘L’? Or did you bury that memory and leave it in the past, too?”

  Zaid’s shoulders slump, and he runs his fingers 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 are slow to come.

  “What are you apologizing to this guy for, babe?” Zaid asks. This time his use of the diminutive enrages me.

  “So now you’re my boyfriend? Now? According to you we already had our goodbye in Chicago. We went our separate ways, remember?”

  Now Zaid is the one with his jaw on the floor. “I thought—”

  Zaid is talking, but I can’t take my eyes off Alexandre, because even if he’s guilty of being clueless and a jerk, he’s the only one who was totally in the dark in this situation. I see a shadow of hurt pass over his face.

  Zaid notices me looking at Alexandre. “Un-friggin’-believable. I flew all the way over here . . . for you . . . to tell you . . .” There’s a scratch in Zaid’s voice as he speaks. It’s not merely anger; it’s resignation.

  “To tell me what?” I ask. “You can’t even say it. You came here because you were jealous of something happening between me and Alexandre—”

  My eyes keep flitting from Alexandre, who stares off in the distance, to Zai
d, who has this look on his face like a small animal that’s half in pain and half raging. All my synapses are on rapid fire, and I can almost feel my brain melting a little. I breathe. I think about homework. When I have a ton of homework, I usually start with my least favorite thing. The thing I know will be the worst so I can get it out of the way.

  My gaze falls on Zaid.

  “You don’t want to be with me, Zaid,” I say, the softness in my voice catching me by surprise. “You want me now because you can’t have me. You want the chase and not the quarry.”

  “What the hell does that even mean?” Zaid shoots lasers at me with his eyes. “You know what? Save it. Seriously. Screw this, I’m out of here. I can’t believe you, Khayyam.” He’s usually a long-fuse, big-bang kind of person, and while I’m stuck in some kind of suspended animation in this moment, it seems like his fuse has burned down and a time bomb is about to explode in my tiny apartment.

  Before I can de-stupefy myself and respond, Alexandre jumps in. “Don’t talk to her that way.” His voice is measured, but seething.

  “Don’t tell me how to talk to her. I’ve known her for years. I’m part of her story. You’re a footnote,” Zaid spits.

  “Shut up, both of you. Stop talking about me like I’m not here and can’t speak up for myself. And Zaid, what the hell? You don’t get to act all noble when you’ve been running around making out with half of Chicago. It’s out of sight, out of mind until someone else’s interest in me makes me the shiny new object again that gets your attention.”

  Zaid clenches his jaw and strides toward the door—shoving past Alexandre with an unnecessarily hard body check. Alexandre staggers, catches himself, and shoves Zaid in the back. Zaid stumbles, rights himself, grabs his backpack, then spins around like he’s about to take a swing at Alexandre.

  “Stop it!” I yell, stepping between them.

  Zaid curbs the arc of his backpack, but not before it smacks into the small side table in the foyer, sending a blue-and-white porcelain teapot to the floor, where it shatters.

  “That was my grandmother’s, asshole! Get out!” I yell at Zaid, who shuffles backward, twisting his hands around the strap of his backpack, a stunned expression on his face.

  I sink to the floor and start crying—maybe more than a broken teapot warrants. Surveying the broken shards of everything. There are so many pieces. Too many. I force myself to take a few deep breaths, trying to slow my racing heart, calm my mind. I blink away my tears and look into Zaid’s wide eyes, my voice shaky but deliberate. “Maybe sometimes history is more important to me than the now. Maybe that’s my problem. But you were right about one thing—some things do need to be left in the past. And one of those things is us.”

  Zaid opens his mouth, then clamps it shut and stomps out, slamming the door behind 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 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 seco
nd 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.