The Thesis
889 Words
9:00 PM.
Same car. Same driver. Same warm seat.
Different address.
Not the glass house. His office.
The Ashford Building. 12 floors. All glass. All his. Top floor lights on.
My phone buzzed before the car even stopped.
L: Don’t knock. The door knows you.
It did. It clicked open the second I touched it.
His office smelled like cedar and paper and him. Floor to ceiling books. One desk. Massive. Clean. Except for two things:
1. My thesis proposal. Red ink all over it.
2. Two glasses. One with wine. One with water.
Lucien was standing at the window. Back to me. Black shirt. Sleeves rolled.
“Close the door, Maya.”
I did.
“You’re late,” he said. Still not turning. “By 4 minutes.”
“Traffic—”
“Liar,” he said. Turned. Eyes dark. Tired. “You walked the long way. Past the library. Past Ben’s dorm. Testing me.”
He walked to the desk. Picked up my proposal.
“Chapter 1 is garbage,” he said. “Chapter 2 is worse. Chapter 3…” He paused. “Chapter 3 is you lying to yourself.”
He threw it down. Papers scattered.
“Sit.”
I sat.
He didn’t. He came around the desk. Perched on the edge right in front of me. Knees almost touching mine.
“Do you know why I canceled Klein?” he asked.
“Because you can.”
“Because he was going to fail you,” Lucien said. “Because he called you ‘promising but unfocused’ in faculty meeting. Because he doesn’t see what I see.”
“What do you see?”
“A girl who reads people faster than she reads books,” he said. “A girl who lied to Aisha to protect her. A girl who got in my car twice and didn’t scream.”
He reached out. Brushed his thumb under my eye.
“You didn’t sleep,” he said. “Did you.”
“No.”
“Because of me.”
“Because of the phone,” I said. “Because it buzzes even when I block it.”
He smiled. Small. Sad. “I told you. It can’t be blocked.”
He stood. Walked to the bookshelf. Pulled out a book,"Attachment Theory and Control". Dropped it in my lap.
“Read it,” he said. “That’s your new thesis. Not social media. Not Ben. Me.”
“I’m not studying you.”
“You are,” he said. “Every time you check if I’m watching. Every time you don’t wear blue. Every time you pick up the phone.”
He crouched in front of me. So we were eye level.
“Maya,” he said. “I’m not a good man. I’m not asking you to love me. I’m asking you to survive me.”
“Those aren’t the same thing.”
“No,” he said. “They’re not.”
His hand came up. Cupped my jaw. Thumb on my cheekbone. I flinched. He didn’t move.
“I thought about kissing you at dinner,” he said. “I thought about it again in the car. I’m thinking about it now.”
My heart was loud. Too loud.
“Say no,” he whispered. “Say stop. Say his name. Say anything and I’ll let go.”
I didn’t.
His mouth was on mine before I could.
Not soft. Not asking. Claiming. Cedar and wine and something desperate underneath.
One hand in my hair. The other on my wrist, holding me there but not hard. Like he was afraid I’d break. Or afraid I’d run.
I pulled back first. Gasping. “Lucien—”
“Don’t,” he said. Forehead against mine. Breathing hard. “Don’t say my name like that unless you mean it.”
“I don’t—”
“Liar,” he said. But there was no victory in it. Just exhaustion. “It’s okay. You don’t have to mean it yet.”
He let go. Stood. Put distance between us like it hurt.
“Your thesis is due in 3 weeks,” he said. Voice normal again. Like he hadn’t just kissed me. “You’ll write it here. After hours. With me.”
“That’s not—”
“That’s the deal,” he said. “You want your life back? Earn it. One chapter at a time. With me watching.”
He walked to the window. Hands in pockets.
“You can go now,” he said. “Driver’s downstairs.”
I stood. Legs shaky.
At the door I stopped. “Why me?”
He didn’t turn.
“Because you looked at me in the library and didn’t look away,” he said. “Because you said ‘don’t call him that’ to Aisha. Because everyone else runs. You fight.”
The door closed behind me.
The car was waiting.
The phone buzzed before we pulled away.
L: Chapter 1 is due Friday. Write about control. Write about me.
Me: You kissed me.
Three dots.
L: I did. I’ll do it again. Unless you tell me not to.
Me: I should tell you not to.
L: But you won’t.
I didn’t reply.
Because he was right.
Because he doesn’t ask.
He takes.
And I’m starting to think I’m letting him.
- Writer
