9pm Dinner
965 Words
9:00 PM.
My porch light was off. I turned it off.
The car was still there. Black. Idling. Tinted windows. Back door open. Warm seat.
No Lucien. Just the driver. Face blank. Gloves.
My phone buzzed.
L: You’re 30 seconds late. Get in, Maya.
I got in.
The door closed. Soft. Final. Same as before.
The car smelled like cedar and leather and him. There was a blanket folded on the seat next to me. Gray. Cashmere.
Driver didn’t speak. Didn’t look back. Just drove.
Ten minutes. Twenty. We left campus. The streetlights got farther apart.
My phone buzzed again.
L: Nervous?
Me: Where are we going?
Three dots.
L: Somewhere no one can interrupt us. Somewhere you can’t run.
The car pulled up to a house. Not a house. A glass box in the woods. All lights on. No neighbors. No sound except crickets.
The driver got out. Opened my door.
Lucien was standing on the steps. Black shirt. Black pants. No tie. Hair messy like he’d been running his hands through it.
He wasn’t smiling.
“Come inside,” he said.
I didn’t move.
He sighed. Walked down the steps. Took the blanket from the car and draped it over my shoulders before I could protest. It was warm. It smelled like him.
“You’re cold,” he said. “And you’re staring at the exit like it’ll save you. It won’t.”
Inside was worse. All white. All glass. One long table. Two chairs. Candles. No food yet.
“You live here?” I asked.
“Sometimes,” he said. “When I need quiet.” He gestured to a chair. “Sit.”
I sat.
He sat across from me. Poured wine I didn’t ask for. Water for me.
“You canceled my class,” I said.
“I did,” he said. “Psych 302. Professor Klein. He’s very understanding when research funding is on the line.”
“You can’t do that.”
“I can,” he said. “And I will. Anytime Ben, or Aisha, or anyone else tries to take my time with you.”
He leaned back. Studied me over the rim of his glass.
“You look good angry,” he said. “Rosy. Alive. Not that library ghost you’ve been.”
“Don’t—”
“Don’t what?” He cut me off. “Don’t notice you? Don’t want you? Don’t say what I’m thinking?”
He set the glass down. No sound.
“Fine. I’ll say it.”
He stood. Came around the table. Stopped behind my chair. Same as the library.
“I thought about you Friday night,” he said, voice low. “After I dropped you off. I thought about your hand on my sleeve. I thought about the way you said ‘don’t call me that’ when Aisha said Ghost Boy.”
His fingers brushed the back of my chair. Not me. Yet.
“I thought about kissing you,” he said. “Right there on your porch. In front of the driver. In front of God.”
I closed my eyes. “Stop.”
“Why?” he whispered. “Because it’s true? Because you thought about it too?”
“I didn’t—”
“Liar,” he said again. But softer this time. “It’s okay. I like that you lie. It means you’re still fighting.”
He moved. Sat back in his chair. Food came out. I didn’t see who brought it. Salmon. Bread. Berries. Everything I liked.
“Eat,” he said.
“I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten since yesterday,” he said. “I checked your campus card. You bought coffee. No food.”
My stomach flipped. “You’re monitoring my—”
“I’m protecting you,” he said. “From starving. From Ben. From bad decisions.”
We ate in silence. Or I pretended to eat. He watched.
When I was done, he pushed a small box across the table.
“Open it.”
Inside was a phone. New. Black. No brand.
“For you,” he said. “My number is the only one in it. It can’t be blocked. It can’t be tracked. Except by me.”
“I don’t want it.”
“You do,” he said. “Because now Aisha’s calls won’t drop. Because now I can tell you where to be. Because now you’re safe.”
He reached across the table. Took my hand. His was warm. Mine was ice.
“Maya,” he said. “Look at me.”
I did.
“I don’t share,” he said. “Not your time. Not your friends. Not you. Do you understand?”
I nodded. Couldn’t speak.
“Good girl,” he said. The words hit me like a slap and a touch at the same time.
He walked me to the door at 11:30 PM.
“Tomorrow,” he said. “Same time. My car. We’ll talk about your thesis. You’re switching advisors. To me.”
“I can’t—”
“You can,” he said. “I’m on the board. It’s done.”
He tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. His knuckles grazed my cheek.
“Sleep,” he said. “Dream about me. Or don’t. I’ll be in both.”
The car took me home.
The new phone was in my pocket. It buzzed the second I hit my bed.
L: Did you like dinner?
Me: I want my life back.
L: You have a new one. With me.
L: Sleep. 9 PM tomorrow. Don’t wear blue.
I threw the phone across the room.
It buzzed again from the floor.
L: Pick it up.
I did.
Because he doesn’t ask.
He takes.
And he chose me.
- Writer
