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Silence.
An hour later: “Are you hungry?”
“No.”
More silence.
“Do you have to pee?”
“No.”
The questions are meaningless. A way to fill the space without actually saying anything that matters.
I stare out the window and watch the landscape change. Trees and fields and the occasional town. All of it blurs together in the darkness. He lets me choose the music. It’s my moody playlist, songs by Billie Eilish and Sombr, but it does nothing to soothe me.
The rage builds with every mile. A poison seeping through my bloodstream, spreading through my limbs, my chest, my mind until there’s nothing left of me that isn’t tainted. By hour three, I’m planning how I’ll block his number. Delete every text, every photo, every trace of him from my phone.
By hour four, I’m imagining never speaking to him again. Avoiding him on campus. Pretending he doesn’t exist. Wiping him from my memory, somehow.
By hour five, I’m seriously considering transferring. There are good schools in Connecticut. I could go home. Get away from all of this.
By hour six, I hate him with an intensity that scares me. I hate the way he’s sitting there, calm and composed, like he didn’t just rip my heart out and stomp on it. I hate the way his hands look on the steering wheel. Strong and capable and familiar. I hate the line of his jaw. The curve of his neck. The way his hair falls across his forehead. I hate the way his scent fills the small space.
I steal glances at him when I think he’s not looking. I study his profile in the glow of the dashboard lights. The etched angle of his cheekbone. His lower lip. Full and pillowy. The one I’ve kissed so many times I know exactly how it feels against mine.
This is the last time I’ll look at him like this. The last time I’ll memorize the curve of his throat. The shadow of stubble along his jaw. The way his eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks when he blinks.
After tonight, I’ll have to forget all of this.
I’ll have to forget the way his hands feel on my skin. The sound of his voice when he calls me baby. The weight of his body pressing me into the mattress.
I’ll have to forget him.
The pain in my chest is so acute I can barely breathe.
By hour seven, I’m thinking about who taught Lucien those things. It doesn’t matter anymore, I tell myself. It doesn’t matter who showed him.
Lucien doesn’t care about me. So why should I care about his past?
But I do care.
Who was it?
The question is relentless and consuming.
It’s the middle of the night when I finally work up the courage to ask.
I clear my throat.
“Lucien.”
His hands tighten on the wheel. “Yeah?”
His voice is rough. Tired. He hasn’t spoken in hours.
I take a breath. “Who was it?”
Silence.
