Page 15 of Stay Away from Him

Lawrence and Toby weren’t home, but Thomas and Melissa snuck into the house all the same, stealing around the back and creeping through the sliding door to the basement.

Thomas was on her right away once they were inside, his hands seemingly everywhere at once on her body, his mouth mashing against hers, opening as though he wanted to devour her whole.

“The bedroom,” Melissa managed, her voice low and raspy.

Thomas led her there by the hand, practically tugging her down the hall and through the door.

At the foot of the bed he paused, pulled her close, and kissed her again—long, soft, and tender.

His hands stole up to Melissa’s chest, cupped her breasts through her top.

Melissa let herself fall back toward the bed, tried to pull him with her, but he held back, remained standing.

She gazed up at him as he unbuttoned his shirt.

As it came off, she got her first look at the body she’d only been guessing at under those clothes, as taut and muscled as she’d imagined, every part of him—his shoulders, his arms, his chest, his stomach—having a shape, a contour, a pattern of lines and shadows.

He stood there for a moment, then he reached down and began to undo Melissa’s pants.

She started to help him with the buttons, but he shook his head.

“No,” he said, his voice rough. “Let me.”

Melissa let her arms fall back, her hands close to her head, and let Thomas peel the clothes away from her body.

As he moved her limbs this way and that, she knew there was something about what was happening—what she’d allowed to happen, what she’d made happen—that was foolish, even dangerous.

Bringing a man home, taking him into her bed so soon after she’d met him.

Both with children waiting for them, wondering where they were, what was taking them so long.

Melissa should’ve been telling Thomas to stop, telling him that they should wait, that this was going too fast. That would have been the smart thing, the responsible thing.

But the wrongness of it only brought a dizzying rush, a drunken feeling Melissa wanted to give herself over to.

And when every inch of her skin was bared to the close air of the bedroom and Melissa saw Thomas’s eyes drinking her in, every last ounce of resistance left her, like a physical presence suddenly removed and forgotten.

“God,” Thomas said, his voice growing tender. “You’re beautiful, you know that?”

Melissa reached for him, pulling him toward her, his weight on top of her body, his mouth moving to the soft skin of her neck.

As he kissed her, she explored his body with her hands—his arms, his back, his shoulders.

Her fingers tracing the shape of him. Her breathing came faster, and she trailed her fingers into his hair, grabbed a fistful and angled his head toward her, his eyes toward hers.

“I’ve been waiting so long for this,” he said.

Melissa let out a small, airy laugh. “We only met yesterday.”

“It’s been a long time, I mean,” Thomas said. “Maybe I’ve been waiting for you a long time.”

His voice grew thick, full with emotion, and as Melissa looked at his eyes, she wondered what he saw in her.

What she was to him, what she represented.

If the sight of her was tangled up with the memory of his missing, presumed-dead wife.

The look in his eyes was more than lust—there was grief there too, and hope, maybe.

Melissa put a finger on his lips.

“Quiet now,” she said, and let a sly smile rise to her mouth. “Just have your way with me, would you?”

Thomas’s answer was his silence, his mouth opening with a sudden sharp breath.

Neither of them spoke again until it was to whisper each other’s names, until they were panting yes into the close air of the room—and Melissa didn’t let go of Thomas until she was done with him.

***

In the silence after, Melissa simply lay back, staring at the ceiling.

The room felt as though it was spinning, even though she wasn’t drunk, had only had a sip or two of her wine.

Some balance in her was shifting, the recklessness that had driven her into bed with Thomas receding, all the hesitations she’d been holding at bay growing large, shouting at her: This was a mistake. You shouldn’t have done this.

“What is it?” Thomas asked. “You’re quiet. Are you okay?”

“Fine,” Melissa said.

“Was that all…okay?”

She softened at his sudden timidity, his vulnerability. “Yes. It was good.”

“But?”

Melissa wasn’t sure what to say. Not sure how to name the disquiet that had come over her, the sudden animal anxiety thrumming in her veins, the feeling of having stepped recklessly into a place where unseen dangers lurked.

But she had to say something. So she opened her mouth.

And started talking about her ex-husband.

***

Melissa met Carter when both of them were in their midtwenties.

Trained in accounting, Melissa was the bookkeeper at a small software company where Carter worked as a quiet coder.

Melissa still didn’t know what it was about his shy, soft-spoken nature that attracted her to him.

But something about him gave the impression that he had a secret, a great one that he’d only tell if you really earned it. And she wanted to earn it.

Melissa did know that she thought Carter was beautiful. His gentle doe eyes, his soft brown beard, and his hands—God, his hands. Even now, knowing everything she knew of the shit show that their marriage became, she loved to think of his hands, both strong and delicate at once.

She was the pursuer at first, flirting with Carter at a couple work happy hours. He mostly just smiled and received her attentions quietly. Later, Melissa asked him out, and he said yes.

It wasn’t exactly a legendary romance. Carter was awkward on dates, fumbling in the bedroom, not knowing what he was doing.

But there was a sweetness to him, even a sadness, that kept her close.

Melissa realized now, in hindsight, that she may have pitied him a little bit, saw him as fragile and breakable, like a baby bird she’d picked up off the ground after it fell out of its nest. Something for her to keep and nurse to health.

His secret, meanwhile—the thing that lay behind his quiet eyes and initially drew Melissa to him—Carter revealed slowly, fully divulging only once they were married: a deep-seated insecurity and even self-hatred that she foolishly spent years trying to fix.

An emotionally weak man, she’d come to believe, was among the world’s greatest threats to a woman’s well-being.

An unhappy woman would usually turn her problems inward and hurt herself , emotionally or even physically.

But an unhappy man tended to make his unhappiness everyone else’s problem, tormented and devoured and sapped the life force of those around him—especially the women in his life.

Melissa was that woman, for Carter. The cause, he seemed to believe, of all his problems—and he had a lot of them.

He was awkward, socially isolated; he didn’t have many friends; he struggled to make small talk; his coworkers didn’t respect him; his boss didn’t like him; he couldn’t keep a job for more than a few months at a time.

Other people, but especially men, made him feel small, weak, less than.

His life was a constant barrage of imagined slights, perceived humiliations, overblown affronts to his pride and self-respect.

And he took each of those injuries home to Melissa, where he’d make himself feel better by making her—the one person in the world he thought he was better than, the one person he could safely push around—feel worse.

Carter never hit Melissa. Maybe it would have come to that eventually.

The hits in their household were emotional, verbal.

He’d insult her, subtly: critique her clothes, her hair, her makeup.

He’d imply that he’d be happier if he wasn’t married, wasn’t stuck with Melissa.

He’d cry and whine about the terrible circumstances of his life, hold pity parties and demand that Melissa attend, demand that she comfort him—then berate her for doing it wrong.

There were good moments too. Moments when he was, briefly, happy—and when, as a result, Melissa was happy too.

But those moments were short-lived. Something would always happen.

A thoughtless comment from a coworker. A restaurant server ignoring their table for too long.

A man in a truck cutting them off in traffic.

Whatever it was, Carter would get quiet, a sour look coming to his face.

That look was all Melissa needed to see to know that a fight was brewing.

And it was no use avoiding him, letting things blow over.

Nothing ever blew over with Carter. Not until he’d spewed whatever venom had collected in his brain onto Melissa. Poisoning her with it.

Melissa sometimes thought she should have left earlier.

Ultimately, it was when she had Bradley that she knew she had to get out of the marriage.

For a second during the pregnancy she thought, foolishly, that Carter would be different with a child.

That becoming a father would change him.

But it didn’t. She shuddered, still, at the memory of a grown man angry that the baby in his arms was crying, or calling a three-year-old “stupid” for not being able to tie his shoes.

She couldn’t think about it for long—it was too painful to remember.

Eventually, she left. Divorced the bastard and got custody of Bradley, even though Carter made a play to keep things fifty-fifty.

Melissa’s divorce lawyer hired a child psychologist to interview Bradley, who then told the truth as only a child can tell it.

He was afraid of his dad. His dad thought he was worthless. His dad hated him.