Page 3 of Stay Away from Him

Melissa and Thomas ended up sitting next to each other at dinner, pulling their chairs close at the far end of the table. Their elbows bumped together as they ate, but neither made any move to scoot their chairs away from each other.

“I feel a little bit like we’re in the kids’ section down here,” Thomas said low in Melissa’s ear, close enough that she could feel the warm whisper of his breath on her neck.

She glanced up the length of the long table through the flicker of candlelight, Lawrence and Toby presiding on the other end, pouring wine and leading conversation.

The other guests seemed to be talking local politics—Melissa caught a murmur about something being “a public safety issue, really”—and rather than trying to figure out what dull thing they were discussing, she turned back to Thomas, her shoulder tilted up to partially obscure a coy smile.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You wish you were more a part of the grown-up conversation?”

“No, the opposite. I always liked sitting at the kids’ table, myself. That’s where all the fun is.”

“Now I’m feeling some pressure,” Melissa said.

“Pressure?”

“To be fun.”

“Don’t worry,” Thomas said. “I’m already having fun. I wouldn’t have sat by you if I wasn’t.”

His hand crossed over to lightly squeeze her forearm in reassurance. She felt the warmth even after he let go.

“So what shall we talk about?” Melissa asked. “What’s the conversation at the kids’ table?”

“Toys,” Thomas said. “Play. Schemes.”

“Schemes,” Melissa said. “That one. I like that.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“You’re the one who brought it up. I was hoping you’d have an idea.”

“Sneak away?” Thomas suggested. “Run off to the lake? Have a dip?”

Melissa’s eyes drifted to the window, where the small lake near Lawrence and Toby’s house was a black void in the darkness.

“A dip? I’m not dressed for it. Neither are you.”

Thomas nudged her with his elbow, and she could tell it was on purpose this time. “Why should that stop us?”

Melissa giggled—actually giggled —as she realized what he was suggesting: skinny-dipping.

It was a joke, of course, Thomas playacting the part of an irresponsible teen flirting with the girl next door at the kids’ table as the parents talked about more serious adult topics.

At least, Melissa thought he was playing around.

She was scouring her mind for something to say in return when the conversation at the other end of the table intruded again and pulled her attention away.

“I’m afraid to go for a walk with that beast stalking around,” said an older woman sitting in the middle of the table. “You know it actually ate our neighbors’ dog and left the carcass in their backyard?”

Melissa gulped and set down her fork as the conversation continued, those around the table nodding in sympathetic agreement. She leaned toward Thomas.

“What are they talking about?”

“Oh, just the legendary local coyote,” Thomas said, a trace of a smirk in his voice. “Menace to pets and hikers alike for the past year or so.”

“ Here? In the city?”

Thomas shrugged. “Well, the suburbs. And in case you haven’t noticed, there’s as much nature here as there is developed land.”

Melissa accepted the correction with a small nod.

Thomas was right. The lake was right there, past the backyard, and Lawrence and Toby’s property also adjoined a large wooded area, full of ancient creaking ashes and oaks whose leaves fluttered black against the moonlit night sky.

Melissa still didn’t know her way around the neighborhood too well, but her understanding was that the Twin Cities’ north suburbs alone boasted a handful more lakes, dozens of parks with haphazardly connected trails, and nature centers set between housing subdivisions.

Perhaps it wasn’t so odd to imagine a coyote threading stealthily between ranch homes, haunting the edges of strip malls, lurking in ditches by freeways.

“It’s a little overblown, if you ask me,” Thomas said. “People here are so fascinated with the coyote, you’d think we had a serial killer.”

“Sounds to me like they’re scared of it,” Melissa said.

“They’re just bored,” Thomas said, then turned to someone at Melissa’s left, a beautiful redheaded woman dressed all in black, her eyes hidden behind chunky-framed glasses whose lenses caught the yellow glow of the candles. “What do you think, Amelia? Do you have a diagnosis?”

The woman, who until that moment had made no effort to speak to Melissa or Thomas, turned and flashed a wry smile.

“Classic displacement,” she murmured, low enough for only them to hear. “Fear of the other, fear of violence, of chaos and social decay—all laid onto the shoulders of a single wild and possibly imaginary canine that’s only looking for an occasional meal.”

Thomas chortled. “Amelia’s a psychiatrist,” he explained to Melissa. “And a savage judge of character, as you can see.”

“ Savage? Thomas, I’m hurt. You know my purpose is always therapeutic.”

“Right. That’s why I stopped seeing you. Because you were a little too… therapeutic .”

The woman shook her head. “You’re terrible,” she said, then offered a hand to Melissa over the half-empty plates. “Amelia Harkness.”

Melissa accepted the handshake and said her own name, feeling a little lightheaded.

Maybe it was the wine on top of the pre-dinner cocktail—but she was also having more than a little trouble keeping up with everything that had just passed between Thomas and Amelia.

She felt as though she’d stepped into the middle of something, some complicated dance, that had been going on for a while and had very little to do with her.

It seemed as though their words contained secret messages, perhaps a jab or two, an attack and a parry.

She couldn’t begin to puzzle through it all, but her thoughts snagged on the question of what Thomas had meant when he said That’s why I stopped seeing you.

It was the seeing you part that made her pause. Romantically? Or as a psychiatrist?

“I hear you’re new to the area,” Amelia said to Melissa. “How are you liking it?”

“Oh, fine,” Melissa said. “I didn’t know anything about a coyote, though. And what was that you were saying about…violence and…and decay?”

Amelia waved her hand. “Oh, Thomas was right—I was just being bad. This is a safe neighborhood.”

“Mostly,” Thomas said.

“Well, of course, there’s some crime here, just like anywhere.

A recent rash of vandalism—most people think it’s kids, teenagers.

The usual amount of drug use that happens behind closed doors in affluent communities.

Alcoholism, instances of domestic abuse.

We’re not immune from the problems that happen in any community. ”

“You’re forgetting the big one,” Thomas said. “Three years ago? Remember?”

Amelia’s mouth tensed, her lips going flat and pale. Then her face softened, her skin wrinkling at the temples. Melissa still couldn’t see the other woman’s eyes very well behind her glasses, but she felt certain in that moment that there must be sadness in them.

“Oh, Thomas,” Amelia said, an ache in her voice. “I’m so sorry.”

“What is it?” Melissa asked. She was getting that dizzy feeling again—and not just from the speed at which the night had devolved from harmless flirting to discussing wild predators and local crimes.

There was also, just then, the confusion and vague embarrassment of wandering into something she didn’t understand, of being the only person who did not have a critical piece of information that the others in the conversation seemed to possess.

What were Thomas and Amelia talking about?

What had Amelia forgotten—and why was she apologizing to Thomas for it?

Melissa was considering whether to press them on these questions or let the moment pass, when she sensed some movement on the other side of the dining room.

Behind Lawrence and Toby at the head of the table, someone stood on the landing at the top of the stairs that led to her basement apartment.

It was Bradley, Melissa’s five-year-old son, a soft blanket wrapped around his shoulders and his hair mussed up from sleep.

“Shit,” Melissa muttered, nudging her chair back. “Thomas, Amelia—I’m really sorry. I have to get this.”

She felt everyone’s eyes follow her as she walked to Bradley.

“Nothing to see here, folks,” she said as she rushed to intercept her son. “Just a bedtime refugee.”

A bit of polite laughter bubbled up from the table, and even though she didn’t want to feel embarrassed, Melissa’s cheeks flamed.

The sight of Bradley’s pajamas and bedhead felt like a crack in the glamour of the dinner party, a shard of family messiness intruding into the classy ambience Lawrence and Toby, Melissa’s hosts and landlords, were trying to strike for the evening.

“Mom, I can’t sleep,” Bradley whimpered when she reached him.

“It’s okay, bud. Let’s get you downstairs.

” Melissa put her hand on the boy’s back, between his shoulder blades, and began to guide him toward the steps.

She glanced back to silently mouth I’m sorry to Lawrence.

He shook his head and gave her a dismissive downward wave— no big deal .

In that same moment, Melissa caught sight of Thomas on the other end of the table, who actually looked sad—no, bereft —to see her go.