Page 32 of Stay Away from Him

Amelia:[sighs] I suppose I do.

Thomas:Okay. Well, first of all—that’s not exactly how I remember it. Yeah, I rebounded with Rose. But you broke up withme, remember? What was I supposed to do? Be alone forever?

Amelia:It wasn’t abreakup, it was abreak. We were both in med school, stressed out of our minds with the workload—I just needed some space, for a little while. We both did. I didn’t think you’d run out and get yourself another girlfriend so quickly. Much less marry her.

Thomas:You’re hurt.

Amelia:Iwas. At the time.

Thomas:It sounds fresh, though. The way you’re talking about it. You’re still hurt.

Amelia:Maybe. Maybe I am.

Thomas:Well, did it ever occur to you that maybe you hurt me too? I didn’t hear it as a temporary thing—I thought you weredone with me forever. You wanted to split up so you could focus on your work. Your ambitions for yourself.

Amelia:What’s wrong with that? You were ambitious too.

Thomas:Nothing’s wrong with it. And you’re right. I was also ambitious. It’s just, I was second to all the things you wanted to accomplish in your life. I knew that, and I didn’t see it changing. So yeah, I went out and found someone else. But it was a mistake, Amelia. That’s what I’m telling you. It was a mistake, and now that Rose is gone, I can finally admit that.

Amelia:Is that why you tried so hard to keep me close all these years? You knew you’d made a mistake with Rose, so you were keeping me nearby as…what? Your backup plan?

Thomas:Come on. You know it was never like that.

Amelia:Wasn’t it? How did I end up as your next-door neighbor, Thomas?

Thomas:That was your choice. Nobody forced you.

Amelia:No, but you suggested it. Told me about this perfect house that went for sale next to you, said it would be a great place for me to see patients.

Thomas:Okay, and then you moved here. I told you about the house, but you were the one who chose to come. Why? I’ve confessed to you that I’ve been thinking aboutus, the way we were together all those years ago, how perfect we were together. Haven’t you been thinking the same way? You say I’ve kept you close—and that’s true. But why have youstayedclose? Is it because some part of you hoped we’d end up together too? Is there a part of you that’s glad Rose is gone?

Amelia:I’m incredibly concerned for Rose’s safety.

Thomas:Come on. Just admit it.

Amelia:I can’t. I won’t. Do you have any idea what people would say if they knew we were talking like this? The police, for one?

Thomas:Oh, I know. They’d say I killed her.

Amelia:No.

Thomas:No? Then what would they say?

Amelia:ThatIkilled her.

Rose

My husband doesn’t love me anymore.

He used to. I know he did. The way he used to look at me, to speak to me, to touch me. There was no mistaking it. Like I was some rare and precious thing. Like he was the luckiest man in the world, to have someone like me.

The way he looked at me when I first saw him. When I opened my eyes and saw him standing there, gazing at me like I was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.

We were both in graduate school. He was a med student, and I was studying studio art. I was in a bit of a bad place, actually, realizing that I’d gone on to get an MFA in visual art not because I was any good at painting, but because I basically wasn’t good at anything else. Because I didn’t know what else to do. But that wasn’t a good reason to spend thousands of dollars on school, to go into more debt, and I was slowly realizing it. I wasn’t going to become a famous painter, probably wasn’t even going to get a job as a museum curator or college art professor. I should drop out. But I didn’t know what else I was going to do. My life had become all dead ends.

I went on a walk to clear my head, and that’s when it started snowing: big, fat flakes that tumbled down and settled on my hair and shoulders like dandruff. Under the light of a streetlamp, I raised my face to the sky and felt the cold on my face. The momentary shock of it erased my thoughts for a moment, erased me, until all there was was that moment. Maybe I wanted to be swept away with it, buried in it, the white creeping up from my ankles to my knees, my waist,my head. Encased in a snowbank, my body discovered in the spring.

The thought was scary—scary how much I liked it—and in that moment I heard a voice, saying something about catching my death of cold. My eyes snapped open, and there he was. Thomas. Lit up under the light like a saint, a gold-foiled icon, a stained glass window with light pouring through into darkness. Later, he told me he thought I looked like an angel, but it was he who looked most like an ethereal creature, and anyone who’s ever seen Thomas will know what I’m talking about. He’s a very handsome man—a perfect smile, gorgeous eyes, wavy hair you want to run your hands through—and in that moment, he appeared to me as a kind of savior. A golden god.

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