Semper Fi

  She folded her arms across her chest, glaring back at me. “Yes, frankly. I was going to get a cab to drive me to the airport. I’m sure I’d have no trouble getting a flight.”

  I tried to make my voice softer because I could see that being pissed was getting me exactly nowhere.

  “Don’t leave like this, Caro,” I reasoned. “Let’s just talk and if we can’t … fix this, I’ll take you to the airport myself.”

  Even as I said the words I knew with certainty that I didn’t want her to go. I had to man the fuck up and make this right.

  She hesitated for five long seconds, then nodded coldly. I stowed the bag and silently passed her a helmet.

  When I climbed back on the bike, she refused to take my hand, preferring to scramble on awkwardly by herself. I heaved out a sigh when she held onto the small grab-bar at the rear of her seat instead of linking her arms around my waist as she’d always done before.

  I swung the bike around in a slow U-turn and headed southeast, away from the airport, following the coast road. After a few miles, I pulled up by a beach café in the small town of Bogliasco.

  “Do you want a coffee?” I suggested.

  “An espresso and a glass of water, please,” she replied stiffly.

  The waiter was talking to a group of old guys and seemed surprised to have customers so early in the morning.

  I thought I might feel better if I ate something, even though my stomach rebelled at the idea.

  I leaned back in my chair, staring across at Caro, not flinching from her gaze as she stared back. I had no idea how to start this conversation, especially as she didn’t look like she wanted to talk to me.

  Our coffees arrived along with a basket of rolls, and I wondered who was going to break the silence first.

  I pushed the basket toward her but she shook her head.

  “No, thank you. I’ve already eaten.”

  “Did you check out of that place?”

  “Yes,” she clipped out.

  “Did you pack up my stuff?”

  She seemed surprised by my question. “Of course!”

  Yeah? Well, I’d expected her to have tossed my stuff or left it behind.

  “Okay, thanks,” I said quietly. “What do I owe you for the room?”

  “Nothing. Forget it.”

  “Just tell me what I owe you, Caro.”

  “Seeing as you didn’t stay in it, I don’t see why you should pay.”

  I took a deep breath, trying to calm my irritation.

  “Is this how you’re going to be?”

  “How would you like me to be, Sebastian?” she asked coldly. “Because, honestly, I just don’t know.”

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  I grabbed a roll as a distraction, needing to do something with my hands so I could think, and started tearing it into pieces.

  “Look, maybe we should just cut our losses,” she said, her voice empty and tired. “I’ll get a cab to the airport and you can … do whatever you want, Sebastian.”

  God, no! Was that what she wanted? I stared at the crumbs on my plate.

  “I don’t want you to go,” I admitted, the tug of desperation making my gut churn again.

  She waited for me to say something else—but I had no clue what she needed to hear. What the fuck did I know about relationships? I’d gone out with Brenda when I was 16, then met Caro, and had boned so women since her that it was lucky my dick hadn’t died from over-use.

  “Sebastian,” she said, with the tone an adult uses when a kid is pissing them off but they’re trying not to lose it, “you’re going to have to tell me why on earth you’d want me to stay. Last night you said some pretty unpleasant things: and I’m not going to accept your explanation about having drunk too much. It’s clear that you’ve been hanging on to a lot of anger toward me. And I don’t know what I can do about that.”

  She was right. Christ, I hated that. I needed to give her something; explain the flashpoints that kept setting off my explosive temper.

  “Caro, did you really try and find me when I turned 21?”

  She sighed, looking disappointed.

  “I’ll tell you exactly what I told you before: I wrote to Shirley, and I wrote to Donna. But no, I didn’t try and find you directly, because I simply wanted to know that you were okay. When both letters were returned unopened, I suppose I took it as an omen that it wasn’t to be. I didn’t feel I had the right to interrupt your life and risk doing further damage. I felt a great deal of guilt at the devastation I left behind me: I didn’t want to remind you of all that, or make you feel any obligation toward me. It never occurred to me that you … that you’d be waiting for me.”

  Was she for real? I leaned forward, my tone angry. “But I said I’d wait for you. I promised I’d wait. Hell, Caro, it was the last thing I got to say to you. And you … you said…” I stopped, wondering if she even remembered what she’d said to me.

  Her gaze softened and her eyes creased with emotion.

  “Oh, Sebastian … I’m so very sorry.”

  I swallowed hard, hearing the regret in her voice. “Did you mean it, Caro? Did you mean it when you said you loved me?”

  “Yes, tesoro,” she whispered.

  Her admission stunned me, that and hearing the nickname that she’d had for me all those years ago … but was it all in the past tense?

  “I loved you very much,” she continued, but then her back straightened, and some of the softness hardened again. “But you’re not the person I knew ten years ago. The Sebastian I knew was sweet and gentle and loving, but you … you can be like that, but your anger scares me. The hatred I saw in your face and heard in your words—that was hard for me. I can see that you think I let you down badly ten years ago, or when you were 21 … and I can’t tell you how sorry I am for that, but I can’t fix it either—I can’t change the past.”

  It was so hard to hear what she thought of me now, so I turned away, staring out at the waves.

  “I’m confused about what you want from me, Sebastian,” she went on, her voice serious and determined. “One minute you say we’ve been given a second chance and that we should try again, and the next minute you’re blaming me for every bad decision you’ve taken in the last ten years. If you hate me that much, if you resent me that much, why am I here?”

  “I don’t hate you, Caro,” I said quickly.

  “Sebastian, you called me a liar; you said you could never trust me.”

  I winced, hating to have my words thrown back at me.

  “You asked me to come with you on this trip,” she said crisply, “and then the first time something goes wrong, you fling the past in my face. If you really believe I did what I did because I didn’t care, then I don’t see how we’re going to get past that.”

  My hope, which had never been great to begin with, drained away.

  “Look,” she sighed when I didn’t speak, “I wouldn’t be who I am now if I hadn’t met you—that’s the truth. I’d probably still be locked in a loveless marriage. But that’s only half the story.”

  That made me look up.

  “It was really tough for me when I got to New York. I had almost no money, no contacts, nowhere to live, no job. Do you want to know how I survived? I cleaned people’s houses; I scrubbed their toilets. For three years. Until eventually I earned enough from my writing.”

  “I didn’t know,” I said, sad beyond words that she’d had to struggle so hard.

  “No, because you didn’t give me the chance to answer you last night.”

  I decided that I needed to know more about the missing ten years, but there was only one important question left for me to ask.

  “You said you dated a couple of times.”

  “Excuse me?”

  She sounded surprised. Well, she knew my dating history—I needed to know hers.

  “The first night we talked. I asked you if you were seeing anyone, and you said you’d dated a couple of times.”

  “Yes, so?”

  ?
??When?”

  “What, you want dates?”

  “Yes.”

  She sighed and shook her head, but she wasn’t saying no.

  “I met Bob on my 35th birthday when I was having drinks with friends. We dated for three months and then he was transferred to an office in Cincinnati. Eric was a couple of years later: we dated for about six weeks before he dumped me for a younger woman.”

  I waited for more but she just stared at me.

  “That’s it?” I questioned.

  I was stunned. She’d waited five years before she’d dated anyone after she left me? Seriously?

  “I had a one night stand with a reporter when I was on assignment in Mexico,” she said defiantly, her head held high. “That’s it. Now you know my entire sexual history. Although I very much doubt you could be as succinct about yours.”

  I had to concede a wry smile. “I deserve that,” I admitted.

  She closed her eyes and leaned back.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  She shook her head slowly and her lips turned down. “Not really.”

  I was tired of trying to think of the right thing to say, so I just told the truth.

  “I am sorry, Caro. I just get fucked up in the head sometimes.”

  Her eyes were still tinged with hurt and anger.

  “You can’t deal with it by lashing out at me,” she sighed. “And I can’t deal with it if you keep blaming me for something I can’t change.”

  We’d come so far and waited so long, and if last night had taught me anything, I wanted this second chance. Badly. And I was fucking it up. Again. My head sank into my hands as I mumbled a reply.

  “Don’t give up on me, Caro.”

  “Last night I thought you’d given up on me,” she said firmly.

  I really wanted to kick my own ass.

  “Can we start again, Caro?” I asked, no longer too proud to beg. “I promise I’ll try not to fuck up again.”

  She took a deep breath.

  “Sebastian, it’s not a case of starting again; it’s about working things through when we have a problem. Funny enough, it was you who taught me that, ten years ago: you made me face up to things. You can’t promise me you won’t fuck up, because you will. And I can’t promise you that I won’t fuck up, because I will. We can deal, and we can move on. Or, we can say it’s been an interesting few days, and go our separate ways.”

  I reached over and took her hand carefully, examining her narrow wrist and slender fingers.

  “I want to go on,” I admitted to her, to myself. “With you.”

  She stared at me for several long seconds, and I had the weirdest sensation that she was trying to read my mind.

  “Okay, then,” she breathed out slowly. “Let’s try.”

  “And I promise not to sleep with your best friend, especially if it’s that scary British woman I saw you with in Geneva.”

  I hoped my lame joke would lighten the moment, but her expression told me it was too soon for that.

  “Sorry,” I said quietly. “Another foot-in-mouth moment.”

  She pulled her hand free and sat back to pick up the cup of lukewarm espresso in front of her. Absentmindedly, I watched her lips as she sipped her coffee, forcing some pieces of bread into my mouth, hoping it would help settle my stomach.

  “Did they say anything about last night?” I asked suddenly, realizing that I’d left Caro with a fucked up situation to deal with. “The people at the villa?”

  “Not really,” she said mildly. “They were mostly embarrassed. I think we’ve managed to ruin it for any other Americans who might want to stay there. But the old lady told me that you’d be back.”

  That surprised me.

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” she said with a half smile, “and I’m pretty certain it was me not you she was applauding last night. She probably thought I should get a medal for putting up with you.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, “a Purple Heart.”

  “Wounded in action?” she asked seriously.

  My smile slipped away. “I’m really sorry about what I said.”

  She shook her head slowly. “We’re moving on, remember? But, for the record, apology accepted.”

  I looked down and ate some of the pieces of bread roll, more for a distraction than anything else.

  “I got drunk and fell asleep on the beach,” I admitted. “In case you were wondering.”

  I didn’t want Caro to think I’d spent the night with another woman.

  She looked away and frowned.

  “Well, thank you for telling me.”

  “I panicked when I woke up: I thought you might have gone. And then I saw you walking along the road. At first I was relieved but then … I just thought you’d walked out on me. That’s why I was…”

  “…such an ass?”

  I managed a rueful smile at her sharp comeback.

  “Yeah, that about sums it up.”

  “Well, like I said, thank you for telling me.” She took a deep breath and tried to smile. “Now, what’s the big plan for today?”

  She was letting me off the hook. Thank fuck for that.

  “I thought we could go to Pisa—take a look at that big, old leaning tower. It’s about two hours away.”

  “Sure, that sounds fun.”

  Her smile wasn’t 100% natural, but she was trying. I guess we both were.

  I swallowed a few more pieces of roll, hoping it would soak up the remainder of the alcohol in my system, then threw some Euros on the table and stood up to go. Without thinking, I held out my hand to Caro. Her reaction was a little strained, but she took my hand and I wrapped my fingers around hers, squeezing gently.

  We walked to the bike and I pulled on my leather jacket as she stowed her luggage in the saddlebags, refusing to meet my gaze.

  “I really want to kiss you,” I said, hoping that she’d truly forgiven me.

  She hesitated, and my stomach dropped to my boots before she looked up and nodded once.

  “Okay.”

  Relieved that she was going to let me touch her, I rested my hands on her waist and brushed my lips to hers. She pulled back quickly.

  “Caro…”

  “Just hold me, Sebastian. Just hold me.”

  She laid both her hands on my chest and leaned her cheek against my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around her, hugging tightly.

  “I’m sorry,” I said for the millionth time. “I’m so sorry,” and I pressed a small kiss into her hair.

  When I could bear to let her go, she looked up and gave me a quick smile. A real one.

  “We’ll get there,” she said.

  Pisa was slammed, getting high on festival fever. Music blared from every café and ristorante, competing with the street entertainers and musicians, and the streets were filled with people partying. If I’d been here a week ago, still resolutely single, I’d have joined them, drinking and flirting, until I found a piece of pussy to hook up with for the night. But not now: the only girl I wanted was riding behind me on my bike.

  I found a parking lot filled with battered Fiats and old Renaults. It wasn’t the most secure place in the world, but it would have to do.

  “Are you taking your camera?” I suggested to Caro.

  “Might as well,” she said, flinging it loosely over one, slim shoulder. “Who knows, maybe I’ll be able to sell a travelogue of biking through Italy.”

  I was definitely on board with that idea. I’d much prefer Caro wrote articles from places that weren’t in a warzone. “It’s got to beat reporting from shitty military camps in fucked up countries.”

  She shrugged, and I could tell that if I pushed her on the subject of her work, we’d be fighting again. But I really didn’t get it. I’d met foreign correspondents in Iraq and Afghanistan: they were a bunch of hard-drinking adrenaline junkies. I also knew guys who made a nice pile of extra cash by passing low-value info to journos who were hoping to get the next scoop. Yeah, I was glad that they reported to t
he people back home, because the sooner this fucked up war came to an end and we pulled out, the better. But the reporters I’d met—much like that scary British woman back in Geneva—they weren’t happy unless they were in the heat of the front line: total fucking bullet magnets. Caro wasn’t like that.

  Holding in a sigh and biting back further comments¸ we walked into the city to explore.

  Leaning tower. Check.

  Bunch of old buildings. Check.

  More old buildings. Check. Yawn.

  Even more old buildings. Fuck me.

  After what felt like half a lifetime, I was seriously done with seeing anymore old ruins or piles of rubble. I didn’t care if they were built by the Romans, the Italians or the fucking Egyptians. And I was so hungry, I was ready to chew my arm off.

  Caro had been mostly silent, but taking photo after photo of everything we saw. Well, I guess she saw more in it than I did: still a bunch of fucking bricks.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” I asked.

  “I was just thinking about Papa—wondering if he ever came here.”

  It explained why she’d been so quiet. At least she wasn’t still pissed at me. Well, not as much.

  “I really loved your dad, Caro,” I admitted, thinking back to the guy with a crazy mustache who played with me and talked to me, and taught me more about the world than my asswipe of a father. “I was kinda jealous of you when I was a kid—I wanted so badly to have a dad like him, not the sack of shit I was saddled with.”

  “Do you … keep up with your parents at all?”

  That’s a hell no!

  “Last time I saw the old bastard was at my graduation from boot camp.”

  “Oh,” she said, sounding surprised, “that was … nice of him.”

  I stared at her incredulously. I thought she knew what a mean shit my dad was.

  “Are you fucking kidding me? He only did it because he knew it would piss me off to have to salute him.”

  “Oh, right,” she said, frowning. What about Estelle?”

  I shrugged. “She’s still in San Diego. Ches sees her around now and again. He banned her from the country club—drinking. They got divorced a few years back. Dad shacked up with some stripper. I don’t really know. What about your mom? Do you see her?”