I’ll walk that extra mile.
No place to call my home
No woman of my own
But then you rescued me
And your love is the key.
Filled with sunshine
That’s in your smile
Always loving
We’ll go that extra mile.
The last note dies away and I still can’t look up.
The silence hangs in the air.
She stands up and takes the guitar from me, and lays it carefully on the table. Then she sits on my knee and my arms automatically curl around her waist.
“You made me cry,” she says, softly.
“Oh no, baby. Was it that bad?”
“Idiot!” she sniffs, between her tears. “It was beautiful. Oh, Sebastian, it was just wonderful. I love it. And I love you. So much, tesoro.”
Relief floods through me and all the tension drains away. She loved it.
I stand up with her still in my arms.
“Good, let’s go to bed.”
She snuggles into my chest, and lets me carry her into the bedroom.
I’m really looking forward to unwrapping my next present and seeing her in all that fucking sexy red underwear.
I put her down on the bed and yank my t-shirt over my head.
Oh, crap! I think I heard the seam rip again.
“Wait!” she says, loudly.
I stare at her, puzzled.
“I’ve got another present for you yet, Sebastian.”
“I know, baby, and I’m looking forward to unwrapping it.”
She rolls her eyes.
“A different present.”
“You got me something else?”
I can’t help smiling.
Fuck. I love getting presents—I’ve never had that many before. I kinda get why people like Christmas now.
She opens the drawer of her bedside cabinet and pulls out a small envelope, and hands it to me.
“What is it?”
“Sebastian, the whole point is that you open it,” she says, with a smile twitching at her lips.
I toss the pillows behind me and sit propped up against the headboard.
I tear open the envelope and pull out a small photograph. I have no fucking idea what I’m looking at. It’s a weird black and white, swirly picture. For all I know it could be a Klingon vessel attacking the Starship Enterprise.
One.
Two.
Three.
“Oh fuck!”
Four.
Five.
Six.
“Caro?”
Seven.
Eight.
“Is this?”
Nine.
Ten.
“Yes,” she says. “We’re going to have a baby—you’ll be a father. Merry Christmas, Sebastian.”
My wife is the only person in the whole fucking world who can make me cry. And tonight, for the first time in my miserable fucking existence, I cry tears of joy.
* www.wandasummers.co.uk
EXTENDED EPILOGUE 2
maybe, baby
Three Years Later
Marco really is a beautiful little boy. I know every mother says that or at least thinks it about their own child, but in Marco’s case it’s true. Just last week, I was approached by a woman who said she was a scout for a modeling agency, and that she was sure she could get plenty of work for him: catalogues, magazines, even TV commercials.
She was pretty pushy, and couldn’t believe that I wasn’t interested in making money out of my two-year-old son. I took her card out of politeness, but I really wanted to tell her to shove it where the sun don’t necessarily shine.
My language skills have plummeted since my marriage to a certain potty-mouthed former-Marine named Sebastian Hunter. Two and three-quarter years of marriage haven’t managed to curtail the habits picked up from his ten years in the United States Marine Corps. He swears like a drunken sailor on shore leave—and he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it.
But I think the fact that Marco is starting to talk and understand whole sentences, might have a more salutary effect than all of my nagging. But I’m not holding my breath: if Marco drops the f-bomb at Kindergarten, I’m blaming his father.
My eyes must have glazed over because the model agency woman was staring at me like I was simple. But then she spotted something behind me, and I saw her suck in her stomach and stick out her boobs.
I could almost predict what she’d seen. Right on cue, I heard Marco’s happy whoop as Sebastian scooped him into his arms.
“Papa! Papa!”
Hearing my son using those words was a bittersweet experience. Now I was a mother, I missed my own dear father so much more. We named our son after him.
“Hey, little man!”
And I turned around as Sebastian plastered a loud, squishy kiss on the top of Marco’s head, causing him to laugh and squeal.
“I can see where your son gets his looks,” said the agency woman, her gaze ravaging Sebastian’s body.
I couldn’t blame her for looking. I’d long suspected that half of the mothers in the park came here at this hour to enjoy the scenery: and I wasn’t talking about the wonderful view across the beach toward the ocean. I was talking about 6’2” of solid muscle, sculpted abs, broad firm pecs, an ass you could bounce a quarter off (which I knew for a fact, having spent an enjoyable pre-baby afternoon doing exactly that), all topped by a face so beautiful that I was used to people stopping to do a double-take. I’m biased, of course, but it was no exaggeration that men and women were drawn to Sebastian’s ridiculous good looks.
But the best thing, the absolute best thing, was that he was always smiling. Happiness radiated from him. And because there was a time when it seemed like he’d never be happy again, each smile was a small miracle, a special gift, and I treasured every one of them.
The agency woman was still eye-fucking my husband.
“Have you ever done any modeling?” she purred, one hand raised as if she wanted to stroke his stomach. “Because I was just telling the nanny—clients would pay a lot of money to use photographs of you and your son in an advertising campaign.” She laughed lightly. “Obviously the apple didn’t fall too far from the tree.”
The nanny? Good to know that my son’s looks had absolutely nothing to do with me. Although, to be fair, he did look far more like Sebastian than me. Except for his eyes. Marco had my eyes: brown. Well, I called them brown, Sebastian called them hot chocolate, which always made me laugh. His own eyes were a remarkable shade of blue-green, that seemed to change like the color of the ocean.
Sebastian shot me an amused glance as he balanced Marco on his hip, transferring his weight to his good leg.
Even though he’d worked hard to retain a high level of fitness, his injuries from Afghanistan still bothered him; more so when he was tired, or when the weather was particularly cold.
But today it was hot and sunny, and all he was wearing was a small pair of running shorts, his chest and shoulders glowing with sweat. Delicious.
“Yeah, I do modeling,” he said, looking straight at the agency woman as she started to drool. “But only in private … for my wife. Hey, baby.”
Then he leaned down to kiss me, and the agency woman looked as if she had been wading through dog poop in her $600 Laboutins.
“Oh. You’re the mother.”
I raised my eyebrows at her but she didn’t even have the courtesy to blush. She shoved another business card at Sebastian and threw the words, “Call me!” over her shoulder.
“You gonna bitch-slap her, Caro?” he asked, nuzzling my ear, “’cause you really look like you want to right now.”
“Not at all,” I said, primly. “I’m modeling good behavior for our son.”
He smirked at me. “I love it when you’re good, baby, but I love it even more when you’re bad.”
After that encounter, it was nap time. Marco slept soundly while I was thoroughly fucked by 190 pounds of prime manhood.
>
Sebastian called it ‘practice’. What he meant was that we were hoping to conceive baby number two. He didn’t say it, but I knew that he hoped Marco wasn’t going to be an only child. Sebastian had grown up alone and he didn’t want that for his son. Thank goodness he’d met Ches and the Peters’ family when he was 13. It was the only time he’d known what a real home was like—until now.
But unlike my impossible-to-wear-out 30-year-old husband, I was 43; having a toddler running around who was learning how to get into everything, was exhausting enough. We’d been trying for another baby for the last year. I was beginning to think it would never happen.
It wouldn’t be so bad if it didn’t, but still, I hoped.
Every month I’d be disappointed when my period started. Even this morning, my heart pounding like a subway train in rush hour, I’d peed on a little plastic stick. I was two days late, and I had my fingers crossed, my eyes crossed, although not my legs crossed—obviously.
Not Pregnant.
The words on that little piece of white plastic haunted me. I wanted to cry but then a little golden-haired bundle of cuteness tugged on my leg.
“Beach, mommy!”
I’m instantly smiling.
I was supposed to be working on an article for one of the nationals about wounded service men and women learning to surf. But the sun was shining, and my walking, talking, loving son wanted to go to the beach. I shut down my laptop, and was a willing accomplice to his desire to sit on sun-warmed sand and paddle in the ocean.
Besides, my deadline was still several days away. And over the past three years since Sebastian and I had met again, I’d learned not to take these precious moments for granted. Work could wait; even work I greatly enjoyed.
I picked up my beach bag that was waiting by the front door, ready for action. It was a sort of mommy’s version of my journalist’s grab bag for emergency evac. But instead of passport, solar-powered phone charger, first aid supplies, dried food, water, flashlight, and pocket knife, I now carried baby wipes, mints, sun screen, cell phone, swim diapers, pail and shovel, a towel, some water and a snack, wallet and three baseball caps. Today we’d only need two because Sebastian was in the city working at the gym, although only for the morning. He didn’t usually work on a Sunday, but he was doing it as a favor for one of his clients.
Over the last two years, he’d really started to build his business as a personal fitness trainer, specializing in people who’d suffered traumatic injury, including loss of limbs. Not all of his clients were ex-military. One 19-year-old he worked with had lost a leg in a motorcycle accident, and another was born without the lower portion of his left arm.
Sebastian had lost 17% of the muscle from his right thigh, and was left with femoral nerve dysfunction, which could be very painful at times. He’d also been shot in his shoulder and had diminished motor skills in his left hand. You’d hardly know it to look at him, although when he wore his running shorts, the ugly scar covering the upper portion of his right leg was hard to miss.
He’d been very self conscious of it at one time, but now it didn’t bother him when people openly stared. I was more likely to be annoyed by their curiosity than he was.
A couple of months ago he’d starting volunteering as one of the instructors for the Wave Warriors Surf Camp at Virginia Beach. So every other weekend throughout the summer, we were making the seven hour drive south and joining in with the other ex-services families. I’d gotten to know some really amazing people, some of whom were the focus of my article.
And Marco loved it. He was turning into a little surf rat, taking after his father in so many ways. They even shared the same crazy mop of blond hair, although Sebastian was threatening to shave his off again, saying it was getting too long. I’d begged him to keep it, but I wasn’t sure how much longer I’d win that battle.
As far as the surfing went, the long-term plan was for Sebastian to start a similar surf camp for veterans nearer to home.
But right now, we were waiting on even more exciting news. His work with disabled people had been noticed, and the gym manager had put Sebastian’s name forward to be a personal trainer for the 2016 Rio Paralympics US team. Essentially, he’d be helping athletes to use the on-site equipment, although it was a job that was more about kudos than pay. He’d been learning Portuguese via an interactive online program in the hope that this would help his application, even though it wasn’t a requirement. He was picking it up easily, which was very annoying, as my own language skills were severely limited, but damn, I was proud of him, too.
If he got the job, I was planning to join him for at least one of the three weeks he’d be there. At first, I’d been reluctant to agree to go, not wanting to be a distraction while he was focusing on something so important. But then he said he’d been away from me long enough during the ten years we were apart—a comment that filled me with guilt, almost as much as it made me swoon. We were undecided on whether Marco would come with us. If not, Ches and Amy had offered to take him. But Sebastian wanted his son with him, and I suspected he’d get his way. I found it hard to say no to him, a fact which he exploited shamelessly at times.
Once a year, we made a point of traveling out to San Diego to spend time with Sebastian’s best friend, Ches, and his family. Not only that, but Ches’s parents now lived on the west coast and I thought it was good for Marco to have a chance to experience what it was like to have grandparents. Sebastian was estranged from both his mother and father, and I hadn’t heard a word from my mom in 13 years. We’d never got along, and my divorce from David gave her the excuse she’d wanted to cut me out of her life. I knew she was still alive, but that was all.
I didn’t want Marco to miss out on anything, and Ches’s parents, Shirley and Mitch, treated him as part of their family, and Sebastian had always been a second son to them. I wanted to make sure we kept as much connection as was possible even though we lived 3,000 miles apart.
I loved living in Long Beach. It was near enough to urban life, but also had a real small town community vibe about it. And very importantly as far as Sebastian was concerned, it had a good-size surf, with waves coming off the Atlantic that provided long, workable rides.
While Marco and I were strolling toward the beach, I texted my girlfriends to see if they wanted to come and join us. They enjoyed driving out from the city, leaving behind the frantic bustle to have some quality beach time. They also enjoyed ogling the local surfers as they dove through the blue-gray waves, their perfectly toned bodies rippling in the summer sun. Let’s just say they enjoyed the window-dressing.
Things were changing in my group of friends. Nicole had started dating some high-powered Swiss banker, so they only saw each other every couple of weeks. It wouldn’t have suited everyone, but it seemed to work for them. Jenna was still happily single, but Alice had recently become engaged to a fellow professor at NYU, an archeologist who was currently away on a fieldtrip in Peru.
It was rare that the four of us got together these days, so it was almost like old times, except for the fact that Marco was making sandcastles next to us.
Sebastian joined us an hour later, thankful to be back from the madness that was NYC. He scooped up Marco to go for a swim, which meant having Marco’s chubby arms fastened around Sebastian’s neck as he swam up and down.
“It’s almost indecent how hot your husband is,” sighed Nicole. “And seeing him with Marco, I swear my ovaries start doing salsa moves.”
I laughed. “Thinking of joining the club, Nic?”
“God, no! I’ll leave motherhood to you, Lee. You’re a natural—you make everyone else look bad.”
I snorted. “Hardly. It’s an uphill struggle sometimes, and I’m not getting any younger.”
Alice looked at me sympathetically. “Still feeling broody?”
I sighed. “I don’t know. Yes, no, maybe. Sometimes I think … well, if it’s meant to be, it will.”
Jenna patted my arm. “Whatever happens, Lee, you’ve got S
ebastian behind you. That man completely adores you.”
“Yes,” agreed Nicole. “Actually, it’s rather nauseating.”
We all laughed, and the subject was dropped.
The following Monday, Sebastian texted me to say he’d be late home. His Afghan friend, Atash, had asked him to drop in after work.
Atash was a near neighbor. He and his family were refugees from Lashkar Gah in the south of Afghanistan, one of the few Shi’a Muslims in Helmand Province, a largely Sunni area.
Some people thought it strange that Sebastian was friends with Afghans, when it was people from that nation who’d caused his life-changing injury and killed two of his colleagues in front of him. But Sebastian never blamed individuals; his hatred was saved for the politicians who’d let it happen.
But I’d been waiting for hours, watching the lasagna I made slowly desiccating in the oven, and Marco had to go to bed without Daddy’s goodnight kiss. He was very grumpy about that, and I thought it might be tantrum time. I had to promise that Daddy would sneak in and kiss him when he got home. Marco was satisfied with that. Just about.
When I finally heard the front door open and close again quietly, it was nearly 11PM.
“Hey, baby,” Sebastian said, tiredly.
He slumped down next to me on the couch, his limp more pronounced than usual, and I curled up into his side.
“Is everything okay?”
He sighed heavily.
“Yeah, I guess. I’ve been with Atash and his family for the last four, God, five hours.”
He rubbed his forehead, and I started to pull away, meaning to go to the kitchen and get him something to eat.
“Later,” he said, tightening his arms around me. “There’s something I need to talk to you about.”
“Okay,” I said, cautiously.
His serious tone was making nervous, but then Sebastian’s smile quirked up one side of his beautiful lips.
“It’s nothing bad,” he said. “Not really.”
“So what’s up?”
He leaned back and closed his eyes, settling me onto his chest. As I felt the steady rise and fall of his warm body, I began to relax again.