Текст книги "Semper Fi"

Автор книги: Jane Harvey-Berrick

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Текущая страница: 20 (всего у книги 24 страниц)

The flight from DC to JFK was short—60 minutes, tops.

There was a moment at Dulles airport when I seriously thought about getting on the first flight to California. Part of me wanted to, but I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t land myself on Ches, but I didn’t want to be with Caro either. Not like this. Not when everything between us was so unequal.

I had nothing to offer her and she had no future with me. And I couldn’t help thinking she was only with me now out of loyalty; I was dreading the day when I saw hatred in her eyes. I’d seen every other emotion: frustration, annoyance, anger, fear, love as well, I think. But I also saw pity. That was the worst.

She’d arranged a taxi to drive us from the airport to her place on Long Beach. But she’d also requested a wheelchair to take me through the airport. No way. No fucking way was I going to be wheeled around anymore. I didn’t care how much agony I was in; I was fucking walking out of there.

She argued. I argued back.

“I’m not fucking using it, Caro, so just drop it,” I snarled.

She dropped it, and then watched me move through the terminal building on two crutches at a slow crawl. My left shoulder was burning with the effort and sweat was running down my back by the time we got to the taxi.

The driver talked the whole way, but I ignored him. I figured Caro was polite enough for both of us, so I just stared out the window, so lost in my thoughts that I was surprised when I saw the ocean in the distance, deep blue in the late evening sun. I felt a flicker of something that might have been hope, but it was soon extinguished by the darkness that filled me.

When we arrived at Caro’s bungalow, the driver collected our bags from the trunk and tossed them onto the porch. The thought of putting weight on those crutches again made me nauseous, but I grit my teeth and struggled out of the car. I’d been a fucking Marine. Yeah, so? Now I was nothing.

The driver was staring at me.

“Dude, what happened to your leg?”

“Bomb.”

“Say what?”

“Bomb: got blown up.”

“Cool!”

I didn’t even bother to reply to the asshole. I started to get some money out of my wallet, but Caro was quicker and had paid the driver before I’d even gotten my hand in my pocket. I was too pathetic even to pay for a fucking taxi.

I forced my body to carry on, and made my way into Caro’s living room. I was so exhausted, I couldn’t take much in. It was small, but it looked homey. Her home. This was just a pit stop for me. I was still in transit, and the sooner I got used to that idea, the better.

“Do you want to lie down, tesoro?” Caro asked quietly.

I opened my eyes, and she looked at me with so much compassion. I hated it.

“I’ll stay here for a while.”

But the words spun around my brain. I wouldn’t be staying here for long. If I could just get back enough physically, I’d go to San Diego—get some night security job and drink myself to death. Put everyone out of their misery.

“Okay,” she said hesitantly. “Well, I’ll put your bags in the spare room for now. We can go through them later.”

I didn’t answer.

She was gone less than a minute before she was in my face again.

“Are you hungry? Would you like some pasta?”

I wasn’t hungry. The meds made my gut ache, so I shook my head. “No.”

She didn’t move, so I glanced up at her. She looked like she wanted to say something, but then she sighed.

“Maybe later,” she said.

“This wasn’t what I’d planned,” I said bitterly, staring at her walls lined with stunning black and white photographs that I guessed she’d taken for her work.

“It’s not what either of us had in mind,” she replied carefully, “but we’ll deal, won’t we?”

“I thought I’d be carrying you over the fucking threshold,” I scowled, my mouth twisting with disgust.

“That doesn’t matter, Sebastian. We…”

And then I lost it.

“Yes, it does fucking matter, Caro!” I shouted, making her jump. “It really fucking matters! Christ, can’t you understand something as fucking simple as that?”

She blanched and apologized hurriedly.

“I’m sorry, Sebastian, I just…”

“Just what, Caro?”

“Nothing,” she muttered, walking into the kitchen.

I felt guilty for shouting at her. As if I needed more fucking guilt in my life. And that thought made me angry. But hell! Didn’t she understand? Didn’t she get how fucking humiliating it was to have to be grateful to her for every fucking little thing? I hated how weak I was. I hated how worried Caro looked. I hated everything about my fucking life.

I need a drink.

I don’t know where that thought came from, but it was coming through loud and clear.

I could hear Caro in the kitchen and then she returned with a plate of sandwiches that she placed down next to me.

And I really hated that no one listened to what I wanted anymore. I’d already told her I wasn’t hungry. I wanted to throw that fucking plate at the wall. I didn’t, but I wanted to.

Instead, I concentrated on controlling my breathing.

I guess Caro couldn’t stand the silence, because eventually she turned on the TV, quickly flicking off news reports of Afghanistan, so we ended up watching something about meerkats in Africa. Fuck’s sake.

“Do you have any beer?” I asked.

Caro jumped in her chair.

“Oh, no, sorry,” she stuttered. “I could open some wine?”

I nodded. “Yeah, that’ll do.”

It was better than nothing.

She came back with a bottle of red wine. I have no idea what type it was. I just wanted to get drunk as quickly as possible, I wanted to get numb as quickly as possible. And because I hadn’t had a drink in over four months, it didn’t take long.

I was planning on finishing the entire bottle, but Caro took it into the kitchen after I’d drunk about half of it. That pissed me off.

“Caro, what are you doing with the fucking wine?”

She gave me a hard look.

“You haven’t eaten anything and you have to take your painkillers, Sebastian. So no, the wine stays in the kitchen.”

The ticking time bomb of insanity exploded.

“Jesus fucking Christ! What is wrong with you? I’m stuck in this fucking chair and all I want is a fucking drink! Who the fuck do you think you are, telling me what I can and can’t drink? Who the fuck are you to tell me how to live my life? Who gave you the right? No one! Fucking no one!”

Even as the fury raged, a part of me knew I was being a complete bastard; I just couldn’t stop myself.

She didn’t even try to fight back, and that made me angrier. When I was too exhausted to shout anymore, I stopped.

Her face was in shadow, so I couldn’t tell what she was thinking anymore. I could probably guess: nothing good.

“Should I show you where the bedroom is?” she asked quietly.

“It’s a fucking bungalow, Caro,” I yelled again, “how fucking difficult do you think it’s going to be? I’m not a fucking moron, even if I am a cripple.”

“Sebastian…”

But I didn’t wait to listen. I pulled myself off the couch, clenching my teeth as pain lanced through me.

I stumbled against the wall, feeling the effects of the wine, then crashed into the spare room. After I fought my way out of that, I found the master bedroom. I sat down heavily, having to catch my breath from the extreme fucking effort of walking 20 feet. How pathetic was that? I pulled off my t-shirt, dropping it on the floor beside the bed, then eased off my sneakers and jeans. It took forever to get my socks off. For fuck’s sake. I lay on my good side, facing away from Caro’s side of the bed.

A few minutes later, she joined me and I tensed up. I didn’t know what she’d want, what she’d expect. Whatever it was, I couldn’t give it to her.

She slipped into the bed, careful not to jostle me, then spooned her body behind mine, resting her arm across my waist and stroking my skin. A bolt of terror shuttled through me.

I shifted slightly.

“Don’t,” I said, my voice cold and harsh.

She pulled her hand back quickly and I heard the breath hitch in her throat, but she didn’t speak.

I don’t know how long we both lay there, awake, not talking. It was a long fucking time. And then I heard her crying. She didn’t think that I was awake, but I was.

I wanted to reach out to her, comfort her, but I couldn’t do it. The sooner I was out of her life, the better for her.

The next day, I could tell that she was more hopeful. I don’t know why– same shit different day. I wasn’t better. I was worse. And the day after that, a lot worse. I couldn’t admit it to myself, but I was sinking fast.

During the days that followed, I had no interest in anything: I wouldn’t shower or change my clothes unless she nagged until my head pounded. I refused to shave. In the Marines you had to shave every day. I was a civilian, so what was the point.

Even when my beard started itching like fuck, I refused to shave it off. And with paranoia becoming a worsening problem, I felt as if I could hide behind it. My buzz cut had grown out as well. No one would guess I was a Marine. A former Marine. Fuck.

I was supposed to be continuing with my therapy sessions at a vets hospital, but I refused to have anything to do with it. If the Marines didn’t want me, fuck ‘em.

“What the fuck do they know about it, Caro?” I shouted when she mentioned it again.

“A lot: you’re not the first Marine who’s been injured,” she said, struggling to keep her voice calm.

“Former Marine. Former fucking Marine, Caro. I’m nothing now. Maybe you can try and fucking remember that.”

She shut up then.

But the next day, she tried a different angle.

“Sebastian, have you thought any more about when we’ll get married? Or where? Because I don’t mind if we go to San Diego and…”

No, no, NO!

“I’m not going to let you marry a useless, fucking cripple,” I roared. “If I can’t even walk down the fucking aisle without a fucking stick…”

She didn’t ask me again.

I knew I was struggling, but I didn’t want to give in. Instead, the PTSD began to swallow me up: mood swings, raised anxiety levels, flashbacks that were so fucking terrifying I’d end up cowering on the floor, not even believing I was back in the US. So I drank. I worked my way through Caro’s small collection of wine, ignoring her when she tried to stop me.

My usual responses were shouting and yelling, or just zoning out completely. I was hanging by a thread, and sometimes I thought it might be easier to let it break. I was close.

It was the stupidest fucking thing that kept me clinging on: that tiny heart-shaped pebble that Caro had given me back in Geneva. I kept it with me all the time, rubbing my fingers over the smooth surface, letting the motion soothe me and remind me that the ocean was timeless and endless, making my fuckedupness meaningless.

One day, late in the summer, Caro suggested that her friends come over to ‘cheer’ me up. Was she fucking insane? Oh wait, no … that was me.

“Yeah, they want to come see the fucking war cripple,” I snapped, “make them feel good, like fucking charity. What’s the matter with you, Caro? Do I look like I’m ready to see anyone?”

“Sebastian,” she said calmly, “they’re my friends. They want to meet you, and they want to see me. You don’t have to put on a performance for them.”

That was a fucking lie. If they saw the real me, they’d wonder what the fuck Caro was doing putting up with my pathetic ass.

“Sure, let them come, but I’m staying in the fucking bedroom.”

They didn’t come.

She started going for long walks by herself. That’s what she said she was doing, but I wondered. I’d spend the hours she was away staring out the window, desperate for her to come back, but as soon as she did, I couldn’t help snapping at her again. I think I was making her hate me; that was okay, because I loathed the piece of shit I’d become.

The nightmares were getting worse, and I didn’t think that was possible. I woke up screaming every night, and once I lashed out, nearly hitting her. I stopped at the last second, appalled by the fear in her eyes. I wanted to gouge my own eyes out, so I never had to see her looking at me like that again.

I hated it. I hated not feeling safe anywhere. I didn’t leave the house, but I didn’t feel safe inside either. I started checking that the windows and doors were locked two or three times a night before we went to bed, and I had a panic attack every time someone came to the house, even the fucking mailman. Once, he tried to deliver a parcel for Caro, and I hid in the kitchen, armed with a set of steak knives.

And then she just stopped.

The forced calmness that she put on every morning shattered. She wouldn’t buy me any more alcohol.

“If you want a fucking drink, then get your fucking ass off that couch and go get yourself one, Sebastian!”

She slammed out of the house and I didn’t see her for three hours.

I thought about killing myself, because then both our problems would be over. But that stupid fucking pebble stopped me. I kept thinking what it would do to Caro to come home and find my body. As much as I hated myself, as much as I hated what I’d become, I couldn’t do that to her. But I was so tired. So tired of being me, of all the thoughts that ran through my head incessantly, torturing what little sanity I had left. The memories, the fucking awful memories. I just wanted it to stop. But it didn’t.

So we were trapped in a hell of my own making, and I had no idea how to climb out of it.

Something had to break. As it turned out, it was me.

Because Caro refused to buy me liquor, I started dosing up on caffeine, staying awake for days at a time. It was the only way to stop the nightmares. But she got wise to that and started buying shitty decaf. Then she found that I’d drank all of the cough syrup. She was pretty mad about that too, but I was almost past caring. Almost.

But that afternoon, all I wanted to do was to make it into the kitchen to make myself a cup of lousy decaf. I couldn’t even do that.

Although I’d managed to switch from crutches to a walking cane, I was still fucking useless.

I lost my balance crossing the room, then tried to grab hold of the smaller of the two bookcases, and ended up falling onto the floor, crashing my bad leg against the coffee table. I thought I was going to pass out from the pain, but swearing up and down, cursing like it was going out of fashion kept me conscious.

So I was lying on the floor, surrounded by Caro’s books when she found me.

“What happened?” she asked breathlessly, as she ran into the room.

“I fucking fell!” I snarled at her. “What does it look like?”

She bent down to help me up.

“Leave me alone! I’m not a complete fucking cripple.”

That was a lie, but I couldn’t, wouldn’t let her help me.

She bit her lip, her expression pained as she watched me struggle to sit up and lean against the couch. I hated, hated being so fucking helpless, and I lost my temper every time Caro tried to help me. I knew I was hurting her, but I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t fucking stop.

Still on the floor, I made it as far as leaning against the couch, the effort leaving me drained. Silently, Caro bent down and started picking up the books nearest to her. I watched for a moment, then reached down to collect the ones that were within my reach. But when I picked up a copy of ‘Lolita’ by its cover, an envelope fell out, fluttering to the ground. Caro leaned down to take it, but for once I was faster.

“What’s this?” I asked, studying the envelope. “It’s got my name on it.”

Then my eyes widened in shock and I looked up at her.

“The date on it … that’s the day we first…”

The day we first made love. The day I lost my virginity to Caro ten years ago.

“Yes, I know,” she said quietly.

I remembered that night so clearly. I’d had another fight with my asshole father. This time because in those days I had long hair—surfer hair—and he hated it. He hit me in the face the second I walked through the front door, and attacked my hair with scissors, cutting out long chunks. Then he’d tried to beat the shit out of me, but I’d gotten in a couple of good punches before I ran out of the house.

Caro had found me bloody and bruised in the park. And she’d taken me to her home and took care of me. She talked to me, patched me up, and shaved my hair into a buzz cut for the first time.

And then I told her that I loved her. And then she’d let me … oh God, she’d let me make love to her.

So many memories…

I had no idea what was in the envelope; I only knew that night had changed both our lives. I didn’t know why the envelope was important, but as I studied the yellowing paper, I knew that it was.

She pressed her lips together.

“Open it.”

I propped myself up against the couch then heaved myself upward, dropping back against the cushions. I fumbled trying to open the sealed envelope; my left hand was still fucked—that wasn’t going to change.

I thought there might be a letter or a photograph inside, but I was wrong.

A lock of long, blond hair fell out. My hair. From ten years ago.

I stared up at her.

“This is mine—my hair. You kept it—all these years?”

“Yes, tesoro,” she said quietly. “It was all I had of you.”

I closed my eyes, holding the lock in my right hand. My heart was thundering in my chest and I was struggling to breathe.

“Caro, I don’t understand,” I gasped. “Why do you love me?”

“Just because … because the sky is blue and the sea is green.”

And then I broke.

Everything she’d told me was true. She’d loved me ten years ago, and all the years in between, and she still loved me now. And I didn’t know why; I didn’t understand, but maybe that didn’t matter, because she loved me, and I loved her and I always had. It had only ever been her. My Caro.

I started to cry, because the hope was so fucking painful. All the anger, all the frustration, all the hatred flowed out of me and I let my love for this amazing woman take its place. I felt the moment my heart began to heal like a physical heat inside my body. I fisted my hands over my eyes and cried. And then Caro was beside me. She fastened her arms around me, holding me tightly, and for the first time in a long time, I let her. She wrapped her arms around me and I could feel her forcing the darkness away, trying to heal me with her body, with her touch.

“I love you, Sebastian, please don’t push me away. I love you.”

“Oh God. I just don’t know what I’m doing any more; I’m so fucked up—I feel like I can’t fucking breathe. Don’t give up on me, Caro. Please don’t give up on me. I need you, baby. I love you so much. I’m so sorry…”

I don’t know how long we sat there—a long time, I think. She held me, just stroking my hair as I rested my head in her lap, her fingers running over my cheeks, tugging gently at the thick beard.

I sat up slowly, my body stiff, my eyes feeling hot and swollen. A part of my mind wanted to be ashamed that I’d broken in front of her; the rest of me didn’t care because I knew she loved me no matter what. That was the part I was going to listen to.

“It’s time to go out now, Sebastian,” she said softly, staring into my eyes.

A pulse of fear made me shudder, and I closed my eyes and swallowed.

“I don’t know if I can do that, Caro.”

“You don’t have to do this by yourself, Sebastian,” she said, stroking my arms gently. “We go together. Come on, tesoro. Together.”

I was so fucking terrified by the thought of going outside. Logically, I knew that there were no IEDs in Long Beach, no snipers waiting on roofs to finish the job. I knew that. My brain knew that, but my fucking body kept sending signals like I was going out on an op, with no body armor and no weapon. So yeah, I was shit scared.

Caro gave me a Yankees baseball cap to wear. I didn’t care which fucking team it was from, and I pulled it down over my eyes, trying to hide. Silently, she passed me my old biker jacket which had arrived in a trunk three weeks ago. I didn’t even know she’d unpacked it. When I tried it on, it hung loosely from my shoulders, reminding me that I was a scrawny fucker these days.

Then we were outside. I flinched as Caro shut the door behind me, and took several deep breaths, trying to force some calm into my body.

As I squinted into the sunshine, Caro took my hand, and I swear my heart instantly slowed to a more normal rhythm.

We walked along haltingly, not just because I couldn’t move fast, but because I couldn’t help myself checking the roof tops for rifle barrels sticking out, for suspicious faces in the crowds that ebbed and flowed around us.

I tried to reboot my brain. I tried so fucking hard.

And then…

I let myself enjoy the fresh air. I let myself breathe.

Caro didn’t let go my hand the whole time.

“There’s a café over there, Sebastian,” she said softly. “Why don’t we go have a coffee?”

My heart rate immediately shot up.

“I don’t know, Caro … sitting outside? I wouldn’t feel … safe.”

She squeezed my hand more tightly.

“Sebastian, you know rationally that there’s nothing to worry about. Let’s just try it for a couple of minutes: if you really can’t handle it, we’ll leave.”

My body jerked and hummed with adrenalin, but I didn’t argue. My eyes were darting everywhere as I sat cautiously in the plastic seat, my back to the wall.

The waiter came toward us and I flinched away from him, but Caro rested her hand on my knee, calming me.

“I’ll have an espresso. Sebastian?”

I was only barely aware that she’d spoken, so she answered for me.

“And a Bud Light,” she said.

The waiter walked away shaking his head; he was used to a bit of crazy among his customers.

I sipped my beer, forcing myself to relax. I’m not sure I ever did, but it wasn’t as scary as it would have been without Caro.

I won’t lie, I felt happier once we were moving again. I was shocked by how exhausted I was after such a short walk—a guy who used to march for 30 hours with a ninety pound pack on his back. Fucking pathetic.

Caro took me along the Boardwalk. I hadn’t been there before. Despite the large numbers, I wasn’t freaking out too badly. People were laidback, strolling in the sunshine.

But then a roaring sound scared the crap out of me and I nearly hit the deck. I was shaking so badly. Jesus H Christ—it was just a kid on a skateboard. I was seconds from having a full-on panic attack.

“It’s okay, tesoro,” Caro said, holding my hand firmly as I panted and wheezed. “You’ll be okay.”

“Fuck, Caro,” I gasped.

By the time we reached the end of the Boardwalk, I began to relax a little more. Caro found an empty bench and we sat gazing at the ocean. I breathed in deeply, feeling calmed by the rhythmical motion of the waves. The ocean had always been my safe place when I was a kid—a place to get away from my parents. Seemed like it was still my safe place.

A couple of kids were playing on bodyboards, catching a few rides, shouting and laughing. That was something I knew. Something I understood. I leaned forward to watch them and I felt Caro relax against me.

For the first time in months, I put my good arm around her, feeling the soft warmth of her body as she snuggled against me.

“The ocean always reminds me of you, tesoro. It’s the same color as your eyes today.”

There was so much love in her voice that I was speechless. I didn’t know why; I didn’t understand it at all. But I didn’t have to. All I could do was lift her hand to my lips and kiss it gently, reverently.

“Caro.”

I breathed her name softly, like a prayer, because this woman had brought me back from hell.

A light breeze ruffled my hair and I could feel the sun on my face as we sat by the ocean. I felt I could breathe again. Live again.

“Thank you for this, Caro,” I whispered.

She smiled up at me.

“Ready to go home, tesoro?”

I nodded, and we stood up to walk home. Our home.

We went back a different, slightly less crowded route. I was still scanning the roofline and checking everywhere for unfriendlies—that wasn’t something I’d be able to turn off easily. But maybe I could stop feeling like I wanted hit the deck all of the time; you know, just control it a little more. I tried to keep my breathing slow, and I held onto Caro’s hand like she was the last life raft in an ocean of sharks. That’s how it was for me.

But then I felt her freeze, her fingers digging into my arm, and I immediately saw why. Three men with black hair, olive skin and dark eyes were arguing loudly outside a café. My brain immediately started working through threat triage—a mental checklist: weapons, nope; concealed weapons or bombs, nope; aggressive body language, nope—all in less than a second. Threat level low … and then I realized they were talking in Pashto.

Confused, I paused while my brain whirred and coughed. Had I really heard that? Pashto?

I listened more closely. Yep, definitely Pashto, definitely Afghans. And they were talking about … baseball. I did a double-take. Really? Baseball?

They were arguing about who was better: the Mets or the Yankees. I felt the unfamiliar sensation of a smile pulling at my lips.

I couldn’t help the question that tumbled out of me.

“You think the Yankees will clinch the season, or can Boston take them?”

In Pashto.

They stared at me, then came rushing forwards, asking me how I was speaking their language, who was I, where was I from? I felt Caro tense up as they surrounded me, but I squeezed her hand and spent a few minutes talking; just talking, like a normal human being.

A part of me felt like maybe I should hate them because their countrymen had killed my friends, but I just couldn’t. They were here, in Long Beach, as far away from the war as I was. And so we talked. They invited me to have tea with them. I said maybe I would another time.

They told me I had a beautiful wife. I didn’t correct them.

As I walked away, Caro tugged on my arm.

“What on earth were you talking about for so long?”

“Baseball,” I replied with a smile.

She stared at me doubtfully.

“You’re kidding me?”

I winked at her.

“Universal language, Caro.”

And somehow, for the dumbest of reasons, the world began to turn again.

I knew I had to get my ass into gear and make some changes—for myself as well as for Caro. I started by doing the exercises that the therapist had given me: some were to help build up dexterity in the fingers of my left hand, plus leg stretches to help the damaged muscles of my right thigh. I even started to use the exercise bike that Caro had ordered for me—although I hated the fact that it was static and I didn’t go anywhere, just peddling meaninglessly. That could have described my fucking life. But I’d try. For Caro, I’d try.

But I missed being able to go for a run—I guess those days were over. I did crunches, push-ups, and pull-ups hanging from the doorframe. I pushed myself harder each time.

Then one day I dared myself to look in the mirror. My hair was shaggy and falling into my eyes. It was blonder, too, the ends bleached by the sun. I hadn’t seen it like that in a long while. I didn’t mind it, but the beard had to go. I think I blunted an entire razor getting rid of the face fuzz. The skin underneath was soft and slightly paler than my cheeks.

Caro was making supper, and spicy tomato smells were filling the small rooms. I took a deep breath and walked into the kitchen, leaning against the doorframe and looking at her expectantly.

She stared at me for a moment before she realized what she was seeing.

“You’ve shaved!” she gasped.

I smiled tentatively.

“Well, you didn’t like the beard, did you?”

“That’s putting it mildly, Sebastian.”

Her eyes roamed over my face, a hopeful smile on her lips.

I walked across to her and let my hands wrap around her waist, leaning my face into her hair and breathing her in. But her body tensed immediately and I pulled away.

I couldn’t blame her—it had been so long since I’d done anything more than hold her hand. Maybe she didn’t want this. Maybe she didn’t want anything more from me. My heart stuttered.

Oh God, please don’t let me have fucked this up, too.

But she grabbed my hands and pulled my arms back around her waist, laying her head on my chest. And then she started to cry.

Guilt and grief filled me for what I’d done to this amazing woman.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” I said, stroking her hair.

“Oh, God, I’ve missed you, Sebastian.”

“I know, baby, but I’m here now.”

It felt so good to have my arms around her again, and I regretted every time I’d pushed her away, every time I’d refused to speak, every time I’d yelled at her, my anger that had boiled over four and five times a day.

She lifted her head to look at me and I wiped her tears away with my thumbs.

“I’m sorry I made you cry, baby,” I said, my heart breaking for this beautiful, amazing woman who had refused to give up on me, even though I’d given up on myself. “I never meant to hurt you. I know that I did.”

She locked her arms around my neck, pulling my head down, kissing me with increasing hunger and need.

I hesitated for a fraction of a second, then my lips parted and I kissed her back, my tongue sweeping into her mouth, stroking and tasting her, the intimacy of a shared kiss. It was unexpected and necessary and scary as all fuck.

She moaned into my mouth, the intensity of her desire taking me by surprise. I couldn’t help pulling back, trying to contain the rush of confusing emotions that exploded through me. Need and want and desire and fear.

I knew how dumb and stupid and crazy it was; I’d slept with God knows how many hundreds of women, but now…

I wanted to, I just didn’t know if I could. And I didn’t want to fail at this, as well. I was so fucked in the head. Shit shit shit!

Her eyes were brimming with tears again, and I could tell she thought I was going to push her away. I was afraid to open up any more of myself, to be that vulnerable again. But she was Caro, and she was my woman.

I took a deep breath and looked into her eyes, into her soul.

“I want to make love to you, Caro.”

My voice was so quiet I wasn’t even sure she’d heard me, but her eyes widened.

“You do?” she whispered.

“God yes, baby.” I hesitated. “Only if you want to.”

She stared at me, searching my face. I don’t know what she found, but her eyes fluttered closed before she smiled up at me gently.

“I’ve waited and waited to hear you say that, tesoro.”

She turned off the gas stove, abandoning the pasta, then reached for my hand. My eyes didn’t leave hers as she led us into the bedroom.

The last time we’d made love it had been in a stinking mud-built room, in a shithole in Afghanistan; now it was very different.