She was accusing me of indefensible behavior? What about the way she’d shrugged me off like a cheap suit ten years ago? What about the way she’d left me to deal with my parents and all the shit that went down? I was 17. Seventeen.
“You get on your fucking high horse damn quickly, Caro,” I snapped.
“I’m just saying…” she began.
“What? What the fuck are you ‘just saying’?” I grit out, unable to stop my voice growing louder with each syllable. “You were a fucking journalist, Caro! You could have found me any time if you’d wanted to. It would have been so easy for you. So easy! I didn’t even know your last name. I was so desperate to find you that I even tried to see that prick of a husband of yours, but he slammed the door in my face and called my CO. I was on fucking punishment duties for weeks after that. But you didn’t give a shit, did you? It’s just lies. You just tell me what you think I want to hear. How can I ever trust you?”
“Sebastian, I…”
“I really want to hear this, Caro!” I yelled, my heart pounding and adrenaline shooting through my body as fight or flight warred inside me. “I really want to hear how hard you tried to find me. You knew my fucking father was forcing me to enlist because of you, but you didn’t even bother to make a few fucking phone calls. Three years I waited for you, Caro. Three fucking years, while you were off building your career and having a great life traveling all over the world. So yeah, I fucked some women who deserved it, because I’d already been fucked over once and I wasn’t going to let it happen again.”
She looked sick, gripping the sheet to her chest like she was afraid of me. Christ! As if I could ever hurt her … the way she’d hurt me.
“It wasn’t like that, Sebastian. Just listen to me for a moment! Let me explain, I…”
“Go tell it to the Marines, Caro,” I shouted, fury and ten years of resentment overtaking me, “because I’m not listening.”
She sat up and reached for her t-shirt. Shit! She was leaving. Again. I fucking knew it! I knew she was lying! She’d lied about it all.
“Where are you going?” I snarled at her. “Running away again? Yeah, well, it’s what you do best, isn’t it? Run away. Fuck that! I’ll save you the trouble.”
I leapt out of bed, pulled on my jeans, thrust my bare feet into motorcycle boots, then scooped up my t-shirt and jacket.
I was shaking with anger, unable to believe that it was happening again. Again!
I had no idea where I was going when I stormed out of there—just away—before my still-beating heart got ripped out of my chest and tossed into the dirt.
As I kick-started the bike’s engine, the loud roar echoed the way I wanted to yell, pouring out my fury, refusing to admit that the pain was crushing.
I tore down the stony track to the highway, too fast for the skittering headlight, bumping and swerving over the rutted tracks, covering my boots and jeans with a layer of thick dust. When I hit the highway, I opened the throttle and let her go, taking the bends too fast, not caring if I was still alive on the other side. Ten miles down the road, the engine began to sputter and I realized the reserve tank was running on fumes. I slowed down when I saw the lights of small town, pulling into the first place I saw that had a parking lot.
Well, color me fucking ecstatic—the neon sign welcomed me in. I went to stand at the bar, not even looking at the al banco price list, instead just waving to the elderly bartender with the cartoon villain mustache to bring me a bottle of grappa when he admitted that there was no whiskey. Not that I cared—I just wanted to get shitfaced and numb as fast as possible.
I threw some Euros at him, then dragged the shitty grappa towards me, downing three shots one after the other. The bartender muttered something under his breath, shrugged and walked away.
Anger and hatred burned inside, and it took all my training not to go find someone to beat the shit out of. To err is human, to forgive divine—and neither of those was Marine Corps policy. Ooh-rah.
So I drank, hoping numbness would follow. But instead the memories poured through me: the first time I saw her, the first time she smiled at me, the first time I made her laugh, the first time we made love. The way she listened to me like my words had value, the way she smelled after her shower—the scent of her skin after sex. The way she touched me, the words she’d said as the left: Ti amo tanto, sempre e per sempre. The lies.
Other memories began to swirl through my foggy brain: the day I walked into the recruiter’s office; the first day of boot camp when every other guy there was wondering what the fuck they’d done, and I was relieved to get away from my parents for good; the day of my graduation as a United States Marine when my fucking father had showed up and I’d had to salute the bastard—the look on his face before he walked away; first day in Iraq; the first IED I heard exploding; the first dead body I saw—a child; the first time I shot my rifle for real, 18 years old and piss scared—and the pride when I held it together and fought with my brothers; the day I won my first stripe, Private First Class.
And it had been good, being part of something again, something that mattered. The Marine Corps was the family I’d never had. And for three years it was home, even though I traveled all over the world. And then I was sure, so sure that Caro would find me. Because after three years, my fucking parents couldn’t touch us—and her ‘crime’ of sleeping with me when I underage was beyond the Statute of Limitations. But she never came. And I hated her. I thought I hated her—I tried.
I was still trying to hate her but my cock had other ideas, hardening to titanium the first moment I saw her again in that boring-as-fuck hostile environment briefing, and every moment since. I tried to forget how she looked when she saw me, or the way she felt when she came apart under me. So I drank.
When the bar began to empty at 3AM, the bottle of grappa was less than a quarter full. The bartender approached me slowly, and I gazed at him with bleary eyes while he explained that they were closing.
His expression changed from wariness to understanding as he watched me stagger towards the exit, pawing at the door to pull it open. When it refused to budge, he gently turned the handle to push it open. Then he patted me on the shoulder and said, “Chè per vendetta mai non sanò piaga.”
My alcohol soaked brain took a moment to translate: Revenge never healed a wound. If I’d translated more quickly, I’d have told him to fuck off.
I fumbled for my bike keys, trying to figure out why there were two Honda ST1100s in the parking lot. I tried to swing a leg over the saddle but somehow ended up lying on my back, staring up at the stars. It occurred to me that there was a possibility I was drunk. I had a feeling I was supposed to do something, but I didn’t know what it was. In the distance I could hear the sound of waves rolling up the narrow beach, so I decided to go for a walk with my new best friend who answered to the name of Grappa.
The two of us made our way down to the beach and sank down onto the sand. I couldn’t understand why the bottle was empty—I thought Grappa was my friend. Guess I was wrong about that bastard, too. I decided to lay down for a short nap—maybe then I’d remember what the fuck I was supposed to be doing.
When I woke up, some asswipe was shining a light into my face that made my eyes water, and some other shitbag was pounding on my head with a cement block. I sat up cautiously, blinking in the light of a brilliant Spring morning. Fuck, I felt rougher than a docker’s armpit. At the sight of the empty bottle of Grappa, I heaved up my guts, coughing and retching until there was nothing left.
I felt too ill to care who’d seen me, but kicked some sand over the mess all the same. I wondered what time it was. From the position of the sun, probably between 10:00 and 11:00. I wondered where Caro was—and then the memories of the night before came crashing back. A sick feeling that had nothing to do with the amount of alcohol I’d drunk made my stomach lurch. Fuck me, had I really said all that poisonous shit to her?