I opened the door, switching on lights as I went and led him into the kitchen. I pulled out a chair and, after a moment’s hesitation, he sat down.
I had to ferret around several drawers before I could remember where I’d put the antiseptic cream. More urgently, I needed a cloth to fill with ice to try and take down some of the swelling. I smashed the ice tray on the counter and saw Sebastian jump.
“Oh, sorry!” I said softly. He still didn’t speak.
Gently, I placed the ice pack against his cheek and lifted his hand for him to hold it in place.
I pulled down the hood of his sweatshirt and an involuntary gasp escaped. Someone—Donald, I guessed—had hacked off chunks of Sebastian’s hair.
“Your father?”
He nodded, his eyes flicking to mine briefly, then away.
Fury coursed through me.
“Because of the surfing?”
He closed his eyes and nodded again.
“Because of me?” I said, my voice a whisper.
His eyes blinked open. “No, it would have happened anyway. I’d already planned to go out with Ches and Mitch today. It’s not your fault…”
But it felt like my fault—I felt guilty.
“Do you want me to fix it for you?”
He didn’t seem to understand my question.
“Do you want me to turn it into a buzz-cut?”
It was the only viable option, short of shaving his head completely.
“Okay.”
I led him upstairs, through the bedroom and into our bathroom, pulling out a chair for him to sit facing the mirror.
“I don’t want to look at myself,” he said, angling the chair away so he couldn’t see his reflection.
David’s shaver was in the cupboard. I’d trimmed up his crew cut many times and for once I was grateful that I could perform this simple task well.
The buzzing sound filled the small room as I ran the shaver over Sebastian’s head. His sun-bleached hair fell to the floor in unhappy clumps. When I’d finished I took my towel and dusted away the small hairs frosting his face and neck.
He looked older, harder, and I didn’t know if this was simply the result of his new haircut or something resolving inside him.
“All done,” I said hoarsely, unshed tears making my voice rough.
His head sank to his chest as if a great weight pulled it down. I was desperately tempted to run my fingers over his short, soft hair, to soothe him in some way.
“It’ll be okay,” I murmured, pathetically.
He looked up, his eyes meeting mine. “Will it?”
“Yes. When you leave home. You won’t have to see him again—either of them.”
He nodded slowly, as if the thought were difficult to process.
“Would you like me to get the ice?” I said gently.
He shook his head.
“Let me look.”
Gently, I lifted his chin so I could examine his cheek; the bruise was coming through darkly but his swollen lip was looking better.
Then he laid his hand over mine and I felt the shock of his touch surge through me.
“Please don’t,” I whispered. But there was no force behind my words.
He stood, still holding my hand.
“I love you, Caroline.”
He spoke softly but the words were clear, spoken without expectation and with little hope. His eyes were wide with anxiety and I could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath the sweatshirt.
Whether it was these simple words, or the look on his face, his vulnerability, or my weakness, I couldn’t say.
I lifted my empty hand and stroked his cheek, then ran my fingers over the fine bristles of his hair and around to the back of his neck, pulling his head toward me.
His lips were warm and soft and a small whimper escaped me as he increased the pressure against mine.
Tentatively I let my tongue explore, gently probing his split lip, and he opened his mouth gratefully. I felt his tongue enter and desire swept through me, fanned from small flames into a raging forest fire, greedy and unstoppable. I gripped his neck with my free hand and slid my fingers from his cheek, down his throat, to his chest.
His hands hovered over my waist, and then locked themselves around me, pulling me tight, closing me in.
Every piece of my carefully constructed restraint was washed away in the flood of unfamiliar sensations.
Abruptly, I pulled back from him, my heart thundering, caged by my ribs. Fear reflected itself in his eyes and his arms hung rejected at his sides.
Could I have stopped at that point? Perhaps. A very weak, stillborn perhaps.
I was married, yes, but it wasn’t much of a marriage. Everything I did or said seemed to irritate David—his habitual expression was a frown of sour discontent, a tone of annoyance whenever he spoke to me—perhaps even dislike. If there had once been love between us, it was long gone.