“Caroline Wilson,” I said, hoping to defuse the sudden tension.
“Howdy, Mrs. Wilson,” he said slyly, his eyes swiveling from my wedding rings to my cleavage.
We both looked at Sebastian, who seemed very ill at ease.
“Well, it was nice bumping into you again, Sebastian. Do you want a ride back to the Base or perhaps you’d prefer to stay with your friend.”
I waited less than a second before I fixed an insincere smile to my face.
“See you around then. Ciao.”
And I walked away.
I was furious with myself. Why had I pretended we’d just bumped into each other? It had all been perfectly innocent, so why lie?
And then I remembered the touch of his hand on mine and my ridiculous over-reaction.
Oh, this was not good, not good at all.
My temper was free-wheeling by the time I got back to the car. I was angry with Sebastian, with myself, with the loathsome Jack: stupid, pathetic little shit. He’d made me feel … guilty, and I hadn’t done anything. I was used to David making me feel guilty, but this was insufferable.
I wound down the windows before I got in, to let the heat escape, feeling some release of pent-up energy in the trivial task.
When I heard footsteps behind me, I didn’t need to turn to see who it was.
“Caroline, I’m sorry, I…” his words trailed off.
“What? What!”
The words came out more forcefully than I’d meant. He stared at me, wounded. I badly wanted to kick something.
I took a deep breath, and reminded myself it wasn’t his fault.
“Do you want a ride back?”
He nodded, still looking hurt.
I drove in a quiet rage. After a few minutes, I felt calm enough to risk a glance at Sebastian; he was gazing out of the window.
Eventually, he broke the heavy silence.
“I’m sorry about Jack and what he said.” There was a brief pause, then he added, “The guy’s an asshole.”
I exhaled slowly, forcing some of the tension and irritation from my body in one long breath.
“Yes, he is, but don’t worry about it.”
He looked at me hopefully. “So, will you help me with my Italian? We could…”
“Sebastian, no. I don’t think that would be a good idea.”
“Why not?”
“It just isn’t.”
We sat mutely for several more minutes before he said softly, “I had fun today.”
So did I.
But I didn’t reply.
I dropped Sebastian off near his house and drove home, feeling irritated and petulant.
I stomped around, finding places for the final pieces of detritus from our marriage; items that didn’t seem to fit were unceremoniously shoved into a closet in the guest room, metaphorically as well as literally.
Out of some guilty urge, I fixed David his favorite meal: lasagna and green salad, with a heavy dessert of apple pie and ice cream that he’d have to eat alone. I sat on the porch facing out into the yard and stared moodily at the yellowing grass. It needed watering; another chore. It was one of those days when I wished I’d taken up smoking years ago just to have something meaningful to do with my hands—and a purpose for being outside.
What was it about that boy? He really got under my skin. It had been simple when he was a child, and I’d enjoyed his uncomplicated company. Things had certainly changed. I’d enjoyed his company today, until Jack showed up. The thought was unwelcome.
When I heard David’s Camaro outside, I pushed all thoughts of Sebastian Hunter from my mind.
“Mmm … something smells good.”
“Lasagna and apple pie.”
David looked pleased. “It was the right decision coming out here again, Caroline.”
If you say so.
“So what did you do with your day?”
“Puttered, mostly. Finished putting things away. I thought I might see if I could get some work—maybe writing; I’d like to use my degree. There’s a cool, local newspaper, City Bea t… maybe I…”
“Good girl. Well done.”
And that was the end of the conversation about me. Instead, I listened to a blow-by-blow description of his day at the hospital. Despite his snide comment about making life and death decisions while I played the little woman, most of his work was with orthopedic medicine.
After the meal, he leaned back in his chair and folded his hands over his stomach.
“I was talking to Donald Hunter today. Seems that son of his is running with a bad crowd.”
“Sebastian? Is that likely? He seems such a nice boy.”
David frowned. He didn’t like having his story interrupted. I stood up quickly to clear the dishes—I didn’t have the energy for either a fight or a lecture.
“He’s spending all his time at the beach, surfing.” He sneered the last word. “He’s wearing his hair long, and Donald thinks he’s probably smoking pot—he caught him with a lighter.”