The Education of Sebastian & the Education of Caroline

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  And I realized he meant it. Would I ever get used to hearing him say things like that to me? I hoped not.

  “I’ve just … not been that interested. No one’s really caught my eye.”

  He shook his head in amazement.

  “Oh, wait, Major Parsons asked me out: Mike. He was pretty cute,” I said, casually glancing at Sebastian.

  “That fucking bastard!” he snarled, sounding really angry.

  “Sebastian, I said no. And actually, he was really sweet about it. He wasn’t pushy or anything.”

  I was regretting making Sebastian jealous, but damn, it made me feel wanted. And I really wasn’t used to that.

  I decided to change the subject before his temper spoiled our meal.

  “What were you thinking, that first day, when we saw each other at the press training? You looked really mad.”

  His gaze became distant, remembering the day, only one week ago.

  “Just so fucking shocked. I saw the name ‘Lee Venzi’ on the training list. I recognized it because I’d read some of your articles…”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, sure. I check out all the journos who go on these gigs. I want to know what kind of shit … sorry, what kind of writing they do. I thought yours was good.”

  I shot him a look.

  “No, really. I’m not just saying that. I kind of assumed you were ex-forces because of the way you understood the military. And we were all expecting you’d be a guy. Obviously somebody screwed up on the background checks. But as far as your online presence, you’re definitely a man.”

  I smiled serenely at him. “That’s the general idea. I’ve had quite a few assignments given to me because people assume I’m a man; jobs they wouldn’t give to a woman.”

  Sebastian frowned at me. “Yeah, but there could be a good reason for it, too. I mean, some of the places you go are dangerous and…”

  I caught his hand and placed my fingers over his lips.

  “Shh, tesoro. They’re a lot less dangerous than where you go, and we’re not having this conversation.”

  He scowled and started to argue.

  “No, I mean it. This is my work. Please drop it.”

  He didn’t look happy about it, but he didn’t argue further either; instead he gave me a look that said the discussion wasn’t over, merely postponed.

  “You were going to tell me what you thought when you first saw me,” I reminded him.

  “Shock. At first I thought you’d done it deliberately somehow. And then I saw the look on your face, like you didn’t know what to say to me either, and I realized it was just as weird for you as it was for me.”

  “And then?”

  “I just kept thinking how mad I was at you; blaming you for all the shit. I kept trying to hold on to all that anger, but you just looked so … you looked just the same. And I kept thinking, maybe I got it wrong. And then I remembered that you hadn’t come looking for me and … it was so fucking confusing, Caro.”

  He stared out at the water washing over the beach.

  “And then you tried to talk to me and I just freaked. I couldn’t … not in front of all those people, not with all the things I wanted to … I found a bar and just started drinking … getting up the courage to go see you. I really screwed that up, didn’t I?”

  “Completely,” I said, nodding my head.

  He looked apologetic and stared at his hands.

  “It doesn’t matter now, Sebastian,” I said, quietly.

  He shook off the memory, but I could tell it still bothered him.

  “What did you think, when you saw me?” he said.

  “You mean after the oh-my-God moment? I thought you looked bitter: your eyes looked so cold and hard. Gorgeous, of course; but you looked like you’d really changed. I was … intimidated. And then Liz told me you’d got this reputation … as something of a lady-killer…”

  Sebastian scowled.

  “Well, you did ask.”

  “Yeah, well … what else did you think?”

  “She said you were brilliant, too, if that makes you feel any better.”

  “Not much.”

  I sighed. “I just thought I’d try and talk to you by yourself, but you kept avoiding me. So, I assumed you didn’t want anything to do with me. I was … hurt, but I guess I accepted it. Can we talk about something else? This is making me feel blue.”

  “Sure, baby,” he said, smiling softly. “How about we plan the rest of the trip?”

  I smiled back. “Yes, please.”

  He reached over to his jacket, which was hanging from the back of his chair, and pulled out the map.

  “Well, it’s up to you, Caro. We could keep going down the coast road to Salerno, look up your dad’s old village. Or take it slower, go see some of Tuscany. Siena is supposed to be amazing and there’s this old hilltop town, Montepulciano that looks really cool. Or go right down to the bottom—check out Sicily.”

  “What do you want to do, Sebastian? I don’t mind having another day on the beach if you want to do some more surfing—it’s your vacation, too.”

  “Nah, that’s okay—it’s going to be flat tomorrow—I already checked.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Of course. Silly me.”

  “It’s about 200 miles to your dad’s village. We could be there this time tomorrow. If you want.”

  I thought about it for a moment. I was probably investing too much in what would inevitably be a big disappointment.

  “No, let’s take it easy. I’d like to see some more of Tuscany. I’ve heard of Montepulciano: they have good wine. And honey.”

  He smiled at me, amused. “How come you know all this food stuff?”

  I stared back as if, for once, he was missing the blindingly obvious. “I’m Italian, Sebastian.”

  He laughed out loud, and swept my hand off the table to kiss my fingers.

  The waiter arrived with our order, interrupting our moment, although he smiled apologetically.

  The food, including Sebastian’s enormous Bistecca Alla Fiorentina steak with fries, was good, and we were quiet for several minutes as we ate.

  I toyed with my question for some time.

  “What is it?” said Sebastian, at last, laying down his knife and fork.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You have that look on your face—like you want to ask me something. You can ask me anything, Caro.”

  I was amazed—people didn’t usually read me that well. But then again, Sebastian knew me better than anyone. How strange.

  “Well, there was something … did you mean what you said about quitting the Marines?”

  “Sure. I mean, I re-upped two years ago, so I’d have to do another two before I punch out…”

  Disappointment flooded through me. Two more years.

  “Do you think you’d have to do another tour in Afghanistan?”

  He looked at me thoughtfully.

  “I don’t know, Caro. Most guys wouldn’t be sent out again that quickly, but … well, they’re short of interpreters, especially non-locals, and military intelligence...”

  He stopped abruptly, realizing he’d said too much.

  “Sebastian, whatever you tell me, that’s between us. I would never use it in my work.”

  “I know that, baby, but there are some things I can’t tell you … and some things that it’s better you don’t know.”

  I wasn’t happy that there were secrets between us, but I understood.

  “They’re not going to be pleased that you’re dating a journalist.”

  He glanced away, briefly, then smiled at me. “Nope. Don’t think so, although they couldn’t stop me...”

  “So … I guess it would be better to keep this between us, just for now?”

  He nodded, then leaned back in his chair.

  “Would you give it up, Caro? Working in war zones, traveling all over the world?”

  I’d been waiting for him to ask me that question, but I still didn’t know how I was go
ing to answer it. The truth was: I didn’t want to give it up. I’d worked hard to achieve the position I’d reached—and I enjoyed it. Yes, my work took me into dangerous areas, but it was rare that I was on the frontline; not like Sebastian. Oh, yes: my hypocrisy knew no bounds.

  So, what was the compromise? He gave up everything and I gave up nothing? But if I did give up my work, how long would it be before I felt resentful and tied down. And he wanted us to have kids. Whatever he said about ‘seeing what happened’, I knew that was high on his list of priorities.

  “I wouldn’t want to give it up completely, Sebastian, that’s the truth. But I could agree to a maximum amount of time I spent away in a year, maybe.”

  He nodded slowly and sighed. “Okay, I guess.”

  He stood up and stretched, gazing around the restaurant.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Restroom. I’m hoping they have machines that sell rubbers.”

  I smiled. “We still have one left.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not nearly enough for what I have in mind … unless you want to do what we talked about earlier?”

  I could hear the hope in his voice, but I shook my head.

  “That’s another discussion for another time, Sebastian.” He pouted, and I couldn’t help smiling. “When you’ve finished this next tour: we’ll talk about it then, I promise.”

  He returned a few minutes later, scowling.

  “Fucking useless!” he fumed. “They didn’t have any in the restrooms and I checked with the waiter—all the nearby supermarkets and pharmacies are closed on Sunday evenings.”

  “Oh, dear,” I said, smiling. “Well, never mind. We’ll just have to get creative.”

  “Yeah, okay,” he said, sulkily.

  I raised my eyebrows at him. “I hope you’re not getting bored with me already!”

  He rolled his eyes. “You’re like a freakin’ drug to me, Caro. I can’t get enough of you. And I really like wake-up sex.”

  I couldn’t help laughing out loud. “We’ll figure something out. Don’t sweat it, Hunter.”

  Sebastian was still in a bad mood when we left the restaurant. Okay, it wasn’t the ideal situation for two apparently sex-starved adults who were behaving like rampant teenagers, but I thought we’d already proved that we could be creative—and I had one or two things in mind. Besides, I’d brought the rest of the bottle of wine from the restaurant, so we could always have a quiet evening with a glass of vino and watch the stars appear.

  Sebastian, however, was a lot less relaxed, accelerating hard out of the parking lot in a shower of gravel, tires squealing.

  I gripped him tightly around his waist, hoping that he’d slow down, but instead he went faster, taking the turns on the coast road at such a speed that our knees were ridiculously close to the ground. I closed my eyes and hung on, until he slowed abruptly. I soon saw the reason: two Italian police officers were waving their table tennis-shaped batons at us.

  Crap.

  We’d been caught speeding.

  Sebastian pulled over to the side of the road and swung one, long leg over as he climbed off. Watching as he removed his helmet, I decided to follow him. He was so hotheaded, I could imagine him mouthing off at them and spending a night in a cozy, Italian jail.

  “French?” asked the first policeman, looking at the license plates on Sebastian’s motorcycle.

  The officer looked disconcertingly like Groucho Marx, which was rather distracting. The second one was younger and stared at us through his Aviator shades, even though it was dusk.

  “No, American,” replied Sebastian.

  The policemen looked surprised.

  “Is this motorcycle yours, signore?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have papers for it?”

  “Yes, in my wallet.”

  Sebastian started to reach into his jacket, and the younger officer immediately went for his gun.

  I gasped and Sebastian swore. The next second, they were forcing him to kneel on the ground and put his hands behind his head. I could see the older man reaching for handcuffs.

  “No, please!” I called out. “He was just trying to show you his papers.”

  “Signora, he was driving at 120km an hour; the speed limit here is 90km an hour.”

  “Please, let him show you. I’ll get his wallet!”

  I moved slowly so they could see exactly what I was doing. I reached into Sebastian’s inside jacket pocket and carefully lifted out his wallet.

  “What am I looking for?” I whispered, urgently.

  “The Certificat d’immatriculation—the papers in gray. Caro, I…”

  “Just don’t speak, Sebastian,” I hissed at him. “Let me handle this.”

  Silently, I handed over the document, although it was clear neither of the officers could read French.

  “Are you authorized to ride this motorcycle, signora?” said the older, gentler officer.

  “No, but…”

  “Then we’ll arrange to have it removed,” he said, kindly.

  “Please don’t arrest him!” I begged them. “He’s only on leave for two more weeks, then he’s going back to Afghanistan.”

  The two men looked at each other. I was hoping that the military/police solidarity that existed back home, also held true in Europe. I pulled Sebastian’s ID card out of his wallet, the one that identified him as a US Marine, and showed it to them.

  “We only have two weeks,” I repeated, not needing to fake my desperation.

  “My son-in-law is serving out there,” said the older officer, shaking his head. “Very well, we will let you go, but this one time only. Obey the speed limits.”

  They let Sebastian stand, and handed him back his papers.

  “Thank you so much,” I said, feeling slightly tearful at our reprieve.

  “Make him obey the speed limits, signora,” said the older officer, wagging his finger at me.

  “I will. Thank you!”

  “I will pray for you both,” he said, simply.

  We watched as they wandered back to their car, chatting amiably to each other.

  “You were great, Caro,” said Sebastian, grinning.

  I slapped him hard on the arm. “No more speeding!”

  “I don’t know … I’ve got my own Caro-shaped ‘get out of jail free’ card.”

  “Yes, well, do that again, and you might be finding out what Italian jails are like.”

  “You wouldn’t let that happen to me, baby.”

  “Don’t bet on it, Chief! I’ve got enough gray hairs without you giving me anymore.”

  He pulled me in for a hug.

  “Nope, can’t see any,” he said, kissing my hair.

  I pushed him away, crossly.

  “Another two weeks with you and I’ll have to color my grays,” I said, grumpily.

  He laughed.

  “It’s not funny!”

  “God, you’re beautiful, Caro!”

  I climbed back on the bike, irritated to see that Sebastian was still grinning, but at least he drove to the campsite at a more moderate pace.

  When we got back, Sebastian parked the bike and locked up, while I stomped off to our room, feeling very irritated with him. If he was this reckless in Italy … no, I really didn’t need to start thinking like that.

  I hunted around for a corkscrew to dig out the damn cork that the waiter had managed to ram back in, but there wasn’t one to be had. I was just contemplating smashing off the neck and sieving the wine through a clean sock to remove any broken glass, believing that desperate times called for desperate measures, when Sebastian sauntered into the room.

  “I can’t open the fucking wine!” I snarled at him.

  He looked taken aback.

  Yeah, well, he wasn’t the only one who knew how to swear.

  “What’s the matter, Caro?”

  “I just told you!” I yelled, “I can’t open the wine!”

  Quietly, he took the bottle from my hand, produced a Swiss
Army knife from his pants pocket, and proceeded to dig the cork out using a small blade.

  “I think some of the cork fell in,” he said, placing the bottle on the table.

  “Thank you,” I muttered, rather sullenly.

  “Caro…”

  “What, Sebastian? You could have got arrested back there? That was so stupid and reckless!”

  He stared at me in amazement. “Nothing happened…”

  “It could have!” I shouted at him. “And if you take chances like that out in…”

  But I couldn’t finish the sentence. Angry and frustrated, I was furious when I felt tears spring to my eyes. I cuffed them away with my fists, while Sebastian watched me in silence.

  “Hey, come here,” he said, softly. “It’s okay.”

  He pulled my stiff body into an embrace, but I stood rigidly, fighting back tears, willing anger not fear to win out.

  “Caro, tonight was just dumb, I admit that, okay. I’m just enjoying being … free, here and now, with you. Don’t cry.”

  “I’m not crying!” I yelled. “I’m mad at you!”

  “Yeah, got that message, baby.”

  Eventually, I pushed him away, grabbing the wine bottle as I walked past the table, and took a good slug. Then I threw myself on the bed, piled the pillows behind me and tipped another large quantity of wine into my mouth, rubbing the back of my hand across my face to catch the drips.

  “Are you going to share that?” he said, at last.

  “No. You drink too much.”

  “You’re just going to sit there and finish the whole bottle by yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t like drinking.”

  “I do tonight.”

  “It’ll make you sick.”

  “I’m being reckless. You do it all the time.”

  “Caro,” he said tiredly, rubbing his forehead, “come on, that’s enough.”

  He pulled the bottle out of my hands and put it on his side of the bed.

  “Give me my goddamn wine, Sebastian.”

  “No,” he said, evenly, sitting next to me.

  I tried to reach over him to get it, but he blocked me.

  I wanted to scream with frustration, even though I knew I was behaving childishly.