The Education of Sebastian & the Education of Caroline

by Jane Harvey-Berrick

  “What don’t you understand, Caro? She loved you. Why do you always have a hard time realizing that, baby?”

  I shrugged.

  “This is good news,” he said, stroking my hair. “Out of all of this shit, it’s something good.”

  “I know. It’s just … so unexpected.”

  He hesitated before he spoke again. “It’ll pay off your mortgage. You wouldn’t have to work overseas … if you didn’t want to…”

  I knew what he was trying to say, but I couldn’t make a decision like that here and now.

  “Anyway, it’s our money,” I said quietly.

  Sebastian shook his head angrily.

  “I’m not going to take your fucking money, Caro!”

  I placed my hand over his mouth, cutting off his stormy words.

  “I mean it, Sebastian. Either we’re in this together, or we’re not. If you won’t accept it, then I won’t accept it. I’ll give it to the Journalism Without Borders charity before I let this money come between us. You said yourself we deserved some good luck.”

  He ran his hand through his hair in frustration.

  “She didn’t even like me, Caro. There’s no way she’d want me to have anything to do with your inheritance. Hell, as far as she was concerned, I was just fucking you for something to do and…”

  “You’re wrong. She knew all about us.”

  His rant ground to a halt; he looked stunned.

  “She did?”

  “Of course. I told her everything—and I told her we were going to get married.”

  Sebastian leaned back and stared at me. “You told her? Everything?”

  “Yes, tesoro.”

  He scratched his eyebrow thoughtfully. “What did she say?”

  I gave him a small smile. “She wanted to know if you were as good in bed as she’d heard.”

  I thought he was going to choke, but then I saw a wicked gleam in his eye. “And what did you say?”

  I gave him a prim look. “Nothing, of course … although…”

  “Although what?”

  “I may have winked at her.”

  He smirked at me.

  “Sebastian,” I said, my voice serious, “if it hadn’t been for me, you would have gone to college, gotten your degree…”

  I waved away his denial.

  “We both know that’s true: well, here we are—I can pay off the mortgage, you can use the GI bill, go to college, get your degree, if that’s what you want.”

  He shifted uncomfortably. “It doesn’t feel right, Caro. Let me think about it.”

  He was so frustrating, I wanted to hit him. Or kiss him. Probably both.

  And, as we were on a roll, I decided to tackle one more task that we’d both been putting off.

  I took a deep breath.

  “Sebastian,” I said, gently, “it’s time you decided what you want to do with your uniforms—and your medals.”

  His sudden, sharp intake of breath showed how hard he found this, but he nodded slowly, staring at the floor. Then he squared his shoulders and met my steady gaze.

  “Okay. Let’s do it.”

  We stood up and I took him by the hand, leading him into the spare room. He leaned against the door frame, his arms folded tightly across his chest. I gave him a quick, encouraging smile, then pulled out his duffel bag and backpack from under the bed.

  His Dress Blues and khaki Service Uniform were crumpled and rather sad when I dragged them out. There was no sign of his desert utility uniform; I didn’t want to think about the reason why—I assumed the doctors would have had to cut him out of it when...

  He stared at the clothes coldly, keeping all his emotions tightly contained.

  “Get rid of them, Caro. I don’t want to see them again.”

  “And the medals?”

  His Service Uniform was festooned with an array of colorful ribbons and medals. I ran through them in my mind, as I touched them one by one: his Afghanistan Campaign Medal, Marine Commendation Medal, Meritorious Service Medal, Navy and Marine Corps Overseas Service Ribbon, National Defense Service Medal, Defense Meritorious Service Medal, and a Navy and Marine Corps Medal. And, still in its presentation box at the bottom of his backpack, his Purple Heart, for being wounded in action.

  As Sebastian watched, I opened the box, stroking the ridges of silky ribbon, and ran my finger over the embossed words, ‘For military merit’.

  “Do what you want with them,” he said, his face creasing with pain. “I don’t want to see them. Ever.”

  I took another deep breath.

  “You don’t want to save them to … maybe … show our children … if…”

  He looked up suddenly, a smile hovering around his lips. “You … you’d try?”

  “Yes, Sebastian … we will try.”

  He let out a shout of pure happiness and scooped me up, twirling me around.

  “Let’s start trying right now,” he breathed out onto my skin.

  “I’m still on the Pill!” I laughed.

  “Doesn’t matter,” he murmured into my neck. “I want to practice.”

  I kissed him hard, as he walked me backward into our bedroom.

  As Sebastian had once said, if children happened, we’d welcome them, if not, well, that was okay, too.

  We had our whole lives ahead of us.

  EPILOGUE

  When a woman reaches forty, she is no longer young, but not yet old. My friends had offered this piece of wisdom on my birthday seven months ago.

  And yet, it seemed that my life was starting again, or, perhaps I should say, entering a new phase.

  Surrounded by love, my beautiful 28 year old husband stood at my side, and in front of our friends, we were joined together by the sacred vows of marriage.

  Marc, between assignments, had flown in from France and we’d had an evening drinking to Liz’s memory, recalling her humor and craziness, her warmth and strength—crying just a little. And the day before, Ches and his family had arrived from San Diego. His children had peered at me shyly until they spotted Sebastian, and then they’d tried to throw themselves at him, their mother gently restraining them, afraid they’d hurt him. He waved away her concerns and let them climb all over him. It was a wonderful thing to see and my spirits soared, full of hope for the future.

  Mitch and Shirley had arrived from South Carolina, and Shirley wept copiously, apologizing over and over. I finally realized that she was apologizing for not having received my letter seven years earlier. We cried together and hugged each other, and agreed to leave the past in the past. Even Donna had flown up for our special day, although Johan had been too ill to travel. Donna had written to us with their congratulations as soon as Shirley had given them the good news. It was strange to see her after all those years, but having her there—smiling with maternal pride—somehow everything had come full circle.

  Nicole, Jenna and Alice were there to support me: Nicole determinedly arguing until the last second that I should go on at least one shopping spree to find a bridal outfit; and me stating with equal determination that it would never happen.

  My friends’ initial wariness of Sebastian had long since worn off, and they treated him something like a younger brother, much to his irritation and my amusement.

  Sebastian stood by my side in front of the deputy clerk at City Hall and promised to love me every day for the rest of his life. I cried tears of joy, and said I would never again let anything separate us.

  The day was cold and clear, and the crystal sun shone on our small party as we celebrated the life that Sebastian and I were, at last, going to have.

  Despite the difficulties we had been through, despite the difficulties we had yet to face, I had never been happier in my whole life, full of hope and gazing through tears at the man I loved. We were beginning again, or, perhaps, adding a new chapter to our story.

  The bride wore jeans.

  THE END

  PART THREE

  EPILOGUES & BONUS CHAPTERS

  E
XTENDED EPILOGUE 1

  christmas at long BEACH

  Three Months Later

  “For fuck’s sake, Caro! How many people have you invited?”

  I’m staring at a fucking Himalaya of food covering our coffee table, our kitchen table, and across every surface in the kitchen.

  She’s slumped on our couch, looking so fucking sexy, hair all mussed up.

  She glares at me, but I can see the amusement in her eyes, too.

  “Huh! We both know you’ll eat at least half of this, Hunter.” Which is true. “You know that I’ve only invited the girls, Atash and his family.” Which is also true. “I feel like I’ve been standing in the kitchen all day—my feet are killing me.”

  I have married a fucking wonderful cook. Hell, she’s just a fucking wonderful woman, period.

  “Want me to rub your feet, baby?”

  “Oh, please, Sebastian.”

  “Scoot over.”

  I sit on the couch and pull off her sneakers and socks. She moans softly as I massage her feet—fuck, that sound turns me on. And she has beautiful feet: kinda reminds me of some of those fucking boring statues she dragged me to see when we were in Italy.

  She closes her eyes, then says, sleepily, “That’s not my foot, Sebastian.”

  “I know, baby. What can I say, if a job’s worth doing…”

  I lie on the couch and press myself into her. I can’t help it: I get hard just looking at her, but touching her. Yeah … definitely her fault.

  “Ugh, you’re all sweaty, Sebastian!”

  True. I’ve been out for a run. Well, more of a slow, fucking limping jog along the boardwalk. I hate being so fucking feeble, but it’s getting better. The doc says I’ll always have a limp—well, what the fuck does he know?

  It’s already dark outside, but the boardwalk is buzzing, everyone drinking, having a good time, celebrating Christmas Eve.

  I’m beginning to feel part of it, like this really is my home. But the truth is, home could be anywhere, as long as I’m with Caro. I am one lucky bastard. Even with a bullet hole through my damn shoulder and a chunk of muscle missing from my right thigh.

  She pushes me off.

  “Hold that thought, Hunter. I’m going for a shower.”

  She slides out from underneath me and heads for the bathroom. I wait until I can hear the water running and then I follow. Although I may have just taken a slight strategic detour to taste some of that amazing fucking food along the way.

  I peel off my sweatshirt and t-shirt in one go and somewhere between the living room and the bathroom, I kick off my sneakers and socks. I know she’ll be mad at me for that later, as I leave a trail of clothes through the house, but I fucking love it when she chews me out: the way her dark eyes flash, and her nostrils give that little flare. My sweatpants and briefs make it as far as the bathroom door before I lose them. She keeps reminding me we have elderly neighbors and thin curtains. Whatever.

  I slide into the shower behind her and she gives a little gasp.

  Her hair is all lathered up so I run my hands through it, massaging her scalp, and she gives a groan of pleasure. Yep, definitely feeling that in my dick.

  Then I take the shower gel and wash her all over, sliding my hands over her gorgeous, soft skin; over her fantastic ass; and, my favorite, her beautiful breasts.

  I bend down to kiss her and the water from the shower pours over us both, but I don’t need the warmth of the water—I’m fucking on fire just touching her.

  I’d like to crouch down to taste her delicious, wet pussy, but the truth is, it’s fucking agony stretching out my thigh muscles like that. The thought pisses me off. Whatever. There’s other stuff I want to do. A lot of other stuff.

  “Sebastian, I’m slipping!”

  I pick her up around her waist and carry her out into the bathroom, sitting her on the edge of the tub.

  Yeah, kneeling—that’ll work!

  I fall to the floor in front of her and spread her knees out wide. She gasps as I go down on her and that sound alone is enough to make me come. Hold it in, Hunter, you fucking lightweight.

  I work her some with my tongue and some with my finger, but then she comes suddenly and unexpectedly. Jeez, that was quick.

  “Fuck, Caro! You okay, baby?”

  I look up at her and I love that hot, abandoned look. Her hair is hanging down her back, almost to her waist, and those beautiful breasts are rising and falling rapidly with her very fast breathing.

  She nods but doesn’t seem capable of speaking, and that makes me smile. I pull her up and half-carry her to the bedroom.

  She sprawls out on her back and then holds up her arms and wiggles her fingers at me. That means she wants me to lie down with her. I fucking love that we have this unspoken language between us. I’ve done a lot of shit with a lot of women, but I’ve never had this level of intimacy with any of them. Only Caro. It’s only ever been Caro.

  I lie down and kiss her throat, feeling her hot, sweet skin next to mine, as she stretches out like a cat, arching her back and smiling.

  “You want to go from behind, Sebastian?” she says, looking up at me, with that wicked gleam in her eye that really fucking turns me on.

  “No, baby; I want to come from behind.”

  She slaps my chest but rolls onto her front, and lifts her ass in the air.

  “Come and get it, big boy!”

  I can’t help laughing out loud.

  “What films have you been watching, Caro? Come and get it, big boy?”

  She smiles over her shoulder at me.

  “I made that one up. Original, huh?”

  “Yeah, baby. It turns me on.”

  She smirks.

  “Sebastian, according to you, you get turned on when I ask you to do the dishes!”

  “I know, baby; I think it’s the hot water and foam—gets me thinking stuff.”

  “I’ve noticed,” she says, drily. “Now am I going to have to wave my ass in the air forever, or are you going to do something about it?”

  I’m too much of a fucking gentleman to keep her waiting any longer.

  “You want it hard or soft, baby?”

  “Both.”

  Yeah, I can do that.

  I slide myself into her gently, feeling that fucking amazing slight resistance that turns into hot, sweet flesh closing all around me.

  “Fuck, Caro!”

  She pushes back into me.

  Fuck, if she does that again, there ain’t gonna be much chance of ‘soft’.

  I slide all the way out, then push into her again, rolling my hips so I can feel her all around me, massaging her inside.

  I manage one more slow action before I feel her quiver again and that tips me over the fucking edge. I grip her hips and start pounding into her; the headboard is banging so hard, I think it’s going to go through the fucking wall. Again, I’m surprised when she comes really quickly: normally we have better timing than that. Not that I care, because feeling her clenching around me just brings me on faster. Fuck, that woman can milk me!

  I wonder, briefly, if it’s possible to run out of cum. Yeah, well, not so far.

  She clenches around me again and I spill into her, pressing her body into the mattress. I pull out carefully and roll onto my back, breathing hard.

  Fuck, that felt good!

  I didn’t know Christmas Eve could be so much fun—it never has been before; although some of the Christmases I spent with Ches, or Shirley and Mitch were pretty good. Nothing like this, though, obviously.

  And I fucking love the fact that we’ve given up condoms. No matter what anyone says, the sensation just isn’t the same. And as for being spontaneous, forget that. I mean, have you ever tried to have shower sex when you’re using condoms? Yeah, well, see what I mean?

  But more than that, I love that Caro has given up taking the Pill. It’s like there are no barriers between us. I know she’s worried about being an older mom, but she’ll be so fucking amazing at it. Hell, she’s so fucking p
atient with me, and I know I’ve given her a really shitty time since I got back from Afghan. But things feel like they’re really on track now.

  And she’s promised she’ll give up the war reporting stuff. I know I should feel guilty about that, but I just can’t. I’m relieved that she’s not going to put herself in danger like that anymore. And after what happened to Liz Ashton, I’d fucking burn Caro’s passport and chain her to the bed before I let her get anywhere near an airplane.

  But she’s had another offer, one I’m much happier about. She wrote a piece about us biking through Italy. I didn’t even know she’d done it, but one day she came in with this travel magazine and a photograph of me next to my Kawasaki ZZ-R1400 somewhere above Amalfi. That was a great bike. Might have to get another of those.

  Turns out the travel mag people have offered her a couple of features, including some motorcycle rides in the US. I’m definitely up for that. But they’re talking about Spain, too. Oh yeah, I’ll carry her bags on that job. Yes, ma’am!

  I’m still not sure what I want to do, but sorting out Atash’s immigration shit has been really interesting. Caro thinks I could make a good attorney but I’m not sure I’d have the patience for that. I’d have to do a degree then a Master’s degree. And even if I could take all that studying, which would be enough dry words to choke a camel, I’d probably end up mouthing off to the judge and getting thrown in jail for contempt of court or some shit. I’ve had some work doing interpreting, but until I get my reading of Arabic and Persian up to speed, it’ll remain limited. Guess I’m just kinda looking around.

  But one thing that does interest me is doing fitness training with people who have disabilities. I’ve worked with some great therapists who helped me get my shit together—and some fucking useless ones who shouldn’t be let near a real live human being. I’d always thought I might do something along the lines of a personal trainer—I can’t imagine being stuck in some rabbit hutch of an office all day—but this kind of appeals. At least I’d know what the fuck I’m talking about.

  Alice got me a pass to use the NYU cardio room and weight room. One day, there was this British woman doing one of those motivational talks. I was going to skip it but I heard her say that she’d broken her back paragliding and the doctors told her she probably wouldn’t walk again. So she told them all to shove it, ignored all medical advice and, three months later, took her first steps. Now she runs those ultra long-distance marathons*.