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And he turned away from me.

I tried to speak, but I choked on the sounds.

“Please, Sebastian,” I said, touching his arm. “That
’s not what I’m saying: I just wanted to… try and get some… some normality. I’d visit on weekends.”

He shrugged me off.

“Don’t fucking drag it out, Caro,” he said bitterly. “I’m not completely fucking dumb.”

I stood up suddenly, and the movement made him look up.

“Damn you, Sebastian!” I yelled. “I’m not leaving you! You’ll never get rid of me, so you can just stop trying. Right now.”

He looked away again.

“Whatever,” he said.

That was a bad, bad day. I wondered how much further we had to fall – and I dreaded finding out. But
I also realized that although Sebastian sniped and snarled at me day after day, he needed me to be with him. I decided to stay in Maryland: Alice would be able to continue looking after the bungalow.

We
’d manage – somehow.

Seven days later,
the Physical Evaluation Board Liaison Officer, a friendly but efficient woman whom I knew as Joan, told Sebastian that the PEB would, ‘authorize his disability separation, with disability benefits, as he had been found unfit and his condition was incompatible with continued military service’.

Sebastian
was no longer a US Marine.

Chapter
17

The day Sebastian came home should have been the happiest of our lives, but my love was broken in body and spirit.

I arranged for a taxi to pick us up from the airport. Nicole and Jenna had both offered to drive us, but I thought it would be better for him to have a quiet return; Sebastian was in no shape to meet my friends, no matter how well-meaning.

Alice had been to the bungalow to clean and air it, and had also promised to stock up the fridge.

I’d booked a wheelchair to take Sebastian from the plane to the airport’s entrance, but he refused to even consider it.

“I
’m not fucking using it, Caro, so just drop it,” he snapped at me.

I quietly acquiesced, and watched his slow and painful
struggle through the terminal building, using the crutch to support his right leg, which still couldn’t bear his weight.

The taxi driver chatted away during the journey back to Long Beach, and I tried to keep up a desultory conversation
while Sebastian stared out of the window.

I thought I detected a slight change in
him when he saw the ocean, today a sharp, slate-blue under the August sunshine, but then he closed up and the shutters on his emotions came crashing down again.

When we arrived at my bungalow, the driver collected our bags from the trunk
and deposited them on the porch. I stood back while Sebastian struggled from the car, desperate to help him, but knowing he’d hate it and resent the interference.

“Dude, what happened to your leg?” the driver suddenly asked him.

“Bomb.”

“Say what?”

“Bomb: got blown up.”

“Cool!”

I thought Sebastian would smile or roll his eyes or give some indication of the callousness of the driver’s comment, but he didn’t. The light had gone out of his eyes and I didn’t know what it would take to rekindle it.

We
’d find a way. We’d always find a way.

But it was hard.

Sebastian was exhausted and in pain. He made his way to my couch and lowered himself carefully, biting back the groan that rose to his lips.

“Do you want to lie down, tesoro?”

I badly wanted him to make a joke, to say something about me wanting to get him into bed as soon as possible, but he didn’t. He just shook his head.

“I
’ll stay here for a while.”

“Ok
ay.” I hesitated. “Well, I’ll put your bags in the spare room for now: we can go through them later.”

He didn
’t answer.

I shoved his duffel
bag and backpack under the bed. I decided I’d unpack these when he was asleep. He didn’t need to see his uniforms now. I didn’t even know if he’d want to keep them.

When I walked back into the living room, he was staring into space.

“Are you hungry? Would you like some pasta?”

He shook his head. “No.”

I bit back my words, which would have insisted that he eat something.

He
’d lost weight, a lot of weight, his face gaunt, and his beauty, which had always seemed so tangible, had become ethereal.

“Maybe later,” I said, softly.

He didn’t answer.

I felt odd and ill at ease being home
after such an extended absence and Sebastian’s silent, volcanic presence intimidated me.

“This wasn
’t what I’d planned,” he said.

“It
’s not what either of us had in mind, but we’ll deal, won’t we?”

“I thought I
’d be carrying you over the fucking threshold,” he said, his face twisted with disgust.

“That doesn
’t matter, Sebastian. We…”

“Yes, it does fucking matter, Caro!” he shouted
, making me jump. “It really fucking matters! Christ, can’t you understand something as fucking simple as that?”

I blanched, his anger cutting me to the core.

“I’m sorry, Sebastian, I just…”

“Just what, Caro?”

“Nothing,” I muttered, walking into the kitchen, and holding onto the sink.

I
will not cry. I will not cry
.

I needed something to do with my hands to stop them from shaking: I hunted through the fridge, trying to think of something he might like to eat. In the end I kept it simple: a
cheese sandwich with lettuce and tomato. It wasn’t really the sort of thing I enjoyed eating, but I hoped if I had the same food, it might tempt him.

I took two plates into the living room and set one down next to him. He didn
’t even look at the food, just continued staring into space, as if his outburst had never happened.

I tried not to panic: it was
relatively new and he’d been through a lot. How trivial that sounded – he’d nearly died and he was a long way from recovering – even all the doctors still failed to agree on how full that recovery would be.

I couldn
’t stand the silence. Eventually, I turned on the TV, something I rarely did when I was by myself. I had to change channel several times before I found something that didn’t have news programs or anything to do with Afghanistan. We ended up watching something about meerkats in Africa: very educational – neither of us heard more than half a dozen words, and Sebastian didn’t touch his food.

“
Do you have any beer?”

“Oh, no, sorry
,” I stuttered. “I could open some wine?”

He nodded. “Yeah, that
’ll do.”

I opened a bottle
Chianti and watched him drink three glasses, one after the other. He would have finished the bottle if I hadn’t taken it into the kitchen.

“Caro, what are you doing with the fucking wine?”

No. I wasn’t having this. He wasn’t going to drown his sorrows in a bottle.

“You haven
’t eaten anything, and you have to take your pain killers, Sebastian. So, no, the wine stays in the kitchen.”

He exploded. Swearing at me, shouting and yelling. Who the fuck did I think I was? Who was I to tell him how to live his life? And on and on.

I hoped that when he’d finished, he’d have got some of the poison out of him, but he soon reverted to the cold silence that hurt the most.

By about 9
pm
, his face was gray with tiredness.

“
Should I show you where the bedroom is?”

“It
’s a fucking bungalow, Caro,” he said, “how fucking difficult do you think it’s going to be? I’m not a fucking moron, even if I am a cripple.”

“Sebastian…”

But he didn’t want to listen. He pulled himself off the couch, gasping as pain lanced through him, and he clenched his teeth.

After a false start, where he crashed into the spare room, he found his way to the bedroom. I gave him a few minutes, then followed. He was lying on his good side, facing away from my side of the bed.

I brushed my teeth and slipped in next to him, carefully curling my body into his and enjoying the moment when my arm rested across his waist, feeling his bare skin again after nearly three months.

He shifted minutely.

“Don’t,” he said.

I pulled my hand back as if stung.

He didn’t want me to touch him
? He didn’t want me to touch him.

I
’d learned during my first marriage that it is possible to cry without making a sound; I didn’t think Sebastian would take me back to those years. And that was more painful than anything. I lay next to him as the tears slipped silently down my cheeks.

Over the next few days, things got worse. He had no interest in anything: I had to nag to get him to shower or change his clothes, and he refused point blank to shave, so his beautiful face was covered in a light-brown stubble that was unfamiliar and unwelcome.

He ate little, preferring instead to work his way through my small collection of wine, and cut off any attempt of mine to stop him.

He barely spoke to me. His usual responses included shouting and yelling, or just ignoring me. He
didn’t read, he didn’t watch TV: he didn’t do anything except drink.

My friends wanted to come and visit. Tentatively, I suggested it to him, thinking he might be persuaded into making an effort for them
, if not for me.

“Yeah, they want to come see the fucking war cripple,” he sneered, “make them feel good, like fucking charity. What
’s the matter with you, Caro? Do I look like I’m ready to see anyone?”

“Sebastian, they
’re my friends. They want to meet you, and they want to see me. You don’t have to put on a performance for them.”
Even though that was exactly what I’d hoped.