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.”
“Okay.” 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.