“She was pregnant – got knocked up by that bastard Jack Sullivan. You remember that older guy who used to hang out at the beach? Yeah, well, when she found out she was pregnant, she freaked out. Got this crazy idea in her head that if she could get back with me, she’d get me to sleep with her and pretend the baby was mine.”
He shook his head in disbelief at the fucked up behavior of a scared 18 year-old girl.
“She thought if she got you out of the way, we’d get back together. She had no idea what she’d done. Until after – and it was too late.”
“And did you? Sleep with her?”
“For fuck’s sake,” he said, his anger evident. “I told you. I didn’t even touch another woman for three years.”
“Sorry.”
“Yeah, well,” he said, continuing with the grim little story, “she had to face her parents eventually. Jack wouldn’t have anything to do with her, and she wouldn’t say who the father was. Everyone assumed it was me anyway.”
He rubbed his forehead tiredly. “But when Kimberley was born, she had all this dark brown hair and dark eyes; it was kind of obvious I wasn’t the father.”
“Kimberley?”
“She’s a great kid. I see them sometimes when I’m on the west coast. Brenda married a car salesman a couple of years back. He’s a pretty nice guy and good with Kimberley.”
I nodded slowly, finding I couldn’t dislike Brenda as much as I’d wanted to. Although I’d still have to slap her if I saw her again.
“Well, I’m glad it worked out for her – in the end.” I paused. “You didn’t tell me what happened to Donna and Johan. They were always kind to me.”
“Shirley’s stayed in touch with them. I saw them a few times after… Johan retired a couple of years back, and they moved to Phoenix. I heard he was pretty sick – leukemia, I think.”
“I’m sorry to hear that: they were a nice couple.”
Oh, poor Johan. Such a decent man. Poor Donna. Maybe I should write… no, they wouldn’t want to hear from me.
He nodded but didn’t reply.
“What about that funny little friend of yours – Fido? What was his real name… um… Alfred? Albert? Arnold! What happened to him?”
Sebastian didn’t smile, which was never a good sign.
“He enlisted just before me. He joined the Rakkasans, 187th Infantry. He died eight years ago in Iraq – IED. Poor bastard never stood a chance. He didn’t even make it to twenty.”
“Oh no, I’m so sorry!”
And I remembered that sweet kid who used to try and flirt with me: now dead. All those young men gone.
We finished our coffees in silence, each lost in the past.
Every time I thought we’d finished our stroll down memory lane, something else came along to hijack us, tugging us back to our turbulent history. It was like being on an emotional carnival ride – including the concomitant nausea, but seriously lacking the fun.
“Ready to head for Chamonix?” said Sebastian.
I smiled at him, grateful that he’d interrupted my musings.
“Yes, ready as I’ll ever be. Actually though, it’s more comfortable riding on that machine than I thought it would be. I just wish I’d worn something warmer.”
“Put your hands in my pockets this time,” he said. “That will help. And there’s a shop in Chamonix where we can get you some good gloves.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I can buy you some fucking gloves, Caro!” he said, crossly.
“Fine!” I snapped, matching his irritated tone, “Although I have no idea what ‘fucking gloves’ are: made of latex, I suppose!”
He laughed loudly. “God, I love you, Caro!”
He stopped when he’d realized what he’d said.
“Slip of the tongue,” he mumbled.
I ignored his comment and waited until he mounted the motorcycle, before clambering on behind him.
Gratefully, I pushed my hands into the pockets of his jacket, winding my fingers into the soft leather.