Why had he touched me like that? He said he liked me – what did that mean? What did he want?
I was irritated with myself as I stalked up the beach. It was beyond ridiculous. I was beyond ridiculous.
For fuck’s sake. He’s just a kid. Write your damned article and you won’t see him again.
The thoughts were a warning siren blaring through my skull.
I was relieved when Mitch paddled towards the shore. I made certain I asked him endless questions, about surfing being so resolutely non-military and a way for Base personnel to relax. I wasn’t giving anyone else a chance to talk to me: certainly not Sebastian.
“Well, the thing is, Caroline, there’s just no point to surfing,” said Mitch thoughtfully. “It isn’t like skiing; you can’t use it for anything. You might get military skiers like they have in those Nordic countries, but the military doesn’t have any use for surfing. Plus there’s a certain kind of rebelliousness to surfers. Call it individualism or what you will, but some people sure don’t like it.”
“Donald Hunter?” I said quietly.
Mitch’s eyes narrowed and he looked around quickly to make sure Sebastian couldn’t overhear him.
“He’d be on the list,” he said shortly.
I knew better than to pursue that line of questioning.
I glanced at my watch and realized with horror that it was already 6 PM. I couldn’t believe how the time had flown. David would be on his way home; he wouldn’t be pleased to find an empty house. With a sinking feeling I realized that he’d also loathe the fact that I’d been spending time with a non-commissioned officer. He felt it reflected badly on him in some way.
“You okay, Caroline?” said Mitch. “You look kinda worried.”
He was too observant.
“Oh, not really. I just realized how late it had gotten. Enjoying myself too much.” I gave him a weak smile. He understood me instantly.
“We’ll get you home, on the double,” he said good-naturedly.
He yelled towards the ocean, parade-ground loud, and gave the time-honored time-out signal.
Ches was the last to surf in, complaining bitterly that he just wanted to catch one more wave.
“We’ve got to get Mrs. Wilson home,” said Mitch, looking pointedly at his son.
The look and his tone was enough.
We walked back towards the van together, Sebastian unnaturally quiet, while the rest analyzed the afternoon’s surf, talking about tubes, green rooms and wipe outs. Then I turned my back while they peeled off their surf-shorts and dried themselves with old beach towels, pulling on Tshirts and jeans for the drive back.
I could barely listen to their cheerful banter, tension filling me up like an overflowing drain. I did manage to pull myself together enough to ask Mitch if he would read through my article once I’d written it.
“Oh no!” he shook his head laughing. “I don’t do words, Caroline, not reading and writing words. You should ask one of the boys – that’s more their thing.”
“Sebastian will do it,” said Ches, throwing a teasing look at his friend.
Fido snickered quietly while Sebastian scowled.
“Ok with you, Seb?” asked Mitch, restoring order swiftly.
“Sure,” said Sebastian quietly. “Whenever you like, Caroline.”
I felt bad, he looked so miserable; but better like this than… I couldn’t bring myself to think of the alternative.
Twenty minutes later Mitch dropped me off. I sketched a wave and sprinted to the house. The small burst of speed didn’t make any difference because David’s Camaro was already parked in the drive.
I fished in my beach purse for the key and tentatively unlocked the door.
“Caroline?”
Who else?
“Hello, David. Sorry I’m late home.”
He was waiting for me at the kitchen table. He didn’t look happy: irritation rolled off him in waves.
“Where have you been? Your car was parked out front.”
“Sergeant Peters gave me a ride; he was helping me out with an article I’m writing for City Beat.”
“Peters? Which one is he?”