He walked as if dazed, in silence, unseeing. Twice I had to stop him before he plowed into the road at an intersection. His behavior was starting to get me really worried.
When we finally got back, the house was dark. I was intensely grateful for David’s continuing absence; I was certain he would have insisted on phoning Sebastian’s parents had he been there – and no way would anything good result from that.
I opened the door, switching on lights as I went and led him into the kitchen. I pulled out a chair and, after a moment’s hesitation, he sat down.
I had to ferret around several drawers before I could remember where I’d put the antiseptic cream. More urgently, I needed a cloth to fill with ice to try and take down some of the swelling. I smashed the ice tray down on the counter and saw Sebastian jump.
“Oh, sorry!” I said softly. He still didn’t speak.
Gently I placed the ice pack against his cheek and lifted his hand for him to hold it in place.
I pulled down the hood of his sweatshirt and an involuntary gasp escaped. Someone – Donald, I guessed – had hacked off chunks of Sebastian’s hair.
“Your father?”
He nodded, his eyes flicking to mine briefly, then away.
Fury coursed through me.
“Because of the surfing?”
He closed his eyes and nodded again.
“Because of me?” I said, my voice a whisper.
His eyes blinked open. “No, it would have happened anyway. I’d already planned to go out with Ches and Mitch today. It’s not your fault…”
But it felt like my fault; I felt guilty.
“Do you want me to fix it for you?”
He didn’t seem to understand my question.
“Do you want me to turn it into a buzz-cut?”
It was the only viable option, short of shaving his head completely.
“Okay.”
I led him upstairs, through the bedroom and into our bathroom, pulling out a chair for him to sit facing the mirror.
“I don’t want to look at myself,” he said, angling the chair away so he couldn’t see his reflection.
David’s shaver was in the cupboard. I’d trimmed up his crew cut many times and for once I was grateful that I could perform this simple task well.
The buzzing sound filled the small room as I ran the shaver over Sebastian’s head. His sun-bleached hair fell to the floor in unhappy clumps. When I’d finished I took my towel and dusted away the small hairs frosting his face and neck.
He looked older, harder, and I didn’t know if this was simply the result of his new haircut or something resolving inside him.
“All done,” I said hoarsely, unshed tears making my voice rough.
His head sank to his chest as if a great weight pulled it down. I was desperately tempted to run my fingers over his short, soft hair, to soothe him in some way.
“It’ll be okay,” I murmured pathetically.
He looked up, his eyes meeting mine. “Will it?”
“Yes. When you leave home. You won’t have to see him again – either of them.”
He nodded slowly, as if the thought were difficult to process.
“Would you like me to get the ice?” I said gently.
He shook his head.
“Let me look.”
Gently, I lifted his chin so I could examine his cheek; the bruise was coming through darkly but his swollen lip was looking better.
Then he laid his hand over mine and I felt the shock of his touch surge through me.
“Please don’t,” I whispered. But there was no force behind my words.
He stood, still holding my hand.
“I love you, Caroline.”
He spoke softly but the words were clear, spoken without expectation and with little hope. His eyes were wide with anxiety and I could see the rapid rise and fall of his chest beneath the sweatshirt.
Whether it was these simple words, or the look on his face, his vulnerability, or my weakness, I couldn’t say.
I lifted my empty hand and stroked his cheek, then ran my fingers over the fine bristles of his hair and around to the back of his neck, pulling his head towards me.