I threw some Euros at him, then dragged the shitty grappa towards me, downing three shots one after the other. The bartender muttered something under his breath, shrugged and walked away.

Anger and hatred burned inside, and it took all my training not to go find someone to beat the shit out of. To err is human, to forgive divine—and neither of those was Marine Corps policy. Ooh-rah.

So I drank, hoping numbness would follow. But instead the memories poured through me: the first time I saw her, the first time she smiled at me, the first time I made her laugh, the first time we made love. The way she listened to me like my words had value, the way she smelled after her shower—the scent of her skin after sex. The way she touched me, the words she’d said as the left: Ti amo tanto, sempre e per sempre. The lies.

Other memories began to swirl through my foggy brain: the day I walked into the recruiter’s office; the first day of boot camp when every other guy there was wondering what the fuck they’d done, and I was relieved to get away from my parents for good; the day of my graduation as a United States Marine when my fucking father had showed up and I’d had to salute the bastard—the look on his face before he walked away; first day in Iraq; the first IED I heard exploding; the first dead body I saw—a child; the first time I shot my rifle for real, 18 years old and piss scared—and the pride when I held it together and fought with my brothers; the day I won my first stripe, Private First Class.

And it had been good, being part of something again, something that mattered. The Marine Corps was the family I’d never had. And for three years it was home, even though I traveled all over the world. And then I was sure, so sure that Caro would find me. Because after three years, my fucking parents couldn’t touch us—and her ‘crime’ of sleeping with me when I underage was beyond the Statute of Limitations. But she never came. And I hated her. I thought I hated her—I tried.

I was still trying to hate her but my cock had other ideas, hardening to titanium the first moment I saw her again in that boring-as-fuck hostile environment briefing, and every moment since. I tried to forget how she looked when she saw me, or the way she felt when she came apart under me. So I drank.

When the bar began to empty at 3AM, the bottle of grappa was less than a quarter full. The bartender approached me slowly, and I gazed at him with bleary eyes while he explained that they were closing.

His expression changed from wariness to understanding as he watched me stagger towards the exit, pawing at the door to pull it open. When it refused to budge, he gently turned the handle to push it open. Then he patted me on the shoulder and said, “Chè per vendetta mai non sanò piaga.”

My alcohol soaked brain took a moment to translate: Revenge never healed a wound. If I’d translated more quickly, I’d have told him to fuck off.

I fumbled for my bike keys, trying to figure out why there were two Honda ST1100s in the parking lot. I tried to swing a leg over the saddle but somehow ended up lying on my back, staring up at the stars. It occurred to me that there was a possibility I was drunk. I had a feeling I was supposed to do something, but I didn’t know what it was. In the distance I could hear the sound of waves rolling up the narrow beach, so I decided to go for a walk with my new best friend who answered to the name of Grappa.

The two of us made our way down to the beach and sank down onto the sand. I couldn’t understand why the bottle was empty—I thought Grappa was my friend. Guess I was wrong about that bastard, too. I decided to lay down for a short nap—maybe then I’d remember what the fuck I was supposed to be doing.

When I woke up, some asswipe was shining a light into my face that made my eyes water, and some other shitbag was pounding on my head with a cement block. I sat up cautiously, blinking in the light of a brilliant Spring morning. Fuck, I felt rougher than a docker’s armpit. At the sight of the empty bottle of Grappa, I heaved up my guts, coughing and retching until there was nothing left.

I felt too ill to care who’d seen me, but kicked some sand over the mess all the same. I wondered what time it was. From the position of the sun, probably between 10:00 and 11:00. I wondered where Caro was—and then the memories of the night before came crashing back. A sick feeling that had nothing to do with the amount of alcohol I’d drunk made my stomach lurch. Fuck me, had I really said all that poisonous shit to her?

I squinted up and down the beach, trying to get my bearings as my pounding head tried to make sense of everything that had happened.

Then my bladder began to complain, urging me to drain the mainframe before I did anything else. I lurched to my feet and took a long and satisfying piss against the wall of an old fisherman’s hut, watched by a one-eyed dog.

“Don’t look at me, buddy,” I croaked. “I’m in worse shape than you are.”

I ran my hands across my scruff and took a tentative sniff at an armpit. Not too rank. Well, that was something.

I found my bike still intact in the bar’s parking lot then remembered that the tank was nearly empty. Luckily a local gas station had opened, selling fuel at the extortionate sum of €1.73 a liter, or about nine bucks a gallon in good ole US dollars.

I headed back toward Casa Giovina, wondering what to say to Caro, wondering what she’d say to me. But just before I reached the turnoff, I saw her walking along the highway, my overnight bag slung across one shoulder. Shit! She was already leaving!

I pulled over, but when she recognized the bike, she put her head down and started walking faster. Annoyed, I jogged up behind her, cursing the movement that made my stomach and head protest in stereo.

“Caro, wait!”

But she didn’t, so I grabbed the handles of the bag, forcing her to stop.

“Caro, I’m sorry.” No response. “Okay?” Still no response. Pissed, I tugged on the handles of the bag again until she had to let go. “Are you going to talk to me?”

“I think you’ve said enough—for both of us,” she snapped.

“Fuck, Caro! It was the alcohol talking, that’s all…” I protested.

“It was more than that and you know it, Sebastian.”

Her dark eyes flashed with a fury that matched my own.

“Can’t you take a fucking apology?” I barked.

“I don’t know,” she hissed. “Can you make one?”

We stood staring at each other; both hurt, both angry.

I ran my hand over my hair and frowned at her. “Can we just go somewhere and talk? Or are you going to walk back to Geneva?”

She folded her arms across her chest, glaring back at me. “Yes, frankly. I was going to get a cab to drive me to the airport. I’m sure I’d have no trouble getting a flight.”

I tried to make my voice softer because I could see that being pissed was getting me exactly nowhere.

“Don’t leave like this, Caro,” I reasoned. “Let’s just talk and if we can’t … fix this, I’ll take you to the airport myself.”

Even as I said the words I knew with certainty that I didn’t want her to go. I had to man the fuck up and make this right.

She hesitated for five long seconds, then nodded coldly. I stowed the bag and silently passed her a helmet.

When I climbed back on the bike, she refused to take my hand, preferring to scramble on awkwardly by herself. I heaved out a sigh when she held onto the small grab-bar at the rear of her seat instead of linking her arms around my waist as she’d always done before.

I swung the bike around in a slow U-turn and headed southeast, away from the airport, following the coast road. After a few miles, I pulled up by a beach café in the small town of Bogliasco.

“Do you want a coffee?” I suggested.

“An espresso and a glass of water, please,” she replied stiffly.