We’d come so far and waited so long, and if last night had taught me anything, I wanted this second chance. Badly. And I was fucking it up. Again. My head sank into my hands as I mumbled a reply.

“Don’t give up on me, Caro.”

“Last night I thought you’d given up on me,” she said firmly.

I really wanted to kick my own ass.

“Can we start again, Caro?” I asked, no longer too proud to beg. “I promise I’ll try not to fuck up again.”

She took a deep breath.

“Sebastian, it’s not a case of starting again; it’s about working things through when we have a problem. Funny enough, it was you who taught me that, ten years ago: you made me face up to things. You can’t promise me you won’t fuck up, because you will. And I can’t promise you that I won’t fuck up, because I will. We can deal, and we can move on. Or, we can say it’s been an interesting few days, and go our separate ways.”

I reached over and took her hand carefully, examining her narrow wrist and slender fingers.

“I want to go on,” I admitted to her, to myself. “With you.”

She stared at me for several long seconds, and I had the weirdest sensation that she was trying to read my mind.

“Okay, then,” she breathed out slowly. “Let’s try.”

“And I promise not to sleep with your best friend, especially if it’s that scary British woman I saw you with in Geneva.”

I hoped my lame joke would lighten the moment, but her expression told me it was too soon for that.

“Sorry,” I said quietly. “Another foot-in-mouth moment.”

She pulled her hand free and sat back to pick up the cup of lukewarm espresso in front of her. Absentmindedly, I watched her lips as she sipped her coffee, forcing some pieces of bread into my mouth, hoping it would help settle my stomach.

“Did they say anything about last night?” I asked suddenly, realizing that I’d left Caro with a fucked up situation to deal with. “The people at the villa?”

“Not really,” she said mildly. “They were mostly embarrassed. I think we’ve managed to ruin it for any other Americans who might want to stay there. But the old lady told me that you’d be back.”

That surprised me.

“Really?”

“Yes,” she said with a half smile, “and I’m pretty certain it was me not you she was applauding last night. She probably thought I should get a medal for putting up with you.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, “a Purple Heart.”

“Wounded in action?” she asked seriously.

My smile slipped away. “I’m really sorry about what I said.”

She shook her head slowly. “We’re moving on, remember? But, for the record, apology accepted.”

I looked down and ate some of the pieces of bread roll, more for a distraction than anything else.

“I got drunk and fell asleep on the beach,” I admitted. “In case you were wondering.”

I didn’t want Caro to think I’d spent the night with another woman.

She looked away and frowned.

“Well, thank you for telling me.”

“I panicked when I woke up: I thought you might have gone. And then I saw you walking along the road. At first I was relieved but then … I just thought you’d walked out on me. That’s why I was…”

“…such an ass?”

I managed a rueful smile at her sharp comeback.

“Yeah, that about sums it up.”

“Well, like I said, thank you for telling me.” She took a deep breath and tried to smile. “Now, what’s the big plan for today?”

She was letting me off the hook. Thank fuck for that.

“I thought we could go to Pisa—take a look at that big, old leaning tower. It’s about two hours away.”

“Sure, that sounds fun.”

Her smile wasn’t 100% natural, but she was trying. I guess we both were.

I swallowed a few more pieces of roll, hoping it would soak up the remainder of the alcohol in my system, then threw some Euros on the table and stood up to go. Without thinking, I held out my hand to Caro. Her reaction was a little strained, but she took my hand and I wrapped my fingers around hers, squeezing gently.

We walked to the bike and I pulled on my leather jacket as she stowed her luggage in the saddlebags, refusing to meet my gaze.

“I really want to kiss you,” I said, hoping that she’d truly forgiven me.

She hesitated, and my stomach dropped to my boots before she looked up and nodded once.

“Okay.”

Relieved that she was going to let me touch her, I rested my hands on her waist and brushed my lips to hers. She pulled back quickly.

“Caro…”

“Just hold me, Sebastian. Just hold me.”

She laid both her hands on my chest and leaned her cheek against my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around her, hugging tightly.

“I’m sorry,” I said for the millionth time. “I’m so sorry,” and I pressed a small kiss into her hair.

When I could bear to let her go, she looked up and gave me a quick smile. A real one.

“We’ll get there,” she said.

Pisa was slammed, getting high on festival fever. Music blared from every café and ristorante, competing with the street entertainers and musicians, and the streets were filled with people partying. If I’d been here a week ago, still resolutely single, I’d have joined them, drinking and flirting, until I found a piece of pussy to hook up with for the night. But not now: the only girl I wanted was riding behind me on my bike.

I found a parking lot filled with battered Fiats and old Renaults. It wasn’t the most secure place in the world, but it would have to do.

“Are you taking your camera?” I suggested to Caro.

“Might as well,” she said, flinging it loosely over one, slim shoulder. “Who knows, maybe I’ll be able to sell a travelogue of biking through Italy.”

I was definitely on board with that idea. I’d much prefer Caro wrote articles from places that weren’t in a warzone. “It’s got to beat reporting from shitty military camps in fucked up countries.”

She shrugged, and I could tell that if I pushed her on the subject of her work, we’d be fighting again. But I really didn’t get it. I’d met foreign correspondents in Iraq and Afghanistan: they were a bunch of hard-drinking adrenaline junkies. I also knew guys who made a nice pile of extra cash by passing low-value info to journos who were hoping to get the next scoop. Yeah, I was glad that they reported to the people back home, because the sooner this fucked up war came to an end and we pulled out, the better. But the reporters I’d met—much like that scary British woman back in Geneva—they weren’t happy unless they were in the heat of the front line: total fucking bullet magnets. Caro wasn’t like that.

Holding in a sigh and biting back further comments¸ we walked into the city to explore.

Leaning tower. Check.

Bunch of old buildings. Check.

More old buildings. Check. Yawn.

Even more old buildings. Fuck me.

After what felt like half a lifetime, I was seriously done with seeing anymore old ruins or piles of rubble. I didn’t care if they were built by the Romans, the Italians or the fucking Egyptians. And I was so hungry, I was ready to chew my arm off.

Caro had been mostly silent, but taking photo after photo of everything we saw. Well, I guess she saw more in it than I did: still a bunch of fucking bricks.

“A penny for your thoughts,” I asked.

“I was just thinking about Papa—wondering if he ever came here.”

It explained why she’d been so quiet. At least she wasn’t still pissed at me. Well, not as much.

“I really loved your dad, Caro,” I admitted, thinking back to the guy with a crazy mustache who played with me and talked to me, and taught me more about the world than my asswipe of a father. “I was kinda jealous of you when I was a kid—I wanted so badly to have a dad like him, not the sack of shit I was saddled with.”