I’d always thought it must have been for the nostalgia value, or maybe just that he didn’t like getting rid of anything, but as I stand here now, I’m pretty sure it must have been that lovely smell.
The furniture is all just as I remember it, too. Sully had been a wood and leather man all the way, and he’d kept his house furnished accordingly, chock-full of polished tables and well-worn couches. As far as I could tell, not a thing had been moved.
I round the staircase and slide into the kitchen, the wheels of my bag rolling gently on the hardwood floors. Opening the huge stainless steel fridge, I can’t help but smile from ear to ear. It’s fully stocked and ready to go, and I can even see a package of my favorite strawberry yogurt.
He must have known I’d come, and he’d made provisions to prepare accordingly.
“Oh, Grandpa,” I say with a sigh, closing the refrigerator door and walking over to the massive oak dining room table. I set my bag against the wall, pull out a chair and take a seat. Surrounded by the smell of books and wood polish—with just the faintest lingering hint of the cigars he’d always loved so much—I set my arms on the table and flop forward, letting my head rest inside them. My eyes close, and I exhale slowly, more at ease than I can remember being in a long time.
A moment later, I hear the front door open.
“Ms. MacMillan?”
“In here, Gary,” I call out, my voice muffled by my arms around my face.
Another chair scrapes against the floor, and I lift my head to see Gary’s kind face, weathered gently by time and marred only by the sadness of our business today.
“First,” Gary starts, clearing his throat and setting his briefcase on the table as he removes his long black coat, “Let me just say that I am so profoundly sorry for your loss.”
“Our loss,” I remind him, touched by his sincerity.
“Yes,” he concedes, the echo of a smile flickering on his lips. “I honestly can’t say that I’ve ever known another man quite like Hendricks Sullivan.”
“Come on, Gary, you know better,” I tease, even though I know it’s a losing battle. “I prefer Cate, and he wanted you to call him Sully.”
Gary casts his eyes down for just a moment, but not before I catch a glimpse of the smile that finally landed on his face. He knows I’m right.
“I wouldn’t feel as though I’d earned Hendricks’ business, or his friendship, if I handled his affairs with anything less than the utmost professionalism,” he admits, pinching the bridge of his nose for just one moment as his brow furrows. “But I do wish that he and I could have shared one more scotch together. I could listen to him talk for hours and hours.”
“He could have read the phone book aloud and made it compelling,” I agree, the wave of loss hitting me again… less painfully here, though, surrounded by everything that feels like him.
“I’m going to miss that man very, very much,” Gary finally says.
Same old Gary, as sensitive as I remember. An absolute shark in the courtroom, but a kind soul. I reach out and place my hand on his forearm, squeezing gently. “We all are. And if he’s still out there somewhere, I’m sure he misses you, too.”
We sit there like that, in silence, lost in our own respective memories of Grandpa until it’s broken by the ringing of my cell phone. I fish it out of my coat pocket and sigh. Of course. Mother.
“Gary, I’m sorry, I have to take this.”
He smiles and nods, and I head out of the kitchen and toward Grandpa’s study. I shut the paned-glass door before answering the call. For the first time in a very long time, I have no idea what I’m about to say to my mother.
“Yes?” I answer.
“Yes?” she repeats sharply. “That’s all you have to say to me, dear?”
I have to hand it to her; she’s doing an excellent job keeping her temper hidden behind her phony upscale accent.
I resist the urge to sigh. I don’t want to do this, but when has that ever stopped her?
“What else can I say? You read my note, right?”
“Your note, your note, of course I read that silly little thing. I’ve already instructed your grandfather’s attorney to begin sale preparations for the townhouse, so your trip to Boston is not only pointless, but poorly timed. Given the train schedule, we’ll have to write off today, but I’ll expect you back at work tomorrow and I’ll warn you now, expect to stay late to make up for the bind you’re putting me in with this little fit of temper.”
Her dismissal of my choices isn’t a surprise, but the reminder that she wants me to sell this house, Grandpa’s house, fills me up with rage. I start to open my mouth to speak, but by habit, I pull back, pushing the emotion deep down into my stomach where it always goes.
I don’t do rage. I stay calm. I work things out. And I always figure out a way to keep my mother happy.
What would Grandpa think about me selling his house?
No, Wildcat. Not my house. Not anymore.
I can hear his warm, deep voice, as clear as day. Not his house. My house. My inheritance. Mine.
And just like that, the knot of rage loosens up and gives way to the feeling of bubbles filling up my chest, threatening to float me right up to the ceiling.
“Caitlin! Are you listening to a word I’m saying?”
I look around the study, the sharp demand in my mother’s voice failing to sting. I love this room. It’s full of all the furniture I know and love, all heavy woods and comfortable leathers. It’s Sully’s room… but for the first time, I start to look at it with a different eye.
It’s my room now.
I start to smile. Maybe a touch of the modern wouldn’t hurt. My ideas. My vision. My house.
“Mom,” I say, cutting off something else I wasn’t listening to. “You had no right speaking to Gary. This house is mine. In fact, I’m meeting with him right now about the details.”
There’s a pause, and even though my tone was mild, I have no doubt that she’s as shocked as she would have been if I’d slapped her in the face.
She recovers quickly, of course. “It’s far too late for that now, dear. I’ve already prepared a design team to come in and tear that filthy old place apart. Gary knows better than to stand in the way of a MacMillan, I assure you.”
I almost laugh. Is she forgetting that I’m a MacMillan, too? But of course, the name has never meant the same thing to me as it does to her. I look around again, my surroundings still buffering me from her harsh tone. I find myself unable to stop thinking about the changes I want to make here. Perhaps that old fireplace could use a new marble façade, something bright. Champagne drapes to go with those gorgeous high windows. A few glass tables, maybe?
“Unless you’re sending your design team up to help me redecorate, Mom, I don’t think I’ll have much use for them running around here.”
Another moment of shocked silence, and then: “Caitlin, I am so completely and utterly disappointed in you. One minute you’re fine, you’re working! You have a boyfriend, who, by the way, couldn’t be any further out of your league! You have a beautiful apartment that I take care of for you! You have a future! And now you’ve decided to throw it all away, for what? For a dirty old park brownstone?”
That’s enough to snap me out of my reverie, briefly. Her words cut deep, digging right into all my insecurities. What am I thinking? The townhouse is wonderful, but it’s not everything. If I stay, I’ll need a job, some way to pay for the upkeep of this place, some way to keep myself alive.
I can feel that knot inside me beginning to tie itself up again, but this time, I squeeze my eyes shut and force myself through. I’m not going to back down. Not this time.
“Mom?”
“What?”
“Don’t speak to me that way,” I say, matter-of-factly. I don’t have the answers, but Sully believed in me. I can do this.
“I beg your pardon?”
“You heard me, Mother. You do not get to speak to me that way.”
She pauses for a mo
ment, then jumps right back in with her assault.
“If this is what you’re choosing to do, then you can consider yourself cut off from this family. You will not see a single dime from me, nor from your father. You might as well change your name from MacMillan to Sullivan if this is the road you want to go down. Honestly, I have no idea what you will do with yourself out there. Monetize your little hobbies? Teach kickboxing to public schoolers? Yoga seminars for the homeless? At your weight?”
“Maybe!” I blurt out passionately, suddenly self-conscious of my curves. I see Gary look up from the kitchen, and I avert my eyes. I calm myself down and add, “Maybe I will teach kickboxing, maybe I’ll teach yoga, but that’s my decision to make. It’s my life to live, and I have to start sometime.”
“You’re impossible, Caitlin. Completely and utterly impossible. I don’t have time for you right now.”
And just like that, she’s gone. I exhale, long and hard, exhausted by the call. For the first time since I arrived, I feel drained; the vibrant, effervescent energy I’ve been filled with all morning dissipating like smoke.
A light tap on the door pane brings me back to my senses. It’s Gary, holding two empty wine glasses.
“Wine,” I sigh. “Yes, please.” I open the door, and we walk together into the den. He has a bottle of red set out on one of the tables, right next to the neatly-flagged paperwork.
Gary is a saint.
“Would another time be better, for the details of the estate?” he asks, pouring a glass for me and a much smaller serving for himself.
I nod, hoping I haven’t inconvenienced him. A little recovery time from my mother would be appreciated, though.
“Would you mind, Gary?”
He smiles, shaking his head as he hands my glass over and nods toward the open bottle. “Only if you promise me that that won’t go to waste.”
“Gary, it’s ten in the morning,” I tease, smiling. I could use it, though.
“I think we both know what Hendricks would have said,” Gary replies, smiling back. “I cannot think of a more apt toast. So,” he lifts his glass. “Five o’clock somewhere?”
I can’t help but giggle, remembering Grandpa Sully’s silly, clichéd sayings. He’d had a million of them, and had never been shy about using them. I take my wine glass and gently clink it against Gary’s. “Five o’clock somewhere.”
We both drink, and we both swallow more than appropriate for a bottle of wine this old, and then—graciously refraining from commenting on the call we both know he overheard—he takes his leave with the promise to set up another time to discuss the terms of Sully’s will. Once the door closes behind him, I close my eyes, letting all the good memories of the townhouse swirl around me and buoy my spirits up.
After a minute, I open my eyes, my gaze landing on the wine and my lips lifting with the memory of the promise I’d just made to Gary. I won’t let it go to waste. I’m free, and I’m home, and for once in my life, I’m going to do exactly what I want.
“Cheers to me,” I repeat softly to myself as I hold up my wine glass to catch the light streaming in from the bathroom window. The morning sun turns the red wine into a cup of sparkling rubies, and I let myself take a moment to appreciate it as I sink back deeper into the bubble-filled tub. This was my bathroom, my room whenever I’d visited Grandpa Sully, and it just feels right to come back here.
Wine in the tub. So indulgent. Or, as my mother would say, so cliché and pathetic.
But she’s said quite enough for today. I flick a clump of bubbles with my fingernails. Telling me what to do with my townhouse, telling me what to do with my life. How have I put up with it for so long? It’s probably just the wine, but right now, Bathtub Cate is full of certainty that she’ll never put up with that kind of nonsense again. Bathtub Cate knows what’s up.
I like Bathtub Cate.
“Threw it all away for a dirty old park brownstone,” I sing-song, then giggle at how totally on-point I know my impression of my mother is, even if I never dared do it where someone else could hear it.
But that’s not quite true, is it?
I used to do the voice, sometimes. Here. Way back when, in the kitchen… with Dylan. And Jack, too, of course, whenever he deigned to hang out with us.
Back when things made sense, as much as anything ever does.
Of course, it’s not like my mother wasn’t riding me about every little thing back then, too: “Stand up straight, don’t wear that, don’t be so loud. You’ll never get married looking like that, boys don’t like girls like that.”
The litany of her constant criticism pops into my head unbidden, but I ruthlessly shove it away. I’m Bathtub Cate, and that soundtrack is not what I want to accompany this glass of wine.
Besides, why should I trust her opinion about my love life? She thought my ex-boyfriend was perfect.
I can’t help but snort softly to myself at the thought. A perfect boyfriend, who, according to her, couldn’t be “further out of my league.”
I have to admit, I do like the idea that I was in the wrong dating league, though. It would at least explain why every guy I’ve dated had felt so poorly matched with me. I’d never been able to relax around any of them. Mother had approved of every one, of course, and why wouldn’t she? They’d all been so perfectly society-ready, polished and put together and brittle. I’d spent all my time so worried that I might slip up—ruin things with the wrong word or the wrong action—that I’d never been able to just be myself around any of them.
What would being myself with a man I care about even be like?
What would it be like to just... let go, to stop worrying?
I’ve never done that, never put things down and just lived in the moment.
Not even in bed.
Especially not in bed, my God. You try having a good time with someone when there’s a never-ending loop of anxiety in your brain; worry about whether you’re doing things right, if this time will be the one when the guy you’re with finally tells you that you’re too much of a disappointment to bother with. I just can’t risk being anything less than the perfect woman they expect.
So, in the bedroom, I... well, I perform. I copy what I’ve seen in porn, ecstatic moaning and fingers clutching the sheets at just the right moment, writhing in just the right way.
I’ve gotten very good at making sure my perfect boyfriends get to keep thinking they’re perfect.
Do I hate myself for that? Of course. But there’s so much that I hate myself for; sparing male feelings at the expense of my own pleasure barely makes the list.
I take a sip of my wine, letting it ease the lump forming in my throat. This is way too sad for Bathtub Cate. Bubble baths are meant to help you relax, bubble baths are soothing. They’re happy places, not for brooding over your crappy love life and how you’ve never had an orgasm from anyone’s touch but your own.
I snort, the wine starting to get to me a bit. But, oh my God, that really does sound pathetic.
Sadly, though, I have to admit it’s true.
And with everything that’s been happening lately, with all the stress and all the grief, I haven’t even been doing much of that, either. I’ve been too exhausted and too sad, but now, here in the townhouse, ensconced in bubbles and on my second glass of wine, I can feel the fatigue and sorrow fading a little.
Everything that’s been in the way of my libido starts to drain away into the hot water, the aches and pains replaced by one very noticeable need.
I blush, even though I’m all alone. I was a teenager in this house, so it’s not like I’ve never taken care of myself in this bathtub, but… I’m already being so self-indulgent. I should get out of the tub. I should do work, or something productive, not lounge my day away.
But who am I trying to impress? The question comes from Bathtub Cate, and I smile. There’s nobody here but me, in my own house, and as I sink back into the warm water I take a look at what I need for the first time in what feels like forever.
&nb
sp; No faking this. My newfound freedom is allowing my body to wake up again.
My hand is moving before I’ve made the conscious decision, sliding slowly down the length of my body as my instincts take over. I let my head loll back against the cool porcelain, my eyes easing shut as I slip farther into the bubbles, and it’s nice not to think. After all, my fingers have had a lot of practice and they know exactly what to do. A vibrator might make noise and wake up a sleeping boyfriend and give the whole game away, force me to admit that I wasn’t perfectly satisfied.
But my own hand? I can get away with that anywhere, anytime.
I didn’t realize how badly I needed this until I started, but the speed with which my body is responding to my own gentle touch almost shocks me.
I force myself not to think about all the mundane things my brain normally spins around and around, willing myself to slip into fantasy. My mind conjures up a figure, someone with a toned, strong body and confident, skilled hands who could tease me just the way I need. A man who would actually pay attention, who would make me relax enough to feel all the things I so desperately want to feel.
Who could stroke and massage and tantalize in all the ways I’ve never experienced with a partner.
I suck in a breath as I find myself settling into the rhythm I crave, losing myself in imagining my faceless fantasy lover. Faceless, because I can never make myself see a particular face, not when I touch myself. If I give my longing a face, it hurts too much to accept afterward that I’ll never get to feel this way with a real live man.
To accept that I’ll always be boxed into simply pretending, to make my lover happy.
I don’t know how to do anything else.
I shove the twinge of sadness away and focus back on my daydream, my fingers speeding up as I start to lose myself in it again. I can feel myself spiraling up fast, the intensity almost brutal, but I can’t stop. I don’t even want to.
Mine: MMF Bisexual Menage Romance Page 2