Chapter 19 #2
“This part”—I curled against her g-spot—“this is mine too.” I worked her like this for a moment as she moaned, rocking on the bench.
I lowered my mouth onto her, drawing circles on her clit with my tongue for only a moment before looking back up at her. “So is this.”
The steam came in gasps so I couldn’t tell what was her and what was the room, but when I looked up, her face was hot, beaded with liquid.
My cock throbbed. I wanted her; I wanted to take her. Not yet.
“I want to watch you,” she said.
My eyes met hers, while my tongue played with her pussy, her clit throbbing under me. I knew she was close to coming.
God, she was hot, so fucking hot. I was going to come all over myself if I didn’t take her soon.
I slowed for a moment, teasing her, then brought my pace back up too fast and hard; she came then, gushing liquid onto my tongue.
I went crazy at the taste of her, the wet slippery squeeze of her on my fingers.
“I can’t wait,” I said when she’d slowed, panting. I was slick with sweat and steam, hot and hard.
“Then take me,” she said, her chest heaving.
Her hair stuck to her cheeks, and she bit her lip as I pushed her legs back.
I held my cock over her pussy, then slapped it on her clit.
She gasped, rocking under me. There was still a few feet of clearance between her head and the wall, so I pushed her gently onto her back, grasping her tit in one hand and my dick in the other, and slid myself into her.
I was at the perfect angle here with my knees on the lower bench, so I knew I was hitting that spot inside of her again as I slid all the way in.
“More,” she gasped, and I pulled her hips closer to me so I could get deeper.
“More!” she cried as my balls hit her ass.
“Take me,” I grunted. “Take my whole cock, all the way.” I slapped my body against hers, my legs, stomach, chest, all of me taut and wet, hard and strained.
She felt so incredible, so perfect, and when my eyes met hers, something opened up between us.
Neither of us said anything as I pumped my dick into her over and over, our jaws tight, eyes locked.
When I felt myself getting close, I brought my thumb to her clit, pressing circles into it as I pushed harder.
“I’ll do it,” she breathed, touching her own pussy, working it in a fast, slippery rhythm that made her eyes go half-lidded.
That’s what did me in. “I’m going to come, Cass,” I said. “I’m going to come inside—”
And then I did, hot, gushing spurts of seed spilling from me and filling her, slicking me as I finished.
Cassandra cried out loud as she came, the sound reverberating around us as she caught up to me, clung to me, grasped me with her legs and arms.
Being in the spas was smart, I realized, not just for how incredible they were. They were like a different world, one where reality couldn’t come near. But I knew as we went upstairs, separately, just in case, that this truly marked the end.
“Don’t say goodbye,” she said when we crawled into bed.
So, we didn’t. We talked until our voices were hoarse. We made love again, this time slow and soft, and when we were done, lying next to each other, she whispered into the darkness next to me.
“I love you, Blake Harrington. Do with that whatever you want. But just know I’m happy knowing I could trust myself enough to say it.”
I swallowed, my throat strained.
Even if she didn’t expect me to say it back, I could still feel the hurt radiating off her.
But the longer the silence grew, the more impossible it got to say anything reasonable back to her.
So, I didn’t say anything. I kept quiet, feeling like there was a knife in my lungs.
I waited until her breathing stayed, her body fully limp against mine.
Then I kissed her hair—her Kelly McGillis hair—and lifted her arm off me.
Then, I was gone.
I didn’t sleep for the hour-long journey by taxi to the airport in Burlington—an hour and fifteen, including stopping at the pool house to collect my things.
Instead, I scrolled my phone, going through my personal emails for the first time in weeks.
I’d neglected anything not related to Harrington or The Rolling Hills. Or Cassandra.
We were exiting the highway to the airport when I saw it—an email from my nephew Arthur.
I didn’t know he had an email. It was in the spam folder; I’d only caught it because his name jumped out at me when I’d been about to tap the trash button.
Hi Uncle Blake,
I wanted to tell you something funny, and Dad let me make this email account just so I could send it to you (he also said it was time and I should have one even though I said I can send messages on Minecraft).
We were visiting Grandma yesterday, right after my ball game. I was still wearing my uniform and everything. Dad never makes me change it right away, like Mom does. And when she saw me, she said HI BLAKEY, HOW WAS YOUR GAME? DID YOU BEAT THE BOOGIES?
I didn’t know what she was talking about except that she said boogies, but when the nurse came, Dad said she thought I was you, when you were my age. I think I look like my dad, but I guess I look like you!
Anyway, Dad thought I should tell you. I miss you and hope you can come for camping this summer if you’re back. Say hi to Aunty Lila.
—Artie
I lowered my phone to the seat next to me, blood rushing in my ears.
The boogies was something Mom used to say to me when I was worried about playing a good team at baseball.
They all have boogies, Blake. Just like everybody else.
I’d thought it was hysterical—as 10-year-olds clearly still do—and it used to make me feel like the opposing team wasn’t so untouchable. When she couldn’t be at my games, that’s what she’d ask me. Did you beat the boogies?
“Sir?” the cabbie asked.
I startled—we were on the on-ramp to the passenger drop-off area.
“Yes?” My voice came in tight and gravelly; my throat bobbing with something prickly.
“I said, International or Domestic?”
The boarding pass on my phone was for a flight direct to Heathrow. But the words came out before I knew what I was doing. “Domestic. Please.”
I was going to lose Persephone by doing this. But right now, I didn’t care.
Mom’s home smelled like antiseptic and fresh-cut flowers. It was as familiar as it was jarring. So was seeing her face as I stepped into the room.
She was young—so much younger than the other patients on this floor. Her hair still had brown streaks in it; her hands were still smooth and steady.
“Hello,” she said, smiling. She had one of her romance novels in her hand.
My heart had already cracked open, but now it was like a piece fell right off.
“Hi Mom,” I said, sitting down in the guest chair across from the one she sat in.
Immediately, her face fell, confusion taking over.
“Mrs. Harrington,” I corrected myself.
The worry in her expression eased slightly, but it didn’t go entirely away.
“We haven’t seen each other in a while,” I said. “So, you might not remember me.”
“I’m so sorry,” she said, apologetically.
“It’s fine,” I said, my chest squeezing.
“What are you reading?”
Mom brightened. She told me about the story, something about a baseball player and a woman sports reporter falling in love.
“Your son used to play baseball,” I said. “One of them.”
“Oh?” Clearly, she didn’t remember she had a son, let alone three.
“Yeah. That’s him, right there.”
I got up and went to the windowsill, where rain tapped against the glass. For a moment, I had a flash of sun shining through the rain. Of Cassandra, twirling, while the drops fell on her face.
I blinked that away and picked up the photo of me posed over home base.
She smiled. “Isn’t he sweet?”
I set the frame down. I was about to sit down again when I spotted a photo I didn’t recognize. I knew all the photos here—they’d sat in this same configuration for the past three years. But not this one. It was unframed and was leaning against the window.
My stomach dropped. It was Dad, with a toddler on his shoulders.
Me. That child was me.
“Was Dad here?” I asked, my skin prickling. I flipped the photo over.
Brian and Blake, it said. That was it, our two names.
When I turned around, Mom sucked in a breath. Sometimes this happened, where she’d see me or one of my brother’s faces, and something must have been familiar, because she’d be startled for a moment, before going back to her blank confusion.
But this time, she didn’t go back. This time she said, “Do you remember that? That was on the pier by the market.”
My first thought was I was only a baby. How could I remember?
Then my heart twisted as I understood. She thought I was Dad.
This happened sometimes, too. We’d call it a good day, because it was a remembering day, even if it was all mixed up. But I hated it. I hated being mistaken for my father.
“I don’t remember,” I said, my voice stiff. Why had I come here, anyway? What the hell had I done standing up Persephone? I was going to lose them, and all because I was being goddamned sentimental.
Because you wanted to see Mom. You wanted to ask her for help.
“Well, you have to remember Blakey’s laugh,” Mom said, laughing herself.
That knife that had been in my side since I’d left Cassandra slipped its way up now, slicing into my heart.
“He had the sweetest laugh. He was such a perfect little boy.”
I clamped my jaw tight, afraid I’d cry out, then. I stared at the photograph. Perfect. The boy—there was nothing wrong with him. How could there be?
“You loved his laugh too, Brian. Do you remember?”
How could she still be so kind when she thought she was talking to him? How did she not have that burning anger in her chest like I did? The one that fueled every decision and tainted every joy?
“Delilah,” I said. “Why aren’t you angry with me? Do you remember what I did to you?”
He cheated. Cheated and lied and made his boys grow up with a version of love that harmed.
“I hurt you.”
“I forgave you a long time ago, Brian.” Mom said. Her eyes were on mine.
“How could you forgive me after what I did?”
She smiled. “Forgiveness isn’t for you, darling. It’s for me. Sometimes you did what you thought was right. Sometimes you just did the things you couldn’t stand about yourself. It wasn’t right, but I let go of it a long time ago. I forgive you for what you did to me because it frees me.”
For a moment, the world seems to spin and reel. Or maybe that was me.
I kneeled beside my mom, picking up her hand and pressing it to my cheek. “I love you.”
She nodded and smiled. Then she looked out the window, contemplative. When she looked back, her eyes went wide. She pulled her hand away as if embarrassed. “I’m so sorry,” she said. “But I’m not sure who you are?”
It was gone, that moment with Dad. But it was lodged in my chest—not like something bad, but like something that could be good, if I let it.
I swallowed against that pricking again. “I’m Blake,” I said.
“Are you okay, Blake?”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid I’ve messed up.”
“How’s that?”
“I love someone. I’m in love with someone. And I don’t…” I hesitated. “I don’t know how to love them. I’m afraid I’ll mess it all up. I think I already have.”
Mom beamed then, her smile going ear-to-ear. “Well, that’s easy! It’s all in here.” She patted the book on her lap.
The romance novels. I laughed then, thinking of the movies Cassandra had talked about.
“Thank you,” I said. “I have to go now. There are some things I need to do. But I’m going to come back soon, if that’s okay?”
Mom nodded, her expression confused. But she smiled.
“Goodbye,” she said, turning back to her book and opening it to the first page.
That’s what I needed to do, too.
I pulled up my phone and ordered a car to get me back to the airport. Then I sent an email to John at Persephone.
BLAKE: Got a bit delayed. Be there tomorrow with bells on.
Next, I sent a text to Lila.
BLAKE: I’ll be back in New York next week. We need to talk.
Though I hadn’t expected her to, it was only a moment later when she responded.
LILA: I was going to write you the same thing. I think it might be 15 years overdue.
I was astonished. But maybe I shouldn’t have been. Maybe this trip—her seeing me clearly falling for Cassandra—had been the truth both of us needed.
It wasn’t until I was in the boarding area for a new, rebooked flight to Heathrow—arriving only half a day later than originally planned—that I pulled my phone out again. I’d only done it to pull up my boarding pass, but stopped short when I saw the text from my dad.
It had been awhile since he’d sent one of these. Since he’d heard I was working on a hotel, if I recalled correctly.
brIAN: Heard Goldman’s sniffing around that bookshop. You snooze, you lose.
At first, all I wanted to do was tell him off, once and for all.
That was the thing about coming through catharsis—my tolerance for any of the old weights that used to hold me down was gone.
I wanted to brag about the Rolling Hills, to tell him I was halfway done fixing what he couldn’t at his own places.
But that wasn’t right. It was a hit that wouldn’t last and I’d be no better off than I was before.
I thought of what Cassandra had said, about how scared people bring others down. And I thought of what my mom had said about forgiveness.
After a moment, that old, ancient anger fizzled to rain. I sat for a while, mourning that anger that had fired me for so long. It may not have been right, but it had gotten me through. And somehow, through all of that, through its hardened, bitter core, I’d found love.
Over the speakers, they were calling a flight that might have been mine.
I hadn’t contemplated forgiveness—I didn’t think I was there. I didn’t want to give it to him. But maybe, like Mom had said, it wasn’t for him. Maybe it was for me, and the little boy in that little league game. Maybe if I forgave Dad, that sun shower could be mine, too.
I typed the words in, hitting send before I could change my mind.
BLAKE: I forgive you, Dad.
For a moment, there was nothing.
Somewhere outside myself, I heard the announcement. “This is a final boarding call…”
Then three dots popped up on the screen.
brIAN: What the hell for?
This time, I didn’t hesitate.
BLAKE: For everything, Dad. Don’t text me again. Maybe we can talk in a while.
I hit send before as I strode to the counter. Then I turned everything off.