Page 10 of This Is Who I Am

ESTELLE

On my way home, I wish Cass hadn’t said that about her no longer wanting sex.

It made me change my mind about dinner too easily.

But a woman who doesn’t want sex happens to be exactly what I’m looking for.

I know it’s not the same—not in the least—but still, maybe it’s enough.

Because, for all the years I’ve tried to convince myself that romantic love is not for me, that someone like me should find other means of fulfillment in life, deep down, I’ve always believed, with an intensity that has only increased with age, that, I too, deserve love.

Even though all I have to show for all the times I’ve tried is a heart chock-full of scars.

Maybe that’s why I’ve been drawn to Cass. Because I sense something different about her. Because her gaze doesn’t devour me in an overtly sexual way. Because we have some sort of unspoken connection.

The Metaxa burns warmly in my stomach, a bit like how Cass makes me feel. Maybe it’s because of her age that I sense a possibility. It would be foolish to pursue a woman at the height of her sexuality. Been there, done that, failed every single time.

I slow my steps as I reach the boardwalk, the ocean stretching dark and endless beside me. The night air is cool against my skin, the lingering warmth of the Metaxa curling through my veins. I press my hands deeper into my pockets, anchoring myself against the undertow of my thoughts.

The idea of love has always been easier in theory than in practice.

In theory, I believe in soulmates. In deep, long-lasting connection.

In the certainty of knowing someone sees you—really sees you—and chooses you anyway.

But in practice, love has been a series of inevitable disappointments.

Women who thought they could change me. Women who convinced themselves they could live without what I couldn’t give them.

Women who loved me right up until the moment they realized I wasn’t enough.

Maybe things can be different with Cass. But I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. Either way, I have another scrumptious dinner to look forward to tomorrow.

* * *

The waves are small and not too wild this morning—perfect for a beginner—but I’m still convinced I’ll make a fool of myself. My body feels sluggish, heavy with last night’s booze and thoughts I haven’t been able to shake off. The things Cass told me and the things I didn’t say.

My stomach tightens at the memory, and not just from the hangover. She laid herself bare, and what did I do? I sat there like a statue, my words trapped behind years of carefully constructed walls.

I paddle out, determined to focus, but my mind keeps replaying the way she looked at me, and what she said.

I settle onto my board, legs dangling in the cool water as I draw in a deep breath. The salt air stings my lungs, sharp but insufficient to slice through the fog in my head.

“You’re overthinking it,” a voice calls from nearby.

I glance over to see Sadie Ireland paddling toward me, a knowing grin on her face.

“You don’t know what I’m thinking,” I counter.

Sadie flows onto her board in one fluid motion, water streaming from her shoulders. “Fair enough, but I still know you’re overthinking it. I can tell.”

Before I can protest, another surfer glides up beside her. Her wife, Devon. I know her from the tabloid pictures from a few years ago of Sadie Ireland kissing another woman on this very beach.

Sadie nods toward her.

“Dev, this is Estelle. She took my surfing class this week.”

Devon studies me. “How’s it going?”

“I try,” I say on a sigh.

Devon smirks. “That’s your first mistake.”

Sadie laughs. “She’s right. You don’t try, you just do. The ocean doesn’t care how hard you’re thinking about it.”

Easy for them to say. They make it look effortless, all muscle and grace, their movements second nature in a way mine will never be. I adjust my position on the board, trying not to look as unsure as I feel.

Devon watches me for a second, then gestures to the waves rolling in behind us. “Next one’s yours.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know?—”

“Exactly.” She paddles a little closer, balancing on her board like it’s an extension of herself. “When you feel the wave catch you, just pop up. Don’t hesitate.”

“And if you wipeout,” Sadie adds. “No big deal. Just get back on the board and go again.”

Their confidence in me is baffling. But maybe I just need to borrow a little of it. I take a deep breath, reposition myself, and start paddling as the next wave rises behind me.

“Now!” Devon shouts.

I push up too slowly, too hesitantly, and the wave surges past, leaving me wobbling awkwardly before I topple into the water.

When I surface, Sadie is grinning. “Not bad.”

Devon chuckles. “Not good, either.”

I huff out a laugh, brushing wet hair from my face. “Again?”

Sadie winks. “That’s the spirit.”

By the time I catch a wave—really catch it, even if only for a few exhilarating seconds—my arms are burning, my legs unsteady, and my lungs full of the salt-bright air.

But I do it. I stand. Wobbly, barely in control, but upright.

And for that fleeting moment that the ocean carries me, nothing else matters.

Not too bad for a sedentary mathematician.

Sadie whoops as I splash back into the water. “There she is!”

Devon grins. “Told you. Less thinking, more doing.”

I float on my back for a second, staring up at the wide, cloudless sky, letting the water cradle me. Maybe there’s something to what they keep hammering on—less thinking, more doing. Less doubting, more trusting.

I paddle back toward them, shaking the water from my hair.

“We’ll make a surfer out of you yet,” Devon says.

“I wouldn’t hold your breath.”

Sadie smirks. “We’re surfers, which automatically makes us more patient than most.”

I ride one more wave—not well, but better—and then wade back to shore, my body tired but my mind a little lighter.

As I squeeze the water from my hair, the salt drying on my skin and the ocean still tugging at my feet, I tell myself that maybe it’s time to stop letting doubt dictate my every move, to stop analyzing every possibility before I’ve even let something begin, to stop believing that hesitation will protect me when all it’s ever done is keep me standing still.

* * *

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Dinner with Cass shouldn’t feel this momentous. It’s just a friendly meal, after all—we clearly established that. Yet it feels like something more because of what she confided in me.

I grab my lotion and smooth it over my arms, the scent grounding me as I try to ignore the nerves buzzing beneath my skin. It’s just dinner. Yet I’m standing here like I have something to prove, like I need to present myself in a certain way.

As I button up my blouse, my fingers hesitate at the last one, hovering over my collarbone.

Less thinking, more doing.

I let the top button stay undone. Maybe it’s okay to be seen—if just a tiny bit.