Page 11 of This Is Who I Am

CASS

I run a hand through my hair, trying to make it look casual enough for a non-date. Because this isn’t a date. Even so, I still changed my outfit twice.

I glance at the clock. Estelle will be here any minute. I reach for the bottle of wine and pour myself a small glass to steady my nerves. Then the bell rings and I buzz her up.

As expected, Estelle looks gorgeous. Her curls frame her face in a way that makes my breath catch for a moment.

I invite her in, trying very hard not to be too impressed by her easy beauty.

She looks nothing like the woman who left the restaurant last night.

She’s stone-cold sober, for starters. And I haven’t wooed her with my food yet.

She hands me a bottle of wine and a gift-wrapped package. “For you.” She grins.

I put the wine to the side and focus on the package. She brought me a gift. How thoughtful.

I tear the paper carefully, revealing a wooden frame, the glass slightly worn but intact. Inside is a black-and-white image—an old postcard, by the look of it—of the very building we’re standing in now. The restaurant. My home. But decades ago, when it was something else entirely.

Surprised, I glance up at her. “Where did you find this?”

“My father’s house,” she says. “He had a whole collection of Clearwater Bay memorabilia. I thought you might like it.”

I meet her gaze. “I love it.”

“Good,” she says. “I wasn’t certain whether you’d find it sentimental or just clutter.”

I glance at the photo again, at the old bones of this place, the way it stood against the cliff’s edge even then, battered by wind and salt and time. “It’s not clutter,” I say. “It’s history.”

She smiles, and I invite her to sit. I catch myself staring, at the way her blouse shifts against her frame, the way she moves with the kind of grace that makes me too aware of my own body, of its heft and hesitations.

August comes over to inspect the stranger in his home.

“I hope you don’t mind cats.”

“Not when they’re cute like this.” Her approach toward Gussie is equally thoughtful. She lets him sniff her hand first, before petting him. Gus responds by jumping onto the couch next to her.

“Estelle, meet August. Gussie, Estelle.” I almost say, ‘our new friend’, but it would sound too silly.

“It smells incredible in here.” Estelle leans back, one hand scratching behind August’s ear. I know it’s ridiculous to be jealous of a cat, and yet.

I put the frame she gave me on the sideboard, prominently on display, and ask what she would like to drink.

“I was thinking just water after last night, but I’ll have whatever you’re having.”

“I have a local sauvignon blanc open. How about a small glass of that alongside a large glass of sparkling water?”

“Sounds perfect.” She smiles up at me. “Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Of course not. You’re my guest.”

“It hardly seems fair. Just because you’re this amazing chef, you shouldn’t have to do everything.” She looks as comfortable and relaxed in the couch as August does.

“It’s what I do.” I nod at my cat. “Besides, you have your work cut out for you.”

I head into the kitchen to fetch the drinks. Estelle might have been tipsy last night, but I wasn’t. Yet I told her all these things about myself. It feels a bit unnerving.

“I went surfing this morning,” Estelle says, a stupid grin appearing on her face.

“That actually makes it sound as though I can surf, which I can’t.

Anyway, I wanted to clear my head, get rid of my hangover, and Sadie and Devon were in the ocean as well.

When I signed up for surf club, I honestly had no idea Sadie Ireland would be teaching.

I dare to guess that, once word spreads, there will be more than five middle-aged ladies taking her class. ”

I shrug. “Sadie’s been back in Clearwater Bay for years. Most people are used to her now, but I understand it can be a lot to process for a newcomer.”

“Do you know them well?”

“Her sister, Suzy, is one of my best friends and her twin brother, Sam, is married to my ex’s best friend, so…” I nod. “We run in the same circles.”

“It must be nice to be so embedded in the town.”

“It’s lovely here. Do you enjoy being back?”

“I guess so. Even though I haven’t spent any significant time here in so long, there’s something about coming back to the place where you grew up. I feel like I don’t know anyone here anymore, though.”

“We’re a friendly enough bunch.”

“Hence… why I’m here at yours now.”

“Hey, um, I wanted to say… sorry if I pushed you last night. That wasn’t my intention.”

“I’m here, so…”

“Yeah.” Looking at her, sitting in my couch—August about to roll over and show her his belly—I can’t help but feel like, physically, we’re such a mismatch.

I don’t even know where I found the audacity to ask her out last night.

I must have been a bit high on myself and a great night of service and her kind words about my food.

She’s not dressed up, yet she looks like she’s ready to enter the poshest room. Like she would turn every single head.

After we exchange some small talk—mostly me filling her in about the goings-on in Clearwater Bay—I invite her to the table.

I head into the kitchen, happy to feel fully in my element for a few moments. This might be a dinner with a new friend, yet she still destabilizes me a little. I let muscle memory take over—my hands know what to do. After thousands of services, plating comes easy.

By the time we’re halfway through the meal, conversation flows easily, the initial formality of the evening giving way to something looser.

Estelle asks about the restaurant, about how I ended up in Clearwater Bay—I’m not a native, like her—and I tell her about leaving San Francisco, about needing something slower, about how I wasn’t sure this place would ever feel like home until, one day, it did.

She listens intently, resting her chin against her palm, her eyes steady on mine. “Do you ever regret leaving the city?”

“Not the move. But… I guess I sometimes miss who I was before.”

Estelle considers this for a moment. “And who was that?”

“Someone who had a lot more fun,” I say.

Her lips curve, just slightly. “You look like you have plenty of fun.”

I let out a low chuckle. “The most I have to look forward to these days is a support group for menopausal women.”

Estelle lifts her fork, spearing a bite of octopus. She doesn’t respond to my quip with words. Instead, she takes a bite, closing her eyes briefly as she savors it.

I watch her expression shift. I hear the faint hum of appreciation she makes in the back of her throat. That sound every chef lives for. The involuntary mmm that means you’ve done something right, created something that bypasses thought and goes straight to pleasure.

She opens her eyes and says, “This is incredible. You must have had fun preparing this. I can taste the fun you had in making this.”

It’s a simple dish—grilled octopus, tender from hours of slow braising, finished on an open flame for just the right amount of char, served over a bed of lemony white-bean purée with a drizzle of olive oil.

“I did,” I admit. I watch as she takes another bite, the candlelight flickering in her eyes, and wonder how I got here, having dinner with a woman who makes me feel as if maybe I could possibly learn how to have fun again—albeit just as friends.

“Last night,” I say, trying to keep my tone light, “you said dating wasn’t on your to-do list.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t want to pry,” I say, despite my curiosity. “But I keep thinking about it. I keep wondering why.”

Estelle breathes out softly, not quite a sigh, but close enough. “I’ve had my heart broken so many times…” She pauses.

I nod, waiting.

Her fingers tighten around her glass. “You were very open and honest with me last night, and I really appreciate that, but I’m not sure I’m ready to return that favor.”

“Okay.” I send her my softest smile. “Of course.”

She leans back in her chair, a shadow crossing her face. She looks away, from the table and from me. Maybe my question wasn’t as innocent as I thought it was.

“I will tell you, but…” Her scoff cuts through the air. “This is the kind of information that has sent many a woman running for the hills.”

I raise my eyebrows. I don’t know what to expect, but she’s got my full attention.

“I—um…” She finds my gaze, suddenly defiant. “I’m almost fifty, and for decades now, I’ve worked on myself to no longer feel bad about this. And I don’t, but it’s still a hard thing to say because of the effect it has on other people.”

“Go on,” I gently encourage her.

“I’m asexual. Ace. As in, I don’t have sex. I don’t feel that desire.”

Oh. Fuck. I’m utterly speechless. Although one of my best friends—Suzy—is aromantic, I’m stumped for words. Because it’s not the same. Not even close.

“I’m sorry, I feel like the most ignorant boomer on the planet,” I manage to say after a few awkward seconds of silence. “I don’t really know how to react to that.”

“You could run for the hills.” I can hear all the times her heart has been broken, right there in the crack of her voice.

“I’m on a cliff and it’s just ocean behind me,” I joke stupidly.

“I’m not ashamed of who I am, but, um, well, neither shame, nor pride, have much to do with how my relationships turn out.”

“Yeah, I can imagine.” It all makes sense now.

That’s why a gorgeous, brilliant woman—a professor, no less—like Estelle is single.

I take a slow sip of wine because I need a second.

A moment to process, to not say something clumsy or trite or, worst of all, something that makes her regret telling me.

There’s a sudden tightness in her face, like she’s waiting for impact. I hate that she expects it, that she’s bracing for something.

“I honestly don’t know what to say,” I admit, keeping my voice low. “Which probably isn’t the best thing to say, but…” I chuckle awkwardly. “I guess I’m afraid to say the wrong thing.”

Her shoulders relax a fraction. “That’s okay. I know it’s a lot.”

I look at her. “Still, I should say something.” It’s not because it’s hard for me to understand, or because it’s the first time I’ve met someone who’s ace, that I can’t try.

“I’m not running for the hills,” I say. “This body isn’t very good at running anymore, anyway.” I hold her gaze. “Besides, why would I? As your new best friend in town?”