Page 18 of This Is Who I Am

ESTELLE

For the first fifteen minutes of sipping my dad’s scotch with Cass, I’m a little embarrassed about the mess, but this isn’t my house.

Although technically it is, because Dad left it to me—along with a hefty sum I never saw coming.

But being with Cass is relaxing. Combined with the scotch and our pleasant evening, the state of the house is the last thing on my mind.

Of course, her words from before are sticking in my mind: ‘sex is off the table.’ Hallelujah.

But I shouldn’t get ahead of myself—not with a woman I’ve only just met.

After all, I once fell deeply in love with an amazing asexual woman, convinced I’d won the romantic relationship lottery, only to have her make a swift shift on the spectrum and start wanting to experiment with sex.

It didn’t work out. It never does. I take another sip.

“Is it fair to assume,” Cass’s buttery voice cuts through my thoughts, “that you might linger in town a while.”

“Look around you.” I point at my dad’s stuff that couldn’t be more prominently on display around us. “I still have some work to do.”

“What are you going to do with all of this?”

“Go over every single sheet of paper.” I nod sharply. “I have to. God knows what he was working on when he had good days. I owe it to him to find out.”

“What about the problem he left you? Have you solved it yet?”

“No,” I say on a sigh. “At this point, it’s impossible to know whether I can’t solve it because it’s unsolvable or whether it’s too difficult. The two options are equally possible.”

“If you need help with any of this.” Cass points at a stack of paper threatening to topple over. “I’m available.”

“You have a restaurant to run.” Looking into Cass’s kind face gives me that cozy warm feeling again.

“Savor is always closed on the weekend, so I’m free Saturday and Sunday.” Some women simply look even better with a glass of fine scotch in their hand—Cass is one of them.

“That’s very kind of you, but I need to do the first stage on my own. I need to go through his work and only then can I start disposing of old furniture and clothes and whatnot.”

“Just say the word and I’m here.” Cass’s eyes are so blue—and all tenderness and generosity.

“Thank you.” I don’t look away as I take another sip.

“Can I ask what happened to your mother?”

“She died a long time ago, when I was only sixteen.”

Cass narrows her eyes, and it makes her look even more compassionate.

“A car accident,” I say.

“I’m sorry. That must have been so hard, especially at that age.”

“I had my dad. He was always the more attentive and caring parent.” I take a beat “Don’t get me wrong, losing a parent is horrible, but all that time alone with my dad shaped me in so many ways.

” I trace the rim of my glass with my fingertip.

“We became this peculiar team of two math nerds against the world. In the morning, he’d quiz me on theorems over breakfast. Every evening, we’d solve puzzles instead of watching TV. ”

Cass leans forward slightly. “He sounds remarkable.”

“He was.” The scotch burns pleasantly as I take another sip.

“He created this bubble. Just us and numbers. He made life safe and predictable after that devastating loss.” I’m surprised by my own candor.

“Unfortunately, I soon found out that people aren’t equations.

They don’t behave according to established rules. ”

“People are definitely not equations,” Cass says softly. “Though sometimes I wish they were. It would make running a restaurant so much easier.”

Her attempt at lightness makes me smile, so I happily play along. “Can you imagine? If server A moves at X velocity while carrying Y plates…”

“I’d have the most efficient restaurant in all of California,” she says.

Our laughter mingles in the dusty air of my father’s living room, and for a moment, despite where we are, and what we’re talking about, it feels just right.

“After my mother died,” I continue, picking up the conversation where we left it earlier, “my father became even more absorbed in mathematics. It was his refuge. Mine too, I guess.” A thought occurs to me.

“Maybe that’s why I can’t solve his final problem.

Maybe I’m not supposed to. Maybe it’s just his way of keeping me connected to him a little longer. ”

Cass’s expression shifts subtly—a flash of recognition, as though I’ve inadvertently given voice to something she, too, has experienced.

“Some connections last well beyond what seems possible,” she says.

I study her face. She meets my gaze without flinching, and it knocks something loose inside me.

“I kept all my mother’s cookbooks,” Cass says.

“They’re on a shelf in the restaurant’s kitchen, taking up precious space.

They have little notes in her handwriting.

She’d write ‘too salty’ or ‘needs more thyme.’” Cass swirls the scotch in her glass.

“I read them sometimes, not for the recipes, but for those notes. It’s like hearing her voice again. ”

“That’s exactly it,” I whisper. “My dad’s voice is in these papers. In the way he’d circle a variable twice when he was excited, or the little exclamation points next to a particularly elegant solution.”

Something passes between us—a kind of understanding. A mutual recognition of loss and what it does to you.

We raise our glasses in a silent toast. My father would have approved—not because he was romantic, but because he believed in things aligning when they should. Cass and I, sitting here in the chaotic mess of his house, finding comfort in each other, would have pleased him.

“What about your father?” I ask, now that we’re on the subject.

“My parents divorced when I was in culinary school. I somehow completely lost touch with my dad after that. We haven’t spoken in a very long time.

” She shrugs. “As far as I know, he’s never tried to contact me again,” Cass says.

“And I’m not exactly hiding. Savor has been written about in plenty of publications. ”

Her words hang in the air, part dismissal and part question—one that doesn’t demand an answer, yet might welcome one all the same.

“Do you ever wonder?” I ask.

“If he reads about me? If he feels a stab of recognition when he sees my name?” Cass’s mouth curls into something too complicated to be called a smile. “Less often now. Time has a way of doing that.”

Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the old windows. Inside, we exist in the kind of bubble my dad used to create for me—for us—in this house.

“When I was younger,” Cass continues, “I used to rehearse what I’d say if I ever ran into him. I had this whole speech prepared—eloquent and cutting, the perfect blend of indifference and insight.” She laughs softly. “Now I think I’d just ask how he’s been. Isn’t that disappointing?”

“Not disappointing,” I say. “Just human.”

She meets my eyes. There’s something new in her gaze—like she’s seeing more than before. “For a mathematician, you’re quite good at human emotions.”

“A lifetime of observing from the sidelines has its advantages.” I let a wry smile play across my lips.

Our glasses are empty. The bottle stands between us, like a question about what happens next. I reach for it, but Cass leans in and lays her hand on my wrist.

“I really should go,” she says. “I have to work tomorrow.”

“Of course.” Her hand slips away.

We rise and stand close together for a moment, neither of us quite ready to call it a night.

“Thank you for tonight,” Cass says, her voice lower than before. “For those truly spectacular burgers at The Bay and the utter privilege of watching you devour one.”

I chuckle. “I worked hard on those burgers, as you well know.”

“Like a devoted trad wife should.” Her smile transforms her face again. She looks at me as though she sees right through the front I’ve spent years perfecting—as though she sees the parts of me I usually keep hidden.

Unhurried, we walk to the door. At the threshold, Cass turns to face me. The light hits her face just right, catching that irresistible curve of her mouth. I’ve only known this woman for a week, yet standing here feels like the pinnacle of a much longer journey.

The air between us shifts, again. Time slows. I can see every detail of her face in perfect clarity—the lone, tiny freckle left of her nose, a tiny scar near her temple, how her pupils dilate slightly in the light.

I step forward, trying not to presume. My heart hammers against my ribs, a counterpoint to the absolute stillness of the moment. Her breath catches almost imperceptibly, but I see it.

I slowly raise my hand, giving her every opportunity to step back, to reconsider. When my fingers finally make contact with her cheek, the touch is featherlight. Her skin is warm and inviting.

She doesn’t pull away—I wasn’t really expecting her to, but I’ve learned the hard way that you just never know. She leans into my touch. My thumb traces the curve of her cheekbone. Cass exhales softly.

Inch by inch, the space between us shrinks. I can smell the scotch on her breath. Our foreheads touch first. Her hand finds my waist.

When our lips finally meet, it’s with the inevitability of waves reaching shore. The kiss is slow but certain. Her mouth is warm, and she’s all there.

It’s a kiss that says more than we’re willing to admit out loud. When we finally part, breathless and slightly dazed, I keep my hand where it is, unwilling to break contact completely.

“I’ll see you soon,” she whispers.

“Yes,” I say. “You will.” Only then do I let her leave.