Page 36 of This Is Who I Am

CASS

It’s my first full weekend without Estelle and I don’t know what to do with myself.

On Friday, I scoured the bookings, looking for reservations for one, hoping that she might have booked for the evening under an alias to not scare me off, but what’s become Estelle’s regular table was occupied by a couple in their twenties disgustingly in love, holding hands throughout their meal in a way that I would have thought lovely if Estelle hadn’t smashed my heart to smithereens—although I’m very much to blame as well.

I can hardly say our break-up was mutual, but I sure played my part in it.

I’m not innocent and it makes it easier to accept because I know I fell short, but I miss her.

So, on Saturday night, instead of sulking at home, staring at her favorite spot on the couch—now painfully empty—where she liked to curl up with her notebook and Gussie, I meet Hunter and Bobby for too many bottles of wine at The Bay.

They can be two nosy loudmouths but tonight they’re just excellent friends, giving me their shoulder to cry on, and drinking too much with me.

Once we’ve finished our second bottle, I want to order margaritas, but Hunter puts his foot down.

“I have to be up early tomorrow for Finn,” he says. Bobby lost the power of speech a while ago. For such a big man, he’s a real lightweight. He doesn’t have the same wine drinking practice Hunter and I have developed over the years.

“Shall we walk you home?” Hunter offers.

But I don’t want to go home. Only August misses me now and I love my cat dearly, but all I have to look forward to in my bed tonight is, most likely, another bout of night sweats.

Excessive alcohol consumption hardly helps matters, I’m well aware, but it’s the only thing that works against the gnawing pain in my soul.

I hug them goodbye and order a margarita for myself. The bartender also refills my water glass.

I’m halfway down my margarita when a woman I’ve never seen before sits on the stool next to mine.

“You look like you’re drowning your sorrows,” she says. Her voice is high-pitched but still smooth and she’s so petite, I’m probably twice her size.

“Fuck yeah,” I say. We’re two strangers in a bar close to midnight so there’s no need for decorum.

She orders two more margaritas, one for her and one for me. Then introduces herself as Bijou from Los Angeles.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

“Nah, it’s just a broken heart. It will mend, won’t it?”

“That’s what hearts always do,” Bijou says. “Guaranteed.”

“I’ll drink to that.” I take in her face more thoroughly.

She looks very sweet and girly and, in many ways, the very opposite of Estelle.

Her hair is pulled back tightly and her eyes are pale blue.

Her smile is warm and friendly. My friends have left and I can do with some more warmth and friendliness.

She lifts her glass to mine carefully so as not to spill any of the liquid, then, with her eyes on me, she takes a sip.

“Excellent tartness,” Bijou says, sliding her elbows a little closer toward me.

“What are you doing in Clearwater Bay?” I ask, happy for the distraction of small talk.

“Visiting a friend.”

“Where’s your friend?”

“At her house. Dinner ran long. I wanted to stretch my legs before bed and saw this cute place on the beach. I couldn’t resist.”

I take another sip. “Is it awful to ask how old you are, Bijou?” What kind of name is Bijou, anyway? But I’m too tipsy to question it further.

She shakes her head as though women in LA are extremely forthcoming about how old they really are. “I’m forty-one.”

“Good age. Hold on to that.”

“Why do you ask?”

“Because I’m fifty-three and it royally sucks ass.”

“Good to know,” she says, a smile in her voice. “I’ll keep that in mind for in a decade or so.”

“Look at me,” I say, barely noticing that the self-pity phase of drunkenness has well and truly set in. “I’m a menopausal mess. No wonder she left me.”

“She?” Bijou nods. “I can work with that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Nothing.” She puts her hand on my arm. “There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just a little tipsy, that’s all.”

“You don’t know me.”

“True enough. That’s usually how I like it.”

“Like what?” I’m so far gone, I can barely still decode what she’s saying.

“I saw you sitting all by yourself at the bar and I came to sit next to you,” Bijou says. “What does that tell you?”

My foggy brain considers her question. “That you wanted some company.”

“Sure, but not just anyone’s company. A beautiful woman’s company.”

She’s lucky I didn’t just take a sip or I would have sprayed margarita all over her. I look around me ostentatiously, because either this is some scam I’m too drunk to see through or she’s actually talking about someone else.

“Yeah. Okay. Goodnight.” I turn away from her. As far as I know, no one has ever been punked at The Bay at midnight, but there’s a first time for everything.

“You’re very alluring.” Bijou’s voice is so smooth and sweet, I almost want to believe her. But I have a mirror and I see with my own eyes every day that I’m neither beautiful nor alluring.

“What is this?” I pivot toward her again. All I see is that kind, sultry smile on her face.

“I’m doing a really bad job of flirting with you.” Bijou looks me straight in the eye.

“Flirting? With me?” I know that Estelle didn’t break up with me because I’m overweight and sweaty most of the time and I wouldn’t be caught dead in a wetsuit, but still, in my muddled drunken brain, she might as well have.

“Yes, ma’am,” Bijou says and the whole thing—her words and the situation—is so weird I burst out laughing.

“See,” she says. “You’re gorgeous when you laugh. I knew it.”

I laugh some more and forget about this being a possible prank. I might as well enjoy it, even if it is some sort of twisted delusion.

“You’re very pretty.” If ever there was a lame attempt at flirting back.

“Thanks.” She does this trick with her legs to shuffle her stool closer to mine. “See how easy it is to accept a compliment.”

“I don’t understand why you’re flirting with me but I’m in no state to reject you.” I shake my head. “Sorry, that came out wrong, as though I don’t want you to flirt with me anymore.”

“You want me to flirt with you now?” Her smile turns devilish and I can’t stop staring at her lips.

“I do.” I have absolutely nothing to lose. Although I might have something to gain. “Before this goes any further.” I’m so tipsy, I just come out and ask it as though it’s the most logical question in the world. “Can I touch you?”

Bijou tilts her head and narrows her eyes.

“I don’t want to end up in bed with someone I can’t touch.” I shake my head. “I’m not doing that.”

“I feel like we skipped a few steps.” Bijou puts her hand on my arm again. “And, also, what the hell are you talking about?” She runs a fingertip over my bare skin. “Why would I flirt with you if I don’t want you to touch me?”

“You’d be surprised.” I drain the last of my margarita, as though I’m suddenly on a mission. “I live above the restaurant on the cliff. Would you like to come over for a nightcap?”

“I would like that very much.” Bijou empties her glass and slips off her stool.

I take her home and we drink water instead of more alcohol and we stumble into my bedroom. I’m drunk and therefore blissfully free of my usual hang-ups about my body, about getting naked with someone else, and, to be honest, there’s only one thing on my mind: I want to make Bijou come.

And I do. Many times.