Page 42 of This Is Who I Am

CASS

The morning after the party, I wake up with a splitting headache and a body that feels eighty-three instead of fifty-three—but none of it matters.

I kissed Estelle. It was late—or early—and I was pretty tipsy but I remember every second of it.

I remember my elation when I first spotted her.

Our sensual slow dance. And, finally, that kiss.

It’s the best hangover cure ever, it would appear, because I feed August with a spring in my step and I brew a strong pot of coffee with nothing but possibilities on my mind.

I can’t wait to see her so I text her—because I can.

An hour later, she turns up at my door with a box of cinnamon rolls from the bakery in town.

“There you are,” I say, as I open the door to her. I take the box, put it on the sideboard, and pull Estelle into a long, warm hug—an even better hangover cure.

She grins at me when we break from our embrace. “I was worried you’d be more apprehensive.”

“Fuck apprehensive,” I say. Obviously, my brain is not running at full capacity, but maybe it’s better that way.

“I like the sound of that,” she says.

We settle in the kitchen with coffee and the pastries and all I want to do, when I sit across from her, is touch her—which brings us right to the crux of the matter.

“May I start?” Estelle asks.

I look into her eyes and nod.

“I want a relationship so bad, it always tends to backfire,” she says.

“And it’s entirely possible that I’m not relationship material.

That’s what all the evidence points to, but…

I’m still so in love with you, Cass.” She rubs a fingertip against her temple.

“My hangover really isn’t helping my speech, but I hope I’m getting my point across, which is that I fucked up and I’m sorry and I hope you will give me another chance, even though I ran away the minute things got tricky. ”

“But you came back.”

“I couldn’t stay away,” she says. “My life is different now. I can’t bury myself in work in order not to have to deal with my feelings. All I have is time and time has taught me a thing or two.”

“Such as?”

“If I want a relationship to have a chance, I have to let go of certain preconceived notions—like that I will never be good enough for one. Notions I very much like to make the other party feel responsible for.” She casts her gaze down. “I do realize that, but… at least I can see it now.”

“You’re more than good enough for me,” I say.

“I have to believe that. I have to believe you … it’s not easy and it’s not going to happen just like that, but as you said that day I ended things, we have time, and I’d like to take that time. With you. If you’ll have me.”

“If I’ll have you?” I know what it’s like to act a certain way because of how you feel about yourself deep down—and to be completely unable to stop, even when you know why you’re doing it.

I don’t feel good enough for her either, albeit for different reasons.

So I try not to say something self-deprecating and, instead, I reply, “I don’t know how any of this will play out, but I do know one thing for sure.

” I pause. “My life is so much better with you in it.”

Estelle beams a wide smile, but then she becomes serious again.

“For the longest time,” she says, “I tried to make myself believe that the desire for a relationship would just go away. That if I kept busy enough, filled every moment with something useful, or loud enough to drown it out, it would fade. That the need for closeness would disappear—the longing for someone who stays. Someone with whom I could feel safe. Someone who truly sees me, and still wants to be there. I thought it would simply wither if I starved it of my attention.” She lets out a trembling breath.

“But that need didn’t go away. So I pushed it down, deep into that place where I keep all the things I don’t know how to deal with.

And then I built something over it. Something hard and solid.

I laid concrete all over it. Reinforced.

With iron bars, just to be sure my silly, impossible desire wouldn’t rise up again when I wasn’t paying attention.

” Her eyes meet mine again. “But then I met you. And I didn’t want it buried anymore.

I wanted you, instead.” She pauses. “That scared the hell out of me. That’s really why I ran away.

” She looks me straight in the eye. “Because an open heart makes a hell of an easy target.”

There are so many things I want to say. I want to respond in kind to her beautiful display of vulnerability—and here I was accusing her of being incapable of that, as though it’s only possible fully naked in bed—but I have to let her continue.

Estelle inhales deeply, then slowly exhales, as though she’s been waiting a very long time to speak the next words.

“Today,” she says, “I’m giving you the demolition permit.

” Her gaze stays on mine. “You’re the only one I trust with it.

The only one I want holding the jackhammer.

” It’s almost too much when she looks me straight in the eye—like I’m the one with intimacy issues now.

“We’ve already cracked the surface. You’ve already broken through that first layer, turning it into rubble, piece by piece.

” A tiny smile reaches her lips. “Now I’m bringing you the rest. These leftover chunks of reinforced concrete I’ve been living under. I want them gone.”

I don’t say anything—I don’t think I could if I tried.

“I will admit.” Her smile widens. “With big demolition works like that, things might get messy.”

“You’re here for my mess, I’m here for yours.”

“Let’s talk about you.” Her voice is soft and everything about her is inviting and completely unguarded.

“Thank you for sharing that with me.” What Estelle just told me is so much more emotionally satisfying than a night of sex with a stranger can ever be.

Her smile transforms into a grin. “I’m considering renovating my dad’s house, hence the building metaphor.”

“Building?” I arch up my eyebrows. “Sounds more like destruction to me.” I reach my hands across the table. “Lucky I’m in possession of a jackhammer now.” I slip my fingers between hers. “Thank goodness this gorgeous woman from Berkeley just gave me one.”

We both chuckle, and it truly feels like we can just take it from here.

That, somehow, we’ve arrived at a place where we’re both comfortable and can be honest and can build something strong enough to withstand the inevitable hot flashes and further conversations about all the reasons we don’t feel good enough.

“What about you?” Estelle asks, our fingers still firmly interlocked. “What do you want? Are there any power tools you’d like to give me?”

I grin at her and maybe it’s the hangover or the vulnerability she has just shown me, or the memory of how she danced last night, before she kissed me again, but I only want one thing.

“No, but, um, I’m trying to be less of a giver these days, anyway.” I wait to see how my quip lands.

“Not even a kiss?” She flicks her tongue over her lips.

“I’m still in training, so a kiss is most certainly still on offer.

” I get up and walk over to her. By the time I reach her side of the table, she has pushed her chair back, and I straddle her, a little awkwardly but unable to care about how it looks, because I only care about one thing. Her lips on mine—and what comes after.

We kiss and there’s nothing tentative about it. It’s not like last night when we were still uncertain about each other’s reaction. Still, I break from it and trace a path to her ear.

“I’d really like for you to fuck me now,” I whisper, and I don’t think it’s inappropriate in the least. Not anymore. In fact, it feels like something I should say right now.

She did ask me what I wanted.

* * *

“I like looking at you like this,” Estelle says. Her voice has that husky quality that makes my body temperature rise to dangerous heights.

Her hands are careful but unflinching as she undoes the buttons of my shirt, her gaze trailing over every inch of skin she reveals. Because she’s the only one doing the touching, it’s deliberate and focused.

“Part of me still can’t believe you’re really here again,” I whisper, and it’s true. After all that’s happened, this feels impossible.

She leans in and brushes her lips against the skin of my throat. “It’s truly the only place I want to be.”

My shirt falls to the floor, and I don’t feel self-conscious about my fifty-three-year-old body. Not with her—not anymore. Her hands glide up my arms, her thumbs circling just under my collarbones, and I could come undone from that alone.

With Estelle, nothing’s ever rushed. It’s all slow intention and I’m deliciously drowning in it. Her mouth finds the hollow at the base of my neck, lingering there, and I close my eyes.

By the time she’s got me laid back, stripped down to nothing but longing and goose bumps, I’m already breathless.

She’s taken off as much of her clothing as she ever will, and she straddles me. She’s all over me again and, today, I actually love that she’s not asking for anything but is giving me everything.

“I want to make you feel good,” she whispers—and who doesn’t want to hear that?

I nod, not trusting my voice. When her tongue flicks over my nipple and her hand traces lower, I feel like I’m being put back together somehow. Like she’s found all my broken pieces and is assembling them carefully, without instruction.

And then she licks me. Her tongue is firm and slow, right against the center of everything I am. Her hands rest on my hips, anchoring me gently. Her tongue works in lazy circles at first, then quickens, responding to the rhythm my body dictates.

When I come, it’s a full-body unraveling. It’s the grief I’ve held in my muscles and the want I never thought I’d feel again. It’s Estelle’s name in my throat. It’s not just release. It’s surrender. To her. To us. To something I didn’t think I’d get to feel again.