Page 7 of This Is Who I Am

CASS

In that hazy time between sleeping and waking, I see Estelle, graceful on her board, not tipping into the water but staying upright, negotiating one of the ocean’s more challenging waves like she has done nothing else all her life.

Because this is a dream, her long curls are not wet but bouncy and, somehow, naughty, and she’s not wearing a wetsuit but a skimpy bikini.

A precise pounce on my full middle-aged lady bladder shatters my dream. My cat, August, barely eight pounds of ginger fluff, somehow manages to land with the impact of a bowling ball.

He settles into his morning ritual: first the rumbling purr against my ear, then the deliberate sweep of his fluffy tail across my face, like a feather duster with attitude. This has been my wake-up call every single morning since Sarah left.

“Gussie, for crying out loud,” I whisper. “I was dreaming of a hot lady. Why can’t you respect that?” I surrender to August’s demands and rise, padding to the kitchen where his food bowl awaits. But maybe I should be happy my fluffy ginger woke me up. Who knows where that dream might have ended?

Clearly, though, that walk home moved something in me. And I feel something, perhaps even attraction—although, truth be told, that would be rather baffling.

Either way, Estelle refused to come in for a nightcap. The question was out of my mouth before I could think it through. She could have so many good reasons for refusing my offer. She’s been through a lot lately, that much is clear.

I feed August and cast my gaze over the ocean.

My apartment is above the restaurant and has a breathtaking view from the cliffs.

I brew myself a cup of coffee and count the hours until Estelle will come to Savor.

Damn it. What the hell is going on with me?

Or should I just, innocently, enjoy this sensation of sudden attraction?

There haven’t even been any hints that she’s gay, although it’s as though I can sense it. Somehow, it’s like I know that she is.

I sip my coffee, my gaze drifting over the ocean’s gray expanse. The waves are wild this morning. They look untamable, yet I’m sure if I walk down the boardwalk, I’ll see a couple of Irelands trying to.

As often happens during my morning coffee moment with the Pacific, inspiration strikes. An idea for a new dish pops into my head. Something I could present to Estelle on Friday to impress her in the language I speak best.

August finishes his breakfast with fastidious precision, then leaps to the windowsill in one fluid motion, settling beside me to survey his territory.

As I scratch behind his ears, I say, as though he can understand me and is very valuable in my brainstorm process, “What do you think, Gussie? Shall we come up with something spectacular for Friday Woman?”

In response, August leans his soft head into my hand and I take it as a yes.

It doesn’t take me long to make my way down to the restaurant, put on my chef’s whites, and start experimenting.

* * *

After years of working in kitchens under shouty head chefs who squeezed their staff dry until they quit, I wanted to do things differently in my own restaurant.

Staff retention is how I measure myself as a boss and apart from a pastry chef who moved to San Francisco and a sous chef who wanted a career change, my employees have all been with me since the very beginning of Savor.

Because we are only open four days a week, from Tuesday to Friday, my staff get plenty of time off and they have weekends to themselves.

Today is Tuesday, three days before Estelle’s next reservation, and we’re only open for dinner, giving me plenty of time for experimentation.

I start with clams. They’re fresh, briny, and taste of the ocean.

The best dishes don’t come from overthinking—they come from instinct, from curiosity, from standing in an empty kitchen and letting the ingredients tell you where they want to go.

And perhaps, if I’m being honest, sometimes also from wanting to impress someone.

Estelle is on my mind, but I’m putting the thought of her to the best use I know: inspiration.

I set a pot on the stove and let butter melt, the sizzle filling the space.

Garlic follows, then shallots, softening into something fragrant.

I pour in a splash of white wine and watch it hiss against the heat before it settles into a simmer.

The clams go in next, their shells clinking against the pot.

I clap the lid on and step back, inhaling deeply.

It smells divine already. The clams are starting to open, revealing their tender center. Remembering a divine bouillabaisse I once had in a small Greek taverna years ago, I reach for the Metaxa. I drizzle in just enough for warmth, depth, and for something unexpected.

The scent of the Metaxa, mingling with the briny sweetness of the clams, fills the kitchen.

It’s a fragrance that speaks of places I’ve been and memories I’ve held onto, infusing the dish with a little of my own story.

Cooking is a way to connect without words.

A way to say, “I hope you feel welcome here.”

I add a touch of cream to the pot, just enough to mellow the sharper notes and bring a silky texture to the broth.

I toss in a handful of fresh parsley for brightness and a dash of saffron for a hint of the exotic.

The golden threads bleed their color into the sauce, like sunlight pouring into a room.

I taste the broth with a spoon, closing my eyes as the flavors unfold on my tongue. It’s close, but not quite there. It needs something else—something to pull it all together.

I get a lemon from the fridge and slice it in half. A few generous squeezes, and the dish is transformed. The acidity lifts the flavors, sharpens them, gives them clarity.

As the clams fully open, I plate them in a shallow bowl, ladling the aromatic broth around them. With a few slices of crusty bread on the side for soaking up the sauce, the dish will be complete. It’s simple but thoughtful. Elegant but comforting.

The plate looks like a celebration of the ocean itself—a tribute to the Pacific that stretches beyond Savor’s walls.

Estelle walked me home out of kindness, and this dish is how I walk her back. How I let her know that there’s something in me that wants to connect.

I make a note to run this new dish as a special on Friday, not just for Estelle but for anyone willing to taste a little piece of my heart.

The thought makes me smile, even as a small voice in the back of my head warns me to be careful.

At least my kitchen is a safe place to take risks.

If only matters of the heart were as simple as a recipe.

A knock at the back door startles me. I’m not expecting any deliveries and my staff won’t be in for another hour, unless someone has decided to show up early. Wiping my hands on my apron, I swing the door open.

It’s Sarah. She looks good. The way people do when they’ve truly moved on and built something new and beautiful. When she was here with Rose last Friday, she was beaming as well.

“I saw the light was on,” she says, shifting slightly, as if debating whether coming here was such a good idea after all.

“How are you?” For her to drop by like this is definitely out of the ordinary.

“I wanted you to hear it from me.” A humungous smile—the kind that looks unstoppable—takes over her face. “Last Friday, when we were here.” A pause. “Rose and I were celebrating that, um, I’m pregnant.”

“Congratulations.” Of course, I’m happy for her. It’s what she wanted. It’s also the other reason we broke up.

A short silence falls. It’s full of everything we were and everything we couldn’t be. But her news doesn’t hurt me. Not in the way I once thought it might.

Sarah lets out a nervous laugh that catches in her throat. She puts a hand on her belly and doesn’t say anything else. She doesn’t have to.

Despite the love we had, and all the ways we tried, we couldn’t make it work. We both knew it had to end. And now, here she is, stepping into the life she always wanted. And here I am, finally at peace with not being the one to give it to her.

She studies me for a second longer, then bridges the distance between us, tentative but somehow sure. “Can I?—?”

I don’t let her finish. I pull her into a hug.

She melts into it, and for a moment, we’re just two people who once knew each other in a way no one else did. There’s no bitterness—just the understanding that we mattered to each other once, and maybe, in some way, always will.

When we pull apart, Sarah smiles. “I’m glad you’re doing okay.”

“I am,” I say, which is true enough.

“I should go, leave you to whatever smells so delicious in here.”

“Thanks for stopping by and telling me in person. I appreciate it.”

Sarah squeezes my hand briefly before turning away. “Take care, Cass.”

“You too.”

Once she’s out the door, I let out a deep breath. Although I’m happy for her, I will need a little time to process this news.

Meanwhile, I go back to my dish. I taste it again and adjust the seasoning a little.

Because that’s the thing about cooking—it’s never truly finished.

There’s always room for a little more depth, a little more balance.

And maybe, if I get it just right, someone will take one bite and understand exactly what I’m trying to say.