Page 15 of This Is Who I Am

Her words sound true enough—but I know better. At least I think that I do. Still, I shift in my seat, suddenly warm in a way that has nothing to do with the Metaxa. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

“It’s not just kindness, Cass. It’s an observation.” She takes another sip. “I saw you walk through the restaurant earlier and you carry yourself so...” She pauses, her smile suddenly shy. “I might have had too much to drink to actually put it into words, but I enjoyed watching you walk toward me like that.”

I don’t know what to say to that. I can only hope my body won’t respond with another hot flash, like the last time she paid me a compliment—as though my poor body has no clue how to behave around her.

Also, for the first time in a long time, I wonder what it would feel like to actually believe her. Her kind words spur me on to continue. I clear my throat.

“Sarah and I…” It kind of feels as though the support group for menopausal women is already having its first gathering at Savor, with Estelle and I as the only participants. “We stopped having sex. I stopped wanting it.”

Estelle doesn’t react right away.

“She tried to be patient,” I continue. “I did too. But something in me just changed, and I couldn’t seem to get it back. It wasn’t just that I didn’t want it—I didn’t miss it. And when someone you love is waiting for you to… come back to them in that way, it starts to feel like you’re failing them. Like you’re failing yourself.”

I chance a glance at Estelle. There’s no judgment on her face, just consideration.

“That must have been difficult,” she says finally.

I nod. “It was. For both of us. But, in the end, I couldn’t give her what she needed.”

Estelle’s eyes meet mine. “And what doyouneed, Cass?”

I part my lips, but nothing comes out. The truth is that I don’t know.

Estelle doesn’t push. She watches me, her expression patient in a way that does something to my stomach. I could deflect, turn the conversation back to her, ask why she doesn’t date. But I still don’t. I sit with the question, let it linger like the last sip of Metaxa, slow and warm as it slips down my throat.

“I need to feel like myself again,” I say finally. My voice is quieter than I mean for it to be. “Or at least figure out who this new version of me is and try to accept her.”

Estelle nods, as if she understands. Maybe she does—somehow. Her empty glass scrapes softly against the bar as she pushes it aside.

“I hope that you will.” She finds my gaze. “Figure it out.” There’s something different about her expression. A hint of sadness, perhaps? “I hate to leave on this note, but…” She points at her empty glass. “That one really tipped me over the edge of tipsiness and whatever comes next.”

“Let me get you some water.” I hurry behind the bar.

“It’s fine, Cass. You’ve done too much for me tonight already.” She slips off her seat. “I should go.”

“Are you okay to walk home? I can call you a taxi.”

Estelle shakes her head. “It’s not far and I need the fresh air.” She sucks her bottom lip between her teeth for a split second, then says, “But it’s going to be another yes from me.”

“Dinner tomorrow?” Something twists inside me.

Estelle nods slowly.

“A dinner between friends it is, then.” How can it be anything else after what I’ve just told her? I suppose that’s the best two undatable women—for whatever reason—can hope for.

CHAPTER10

ESTELLE

On my way home, I wish Cass hadn’t said that about her no longer wanting sex. It made me change my mind about dinner too easily. But a woman who doesn’t want sex happens to be exactly what I’m looking for. I know it’s not the same—not in the least—but still, maybe it’s enough. Because, for all the years I’ve tried to convince myself that romantic love is not for me, that someone like me should find other means of fulfillment in life, deep down, I’ve always believed, with an intensity that has only increased with age, that, I too, deserve love. Even though all I have to show for all the times I’ve tried is a heart chock-full of scars.

Maybe that’s why I’ve been drawn to Cass. Because I sense something different about her. Because her gaze doesn’t devour me in an overtly sexual way. Because we have some sort of unspoken connection.

The Metaxa burns warmly in my stomach, a bit like how Cass makes me feel. Maybe it’s because of her age that I sense a possibility. It would be foolish to pursue a woman at the height of her sexuality. Been there, done that, failed every single time.

I slow my steps as I reach the boardwalk, the ocean stretching dark and endless beside me. The night air is cool against my skin, the lingering warmth of the Metaxa curling through my veins. I press my hands deeper into my pockets, anchoring myself against the undertow of my thoughts.

The idea of love has always been easier in theory than in practice. In theory, I believe in soulmates. In deep, long-lasting connection. In the certainty of knowing someone sees you—really sees you—and chooses you anyway. But in practice, love has been a series of inevitable disappointments. Women who thought they could change me. Women who convinced themselves they could live without what I couldn’t give them. Women who loved me right up until the moment they realized I wasn’t enough.

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