Page 19 of This Is Who I Am

“Not the move. But… I guess I sometimes miss who I was before.”

Estelle considers this for a moment. “And who was that?”

“Someone who had a lot more fun,” I say.

Her lips curve, just slightly. “You look like you have plenty of fun.”

I let out a low chuckle. “The most I have to look forward to these days is a support group for menopausal women.”

Estelle lifts her fork, spearing a bite of octopus. She doesn’t respond to my quip with words. Instead, she takes a bite, closing her eyes briefly as she savors it.

I watch her expression shift. I hear the faint hum of appreciation she makes in the back of her throat. That sound every chef lives for. The involuntarymmmthat means you’ve done something right, created something that bypasses thought and goes straight to pleasure.

She opens her eyes and says, “This is incredible. You must have had fun preparing this. I can taste the fun you had in making this.”

It’s a simple dish—grilled octopus, tender from hours of slow braising, finished on an open flame for just the right amount of char, served over a bed of lemony white-bean purée with a drizzle of olive oil.

“I did,” I admit. I watch as she takes another bite, the candlelight flickering in her eyes, and wonder how I got here, having dinner with a woman who makes me feel as if maybe I could possibly learn how to have fun again—albeit just as friends.

“Last night,” I say, trying to keep my tone light, “you said dating wasn’t on your to-do list.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t want to pry,” I say, despite my curiosity. “But I keep thinking about it. I keep wondering why.”

Estelle breathes out softly, not quite a sigh, but close enough. “I’ve had my heart broken so many times…” She pauses.

I nod, waiting.

Her fingers tighten around her glass. “You were very open and honest with me last night, and I really appreciate that, but I’m not sure I’m ready to return that favor.”

“Okay.” I send her my softest smile. “Of course.”

She leans back in her chair, a shadow crossing her face. She looks away, from the table and from me. Maybe my question wasn’t as innocent as I thought it was.

“I will tell you, but…” Her scoff cuts through the air. “This is the kind of information that has sent many a woman running for the hills.”

I raise my eyebrows. I don’t know what to expect, but she’s got my full attention.

“I—um…” She finds my gaze, suddenly defiant. “I’m almost fifty, and for decades now, I’ve worked on myself to no longer feel bad about this. And I don’t, but it’s still a hard thing to say because of the effect it has on other people.”

“Go on,” I gently encourage her.

“I’m asexual. Ace. As in, I don’t have sex. I don’t feel that desire.”

Oh. Fuck. I’m utterly speechless. Although one of my best friends—Suzy—is aromantic, I’m stumped for words. Because it’s not the same. Not even close.

“I’m sorry, I feel like the most ignorant boomer on the planet,” I manage to say after a few awkward seconds of silence. “I don’t really know how to react to that.”

“You could run for the hills.” I can hear all the times her heart has been broken, right there in the crack of her voice.

“I’m on a cliff and it’s just ocean behind me,” I joke stupidly.

“I’m not ashamed of who I am, but, um, well, neither shame, nor pride, have much to do with how my relationships turn out.”

“Yeah, I can imagine.” It all makes sense now. That’s why a gorgeous, brilliant woman—a professor, no less—like Estelle is single. I take a slow sip of wine because I need a second. A moment to process, to not say something clumsy or trite or, worst of all, something that makes her regret telling me.

There’s a sudden tightness in her face, like she’s waiting for impact. I hate that she expects it, that she’s bracing for something.

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