Page 20 of This Is Who I Am

“I honestly don’t know what to say,” I admit, keeping my voice low. “Which probably isn’t the best thing to say, but…” I chuckle awkwardly. “I guess I’m afraid to say the wrong thing.”

Her shoulders relax a fraction. “That’s okay. I know it’s a lot.”

I look at her. “Still, I should say something.” It’s not because it’s hard for me to understand, or because it’s the first time I’ve met someone who’s ace, that I can’t try.

“I’m not running for the hills,” I say. “This body isn’t very good at running anymore, anyway.” I hold her gaze. “Besides, why would I? As your new best friend in town?”

CHAPTER12

ESTELLE

I’m completely okay with who I am, yet I’ve never met someone who isn’t thrown by my coming out. Especially because it’s usually someone who’s romantically interested in me, and nothing puts a damper on all things romance more than revealing you’re ace. But I did inform Cass last night that dating isn’t on my to-do list.

Though if I’m honest, part of me looked forward to tonight as if it were a date. A not entirely conscious part, because I do know better—I have all the scars on my foolish, hopeless heart to remind me when needed.

“My new best friend, eh?” I’m not blind. I’ve seen Cass check me out—especially tonight, before my confession.

“As long as you don’t want to go jogging or surfing together,” Cass jokes.

I laugh along because it’s the easy thing to do under the circumstances—this is hardly the time for a body positivity pep talk.

“In that case, I really should reciprocate this dinner invitation, although my lack of cooking skills might put too big a strain on our budding friendship.”

“We could just go for drinks at The Bay instead.” Cass puts her cutlery down.

“Let me just enjoy this final piece of exquisiteness before we continue this conversation.” I make a show of how tasty Cass’s dish is—not a hard thing to do—then wave my hand over my empty plate. “You’re a genius, by the way.”

“Just a good cook,” she says matter-of-factly.

“So.” I reach for my wine glass. Now that I’ve told her about myself, I’d like to ask her a more inquisitive question. “You haven’t been with anyone since you and your ex broke up?”

“No.” Cass tops up our wine glasses.

“No dates? No nothing?”

“It took me a while to get over because we didn’t break up out of lack of love. God, I loved her, but… There were so many obstacles and sometimes love isn’t enough, you know?”

“Oh, I know.” How I wish I didn’t. How I wish I could still innocently—stupidly—believe that love is always enough.

“What would be the point of dating, anyway?” She shrugs. “And the Clearwater Bay dating pool for middle-aged lesbians is also fairly small.”

“Hm, isn’t later-in-life lesbianism a big thing these days?” I joke.

“Maybe in Berkeley. Among college types and whatnot.”

“So you truly consider yourself undatable?” I prod a little.

“Look at me,” is all she responds, as though that’s an actual answer.

“I am looking at you and, well, you did ask me out last night.”

“While you didn’t exactly say no, you hardly said yes either.”

“For good reason.” I point a finger at myself. “If we’re in a contest of who’s the most undatable, I think I win hands-down.”

“It’s not a contest, but no fucking way.” She rests her chin on an upturned palm. “I’m sure you’ve heard this a million times before and I hope it doesn’t irk you, but you are rather, um, hot.”

A chuckle rises from my throat. “It doesn’t irk me when you say it.” Although she has read that right, it has most certainly irritated me plenty of times before. “But being ‘hot’”—I curl my fingers into air quotes—“doesn’t make me good at dating. The opposite, actually.”

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