Page 23 of This Is Who I Am

I’m beginning to think that Estelle is some sort of test. Because she’s so stunning and lovely and enigmatic, but she’s also asexual. Then again, she has contradicted herself before. She says she’s undatable, yet here we are, on what definitely feels like a date. Because, as far as I can tell, that really was a slip of the tongue. She can declare this a non-date all she wants, but I still know what a date feels like. And I most certainly know the difference between flirting and having a purely platonic chat with a friend.

“I guess I’m a little confused.” I lean against the counter.

“Yeah, me too.” She heads farther into the kitchen—closer to me. “Very confused, actually.”

“About what… specifically?” My voice has become all thick and husky.

“You. Me.” She takes another step closer but leaves a respectable distance between us. “Whatever’s going on here.” Another smile. “Mainly me, though.”

“Truth be told, you are quite confusing.” I swallow slowly.

“I know.” She tilts her head. “And I know how infuriating that can be.” She bites her bottom lip.

From that point on, all I can see are her lips. My entire focus is pulled toward her mouth and all I can think of is how much I want to kiss her. But I can’t kiss Estelle. Does she even kiss?

I’m stuck—nailed to the goddamn floor.

And she’s right. There is something infuriating about her. What is she even doing in my kitchen? Clearly, she’s not helping.

“Cass. I—” She gazes into my eyes. “Can I come closer? Is that okay?”

I can only nod.

She steps right into whatever’s left of my personal space. She’s so near, I can smell her perfume—I can feel the heat of her body radiating onto mine. And, oh my, is she hot.

She fixes her gaze on me, and the moment hangs suspended between us, like a drop of water before it falls.

Then, she leans in and kisses me.

It’s soft and tentative at first, as if she’s testing the feel of it—like she might not remember how it is to kiss. I breathe into it, my eyes fluttering shut, letting myself be fully in it—because I’m not going to pull back now. Hell no. I enjoy the delicious pressure of her lips against mine like I’m a woman in the prime of her life instead of in the dry depths of menopause.

Then, her hand finds my waist, her fingers light but certain against the fabric of my blouse, and I’m about to lose my mind. What the hell is happening? I escaped to my kitchen for some much-needed refuge from the escalating tension in the living room, and now she’s kissing me, in my kitchen.

And it’s the kind of kiss that steals nothing, but gives everything. A kiss that goes on and on and effortlessly fills the space where my earlier questions lingered. Because when someone kisses you like this, at least for the time the kiss lasts, there’s no room left for questioning.

When she finally pulls back, she doesn’t leave a lot of space between us. Her breath is still warm against my skin, her forehead resting against mine.

“I don’t know what this is,” she murmurs.

“Me neither.” It’s pretty clear Estelle does kiss and—judging by how excellent she is at it—that she’s had plenty of practice. “I certainly didn’t expect you’d kiss me,” I whisper. Turns out there’s plenty of room left for confusion.

“I didn’t come here to kiss you,” she whispers back, and her voice is so soft and low, her lips so close to mine, it almost feels like another kiss. “But?—”

“But?” My forehead still rests against hers, making it impossible to get a good look at her face. That’s as far as it goes? I want to ask, but I’m not sure if I should. I’m not sure of anything anymore, except that I would like to kiss her again. Her hand rests on my hip and, for the first time in my life, I’m unsure whether I can touch her like that. Whether I can put a hand on the hip of the woman who’s kissing me.

In response, Estelle just gently shakes her head, and mine along with it.

Then, I say the most lesbian thing possible. “Should we talk about this?”

“That’s probably a good idea.” But Estelle doesn’t pull away. Instead, her forehead slides down my cheek as she tilts her head, and kisses me again.

Her tongue is like the smoothest velvet and her lips so pillowy, so moreish, that I wish kissing equaled talking and we could just do this for the rest of the night. That it would magically explain what is going on here. What she’s thinking. What she’s after. What she’s willing to give and where the line is.

A kiss can be magical—this one’s pretty bewitching—but it can no longer quiet the thoughts that swirl in my brain. My body might be oddly keen to continue, to just kiss and kiss her, but my brain simply can’t allow it.

I pull back now, deliberately putting some distance between us by moving away from the counter.

I spent many long nights lying awake next to my beautiful partner, wondering why I could no longer bear for her to touch me, and it messed with my head to no end. Although not the same, this situation is even more puzzling. Perhaps because this isn’t so much about me.

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