Page 35 of This Is Who I Am

Cass narrows her eyes, and it makes her look even more compassionate.

“A car accident,” I say.

“I’m sorry. That must have been so hard, especially at that age.”

“I had my dad. He was always the more attentive and caring parent.” I take a beat “Don’t get me wrong, losing a parent is horrible, but all that time alone with my dad shaped me in so many ways.” I trace the rim of my glass with my fingertip. “We became this peculiar team of two math nerds against the world. In the morning, he’d quiz me on theorems over breakfast. Every evening, we’d solve puzzles instead of watching TV.”

Cass leans forward slightly. “He sounds remarkable.”

“He was.” The scotch burns pleasantly as I take another sip. “He created this bubble. Just us and numbers. He made life safe and predictable after that devastating loss.” I’m surprised by my own candor. “Unfortunately, I soon found out that people aren’t equations. They don’t behave according to established rules.”

“People are definitely not equations,” Cass says softly. “Though sometimes I wish they were. It would make running a restaurant so much easier.”

Her attempt at lightness makes me smile, so I happily play along. “Can you imagine? If server A moves at X velocity while carrying Y plates…”

“I’d have the most efficient restaurant in all of California,” she says.

Our laughter mingles in the dusty air of my father’s living room, and for a moment, despite where we are, and what we’re talking about, it feels just right.

“After my mother died,” I continue, picking up the conversation where we left it earlier, “my father became even more absorbed in mathematics. It was his refuge. Mine too, I guess.” A thought occurs to me. “Maybe that’s why I can’t solve his final problem. Maybe I’m not supposed to. Maybe it’s just his way of keeping me connected to him a little longer.”

Cass’s expression shifts subtly—a flash of recognition, as though I’ve inadvertently given voice to something she, too, has experienced.

“Some connections last well beyond what seems possible,” she says.

I study her face. She meets my gaze without flinching, and it knocks something loose inside me.

“I kept all my mother’s cookbooks,” Cass says. “They’re on a shelf in the restaurant’s kitchen, taking up precious space. They have little notes in her handwriting. She’d write ‘too salty’ or ‘needs more thyme.’” Cass swirls the scotch in her glass. “I read them sometimes, not for the recipes, but for those notes. It’s like hearing her voice again.”

“That’s exactly it,” I whisper. “My dad’s voice is in these papers. In the way he’d circle a variable twice when he was excited, or the little exclamation points next to a particularly elegant solution.”

Something passes between us—a kind of understanding. A mutual recognition of loss and what it does to you.

We raise our glasses in a silent toast. My father would have approved—not because he was romantic, but because he believed in things aligning when they should. Cass and I, sitting here in the chaotic mess of his house, finding comfort in each other, would have pleased him.

“What about your father?” I ask, now that we’re on the subject.

“My parents divorced when I was in culinary school. I somehow completely lost touch with my dad after that. We haven’t spoken in a very long time.” She shrugs. “As far as I know, he’s never tried to contact me again,” Cass says. “And I’m not exactly hiding. Savor has been written about in plenty of publications.”

Her words hang in the air, part dismissal and part question—one that doesn’t demand an answer, yet might welcome one all the same.

“Do you ever wonder?” I ask.

“If he reads about me? If he feels a stab of recognition when he sees my name?” Cass’s mouth curls into something too complicated to be called a smile. “Less often now. Time has a way of doing that.”

Outside, the wind picks up, rattling the old windows. Inside, we exist in the kind of bubble my dad used to create for me—for us—in this house.

“When I was younger,” Cass continues, “I used to rehearse what I’d say if I ever ran into him. I had this whole speech prepared—eloquent and cutting, the perfect blend of indifference and insight.” She laughs softly. “Now I think I’d just ask how he’s been. Isn’t that disappointing?”

“Not disappointing,” I say. “Just human.”

She meets my eyes. There’s something new in her gaze—like she’s seeing more than before. “For a mathematician, you’re quite good at human emotions.”

“A lifetime of observing from the sidelines has its advantages.” I let a wry smile play across my lips.

Our glasses are empty. The bottle stands between us, like a question about what happens next. I reach for it, but Cass leans in and lays her hand on my wrist.

“I really should go,” she says. “I have to work tomorrow.”

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