Page 65 of This Is Who I Am

“We’re not going to continue this right now,” Estelle says. “There’s no point.”Argh.Her level-headedness drives me even more up the wall. “Call me when you’re ready to have a proper conversation.” She heads to the hallway. “I truly only wanted to make you feel better,” she says, her voice finally breaking.

Without saying another word, she heads to the door, her movements angular and sharp—a masterclass in wounded body language. All the while, my exhausted, old body remains glued to the goddamn couch.

* * *

It takes me a full twenty-four hours to get it together. Not only because of the vicious hangover of shame I, deservedly, suffer from, but also because it’s not as simple as showing up at Estelle’s house with a bunch of flowers. I even, very briefly, considered turning up in a wetsuit, but I own no such monstrosity, and I already look enough of a fool.

Still wordlessly, she lets me in. Her father’s house is nearly empty now, save for a few pieces of essential furniture and some chairs that Bobby has loaned her from his workshop.

“Cass,” she sighs, her elbows leaning on the kitchen counter.

“I’m sorry.” Estelle is the one looking exhausted now. My behavior must have cost her a night of sleep. Maybe Suzy was downright incorrect when she predicted that a menopausal and an asexual woman were a match made in heaven. Maybe Estelle and I are too broken, too bruised by life, to forge a romantic connection. That’s the sense of defeatism that hangs in the air as I look at her this morning. Probably because I know that I went too far—that I really screwed things up between us with my out of control midlife fury. “I’m so sorry.” On the way over, I tried to put together a speech in my head, tried to find something to say that could make things better, but I came up empty.

“The thing is,” Estelle says, still standing and not inviting me to sit. “I’m not sure what that ridiculous fight was actually about. Was it about you or was it about me?”

“It was me.” I step closer, but there’s a kitchen counter between us. “It was all me.”

“You can say that, but I don’t believe you.” She doesn’t sound combative, which worries me. “I’m almost fifty, Cass. I’m done defending myself.”

“You don’t have to defend yourself.”

“Then why do I feel like I have to?”

This conversation is a minefield of potential misunderstandings. I don’t want to make anything worse by not addressing the issue directly.

“I shouldn’t have said that I can’t touch you,” I say, lowering my voice to a whisper. I can’t say it was below the belt because we’re nowhere near ready for lame jokes yet, an accurate indicator of the dire straits we find ourselves in. “I shouldn’t have said any of the things I said. It wasn’t me. It was…”

“The hormones?” Compared to mine, Estelle’s voice is loud and clear.

I nod, even though it makes me sound like a broken record—but again, it doesn’t make it any less true.

“But, Cass, there are ways to deal with that. The night sweats. The hot flashes. Medical ways, I mean. Not learning how to surf.”

“I’m aware, but I’ve made my choice regarding that.” Tears prick behind my eyes. “I completely understand that you would, um, choose not to have that in your life.”

“I’m not going to break up with you because you’re in menopause. I can deal with that.”

“But?” I ask.

“I can’t deal with how you feel about me. Really feel, I mean. Underneath… all the drama and whatever.”

“What do you mean?” Of course, I know what she means. I just brought it up. But fuck, this is so hard. Before midlife started chipping away at it, I always considered myself a reasonable woman with plenty of empathy, but I haven’t yet been able to shake off the profoundly fundamental desire to touch her. It goes infinitely deeper than simply wanting to be inside her. Now, instead of it being a lack I might learn to deal with, it has become a barrier to a more intense connection between us—like we can’t get past a certain point we need to reach in order for our relationship to progress.

“You said it for a reason. I know that.” She pushes herself up. “It’s always the same.”

“Maybe, but we talked about this. I just need some time.”

“Time for what? To compromise? To accept that you can never have what you so long for?”

Yes, I think, but I can’t say that. And maybe that’s the real issue. Maybe I should say it. How else are we going to get out of this if we can’t be honest with each other?

“Yes,” I say, out loud.

“I don’t want to be your compromise,” Estelle says, her voice flat, like all life was just squeezed out of it.

“We both have to compromise. This isn’t some fairy-tale romance by the seaside. But I love you, Estelle. I want to be with you. I really, sincerely do.”

Estelle shakes her head. “I can’t do it.”

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