Page 78 of This Is Who I Am

My heart doesn’t know what to do with itself. This would also be the perfect moment for another well-timed hot flash to make its appearance.

“Let’s go upstairs,” I say.

I ignore the looks we get as we weave through the crowd to a side door into the hallway. Going up the stairs, the party noise isn’t nearly loud enough to drown out my heart beating in my ears. I’m not sure if I’m excited or scared—maybe a bit of both.

August is appalled by the racket downstairs. He flicks his tail once and refuses to budge from his perch by the window.

“Are you still angry with me?” Estelle asks.

“I’m not angry, I’m just…” I thought she was angry with me for sleeping with Bijou and by doing so sending her some sort of secret message that only she could understand: that I no longer wanted her. But that’s how it goes with your thoughts after a break-up. They swirl together into a jumble of all the things that went wrong until you can no longer make heads or tails of it. Or maybe I’m just terribly confused because she’s standing in my living room right now. “Why are you here?”

“So many reasons.”

Not just for me, then. Good to know. But still.

“I missed… everything.” Her voice is so quiet, I can barely make it out over the noise from the party. “Most of all you, but, um, I know this is not the time or place for that conversation.” She blows out some air. “It’s hard to explain, but I just really wanted to be here. I can’t find my groove in Berkeley and I just wanted to come back.”

No big love declaration either. No big speech full of regret for how things turned out.

“Okay. Sure.” I don’t really know how to react.

“I don’t usually do this,” Estelle says. “I don’t usually come back.”

“Meaning?” My palms are sweaty.

“I know I hurt you and I’m truly sorry,” she says. “I really miss you, but I haven’t changed… or maybe I have, because why else am I here?”

She doesn’t sound as though she has thought this through very much, but sometimes, that’s how you make the best decisions.

“You did hurt me,” I say. “By leaving. By cutting me off.”

“I know.” She pushes a strand of hair away from her face. “It’s what I do. I see that now.”

“I’m glad you’re here.” All my foolish heart needs is the tiniest glimmer of hope. And if nothing else, at least we can have one last epic party together.

“So am I,” Estelle says. Her divine lips curve into a smile and I have to use all the restraint my body can muster to not bridge the distance between us, to not throw my arms around her and kiss her, but that’s not what this is. From the start, we’ve been cautious, each for our own reasons, and that’s also not going to change now. “I’d like to stay for a while, if that’s okay with you.”

“I don’t have a problem with that.” It figures that Estelle is not a grand gesture kind of person. But small gestures can have impact too.

“You should go back to the party,” she says.

“Let’s go back together.” I do take a step toward her now.

“Yeah?” Her voice is soft as butter and her dreamy eyes pull me right back in.

“Yeah.” I reach for her hand. “Let’s party,” I say. Like we never broke each other’s hearts into a thousand pieces. We’ll figure out the rest later.

* * *

The party is in full swing. Suzy’s being twirled around by Sam to a nineties anthem from our youth that has everyone going wild. Bobby is vogueing solo under a spotlight, because of course he is.

Estelle and I slip into the crowd. Our fingers no longer touch but her presence is all I’m aware of.

Despite the vogueing, Bobby spots us first, his eyebrows nearly launching off his face. He beams like it’s his own birthday and not Suzy’s, who, when our gazes cross, gives me a look that says ‘we’ll talk later’.

The music changes to “Show Me Love” and it’s as if a switch gets flipped to the next level of dance floor mayhem. Ah, the power of a good tune from when we were young and foolish and didn’t know a thing about life—and couldn’t care less about any of it.

Estelle turns to me and her expression is clear—must dance now. I let the music transport me for a few minutes, so the tension in my muscles can dissolve. I try not to stare at the way Estelle moves—effortless and unencumbered, like she’s dancing only for herself. She’s wearing a pair of jeans that cling in all the right places, and an emerald silk blouse that shimmers every time she turns under the lights. Her sleeves are rolled just high enough to show the sculpted line of her forearms.

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