Page 15 of Because of Me

“You’re incredible, Amira. Honestly, your parents are fucking idiots if they don’t see how special you are.” I let my fingers trace gentle lines up and down her arm, doing my best to ignore the electricity the closeness is sending through me. To be what she needs instead of what I desperately crave. “If you want to keep having fun, do it. One day, if you want, you’ll find a woman who makes your heart sing. You’ll miss her whenever she’s not around and you’ll find every excuse under the sun to see her. And she’ll be the luckiest woman alive, because she’ll have you.”

It hurts, saying the words. Knowing it will never be me that makes her so happy. But she deserves it, and her happiness is worth more than my own.

“Or man,” Amira whispers into my chest.

My hand stops moving and I lean back a little. Amira wriggles free from my hug and reaches for her glass. She said it like it meant nothing.

“What do you mean? On the way back from the wedding you said it wasn’t a phase. I thought that meant—”

Amira holds the stem of her wine glass with both hands. She spins it on the bar and doesn’t look up when she talks. “Itwasn’ta phase. I’m bisexual.”

I don’t move. I don’t think I could if I needed to. Because the hope that had gone and lodged itself in my throat is spreading like wildfire. It’s burning through my veins until I can barely breathe. Amira turns to me and holds up her glass.

“And since my family is already placing bets on my sexuality anyway, I’d put all the money I have on my father thinking having a daughter who is bisexual is even worse than her being a lesbian.”

AMIRA

The tray of baklava teeters in my arms as I slip off my shoes and adjust my skirt. I shift it between my arms to push my sleeves back down, then balance it carefully against the brick pillar as I open the door to my parents’ house. The sharp smell of mixed spices wafts through the door. It should be overwhelming against the fresh spring air, but instead, it smells like home. For every frustrating adult memory I’ve had in this house, I can think of a thousand happy childhood ones.

Waking Christmas morning to the smell of curry stewing on the stove, and my father’s constant jokes about celebrating such a Western tradition but donning the Santa hat to dish out presents all the same. Coming home from school in tears because pre-teen girls are downright cruel, and my mother mixing my favourite Turkish tea to cheer me up. Sitting in the laundry while my aunt dyed my hair for the first time, never mind the wash out colour did almost nothing against my near-black hair. This house was one filled mostly with joy, for a very long time.

Shame it’s far from it now. My mother calls through the house, begging me to come in further and stop ‘loitering in the doorway’. It’s her way of saying ‘stop letting the fresh air in’. I do as I’m told, pausing to fix my hair in the hallway mirror.

I should, by now, be used to coming into this house as an adult. I should be used to the changed dynamic in my relationship with my parents and over the awkward feeling that came when I first moved out. This house will always feel like home, but the realisation it isn’t mine any more is somehow a shocking revelation every week. Little changes always seem strikingly obvious. My father’s chair inching out from the corner of the room until it’s practically blocking the view of the TV from the main lounge suite. My mother’s lace doilies no longer hidden beneath books and magazines.

She greets me as I enter the kitchen, her floral apron tied neatly in the centre of her back and her long greying hair falling over the bow in a long braid.

“Amira, princess, it’s been so long.”

I shake my head and wriggle free from her arms to put the container of sticky sweet pastries on the counter. She always says that, even when it’s only been a few days. I suppose, after having your children around you for so long, it feels lonely once they are gone.

Don’t get me wrong, I miss her too. But after all the years I’ve been living on my own, or with friends, I’m used to it now. I love the freedom that comes with not living with family. How no one is around to tell me I shouldn’t stay up so late or play music so loud. The way I can bring home whoever I want, without facing endless questions and berating the following day. The way I can spread myself out through the kitchen to make baklava, and how I can bake macarons or cupcakes or biscuits without my mother tutting at my decision to make something so ‘untraditional’. So yeah, I miss seeing my mother, and sometimes my father, but freedom is good.

“You should keep some of this,” she chimes as she opens the container. Pinching the smallest piece of baklava between her fingers, she breathes the sweet honey smell in deeply before taking a bite.

She savours the taste as the layers of pastry no doubt melt on her tongue. I love making it, and she loves eating it. I’d make it more if I could, but I tried some at the store and it didn’t sell as well as the danishes and mini cheesecakes and cake pops. So, I make it for my mother, and I’m not sad at all when she forces me to keep some for myself.

I take a piece now, eating just as precisely as she did and indulging in the blend of honey and nuts. The flavour takes me back to my childhood and reminds me of my grandmother. We spent more than a handful of afternoons working around this very counter, making baklava together. My mother never had the patience to build the layers of thin pastry, but I did. It fuelled my love of baking, and I’ll always be grateful to have had the opportunity to share those memories with myNene.

“Tell me, princess,” my mother starts after finishing her last bite. She turns to put the old kettle on the stove and I hide my grin at how nostalgic it feels. “Tell me about the boy.”

And now I’m hiding a scowl instead. I had hoped to avoid this conversation, but I should have known she would bring it up as soon as she got the chance. It would help if I knew about ‘the boy’, but I’m still a little dumbstruck. I’d hardly looked at Noah sideways but now I can barely stop thinking about him. I’ve spent far too many nights alone in my bed, wondering what it would have been like if I hadn’t drunk as much as I did at the wedding. Imagining him carrying me up the stairs anyway but staying after he placed me in the centre of my bed.

I have to squeeze my eyelids shut and shake my head to clear the vision from my mind. It works, but in its place all I can see is how casually fuckable he looked at the winery the other day. He’d stormed over and I swear there was a red tinge of jealousy in his eyes. With his sleeves rolled up and the way he leant against the bar in the most nonchalant way, I couldn’t take my eyes off him. And now all I can think about all the time, is how maybefakewasn’t what I wanted from him after all.

I fill my lungs, push my lips into a smile, and hope my moment of silence won’t give away the lie. “He’s … great. More than great. He’s kind and caring, he puts everyone else first, all the time, and I know he will never let me down.”

After I say the words, I realise I’m not lying. Noah is all those things and more. I may not know him all that well, but it’s clear from the time we have spent together.

My mother doesn’t miss a beat as she gets the glass cups ready for our tea. “I wish I got to speak with him at the wedding, but no matter. Did you hear Sadik is getting married? I’m sure I will meet this Noah boy then.”

I clench my fists in an attempt to hold in my groan. Another family wedding. Another cousin, however many times removed. My memories of Sadik are vague at best. Big family events we attended as children, when we could run around to our hearts content and our biggest worries were how many fizzy drinks could we sneak before one of our parents noticed we were all a little too sugar high. I can’t remember the last time I saw him, or cared enough towantto see my third or fourth cousin. I doubt if I would even recognise him if he came into the shop.

But that’s how my family goes. Massive weddings and everyone you’ve ever thought about being related to gets an invite. If I want to keep my father off my back, I’m going to have to keep up the charade a little longer. I’ll probably have to beg Noah to come to this one with me. And this time I won’t go overboard on the cheap house wine.

“How did you meet him?” My mother stays by the stove, leaning her back against the pantry door. Behind her head, small lines mark my height as I grew each year.

“He’s Cassidy’s cousin. We met a few times, hung out a bit. For a while, I didn’t think he liked me, he barely spoke to me. But I was wrong.”

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