Page 19 of Because of Me

With a deep inhale, Noah stands tall, but doesn’t move his feet away from me.

“I hate that you have to lie to your family. I hate that they make things so hard on you, about everything. I hate that you can’t be yourself around them and that they try to take your choice over your life away from you. You shouldn’t need me in the apartment just to please them, but you do, right?”

I nod, feeling seen for the first time in my life. It’s like he sees all my fight and it feels as though he is on my side.

“Then I’ll come,” he finishes. He places a gentle hand on my shoulder, and I sink a little under its weight. “But my cat has to come with me.”

NOAH

Iswear, this staircase is going to be the death of me. First, it was moving all of Cassidy’s things all those years ago, then moving it all out again just a few weeks ago. Now, it’s my own heavy suitcase I’m lugging up three flights of stairs. This somehow feels a million times worse.

Amira follows behind, Kitch’s carrier knocking against her knee.

“You should walk ahead of me,” I puff out when we reach the second-floor landing. I don’t actually think I’m going to drop the suitcase or tumble down the stairs behind it, but I’d rather know Amira is safe just in case.

“I have a nice view from here,” Amira blurts out, followed by a squeak. The cat carrier rattles in her hands.

Dropping the suitcase to the floor, I turn to find Amira as bright as the hot pink shirt she had on at the winery last week. With her free hand, she hides her face.

“I knew it,” I say with a smirk. “My Cupcake has a thing for asses. Or is it just my ass exclusively?”

Amira whimpers a little behind her hand. “For the record, it’s all asses. Yours is not that special, try not to get excited about it.”

“Hmm.” Running a hand through my hair I lean down to check on Kitch between the grills of the small opening to the hard-cased carrier. The tabby cat is curled in a ball purring, unphased by her rough ascent to her new home. “I suppose we’ll have to tell people it’s just my ass, for now at least.”

“Fine,” Amira huffs as she storms past me. She’s three steps ahead when she turns over her shoulder to add, “Now I guess you get the view.”

I can’t help myself. “Cupcake, I’ll take this view any chance I get.”

She scoffs, trudging up the stairs. The heavy door to the third-floor hallway slams before I compose myself enough to start climbing. Clothes, as it turns out, are a hell of a lot heavier than you would expect, but I’m carrying more than just their weight. The heavy feeling of anticipation rests on my shoulders, and with each step closer to my new ‘home’ my heart has to work a little harder. The air grows a little thicker.

My body, more than my mind, knows just how impossible the next few weeks are going to be. Or months. We never established a timeline for this arrangement, and that only makes these last few steps even harder.

I’m panting by the time I trudge my way through Amira’s open door and into Cassidy’s old room. Amira is cooing at Kitch from deeper in the apartment, her musical humming sending goosebumps down my back. Hefting the suitcase onto the bed, I don’t bother to tell Amira there’s no point. I’m willing to bet my old cat is hiding in the carrier, pissed at being stirred awake and refusing to budge from her cosy bed. She’ll come out when she’s good and ready, then find the sunniest spot in the apartment and claim it as her own for the duration of our stay.

According to my grandmother’s will, Kitch came as part of the parcel when I inherited the winery and house. I think it was less to do with the properties and more to do with Kitch having nowhere else to go. Until a year or so ago, I never would have called myself a cat person, but Kitch has somehow burrowed her way into my life. We coexist comfortably, and occasionally, when she’s in a good mood, the cat offers me comfort in the form of cuddles. Occasionally.

Considering how long she took to welcome me into her life, I highly doubt she’ll warm to Amira. But as I’m unpacking clothes into the tiny wardrobe, I hear her meowing grow louder.

“I just realised something.” Amira’s voice startles me, and I fumble with the shirt I was attempting to loop onto a hanger.

She’s leaning against the doorway, with Kitch curled in her arms. Fur in shades of orange and white is scattered all over her dark jeans and faded purple jumper, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She scratches Kitch’s back, humming in tune with the cat’s purr.

My eyes widen at the sight. Kitch has never warmed to anyone this quickly. And maybe that’s partially my fault because I so rarely have anyone over for her to meet, but even so. “Did she scratch you?”

Amira glances down at the cat in her arms and back up to me. “She would never.”

“She would, she’s scratched me plenty.”

“That’s just because she is an excellent judge of character. She knows you’re a grumpy workaholic who doesn’t deserve her love.” With a satisfied purr, Kitch stretches in Amira’s arms. “See. When did you get her?”

“When I moved down from Sydney. She was my grandmother’s.” I continue putting clothes into the closet, and once the suitcase is empty I heft it onto the shelf above the hanging rack.

“Is she why you moved? Your grandmother?”

My back is to Amira, but I don’t move to face her. My life feels entirely full of lies lately, and I’m just about over it. The winery, my so-called relationship with Amira, I don’t want to add why I moved down into the mix. I’ve brushed off my reasons for coming down to Melbourne in the past, but no one has ever asked about my grandmother. Never mind the fact I never mentioned her to anyone until now.

“In a way,” I manage to choke out.

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