Page 4 of Because of Me

Reaching the third floor landing, I pause in the stairwell. I suck in long, deep breaths, filling my lungs with the stale air until the gnawing in my belly starts to subside. Once I can stand straight again, I head down the hall. If I’m going to impress her, I probably shouldn’t walk through the door doubled over and panting to catch my breath.

The door is unlocked, so just like I have countless times before, I let myself into the small apartment, calling out to announce my arrival. Something holds me back from taking more than a few steps inside the door. The same anxious bubble turning to lead in my stomach.

This was a mistake. Not because I don’t want to help Amira, but because I want so much more than what we agreed to. I’m too caught up in my own pathetic emotions.

I shiver, reminding myself that what Amira needs right now, is a friend. An arm to cling to. A diversion. I can be that and ignore everything else. It’s one night.

“Are you coming in?” Cassidy calls from the kitchen.

I blow out a steady breath and head towards her. If I can just convince myself this is any regular visit, maybe I won’t make a fool of myself. But as I enter the kitchen, so does Amira, sashaying into the space in a long satin dress.

It reminds me of Champagne, a delicate pale beige with subtle pink undertones. I want to taste it. I want to taste her. Clearing my throat, I swallow down the thought. I’ve always known Amira is stunning. Yet every time I see her, it’s like being reminded just how beautiful she is all over again. I don’t think there’s ever been a time when I didn’t stop in my tracks at the sight. Her golden skin seems to shimmer in the low light of the apartment, and her hair falls in sweeping curls over her shoulders. The dress clings to her hips before flowing out towards the floor, swirling around her ankles. Amira stops when she sees me, pulling the thin matching cardigan she wears tighter around her front.

When she looks up at me, her smile looks forced. It’s too wide, and even with the glitter in her makeup, her eyes don’t sparkle the way I’ve seen before. She’s faking it, and the realisation claws at my throat. I was so caught up in what this whole charadecouldmean that I didn’t stop to consider all it was. A lie, a get-out-of-jail-free card. I’m nothing but a tool in her plan to deceive her father and get him off her back. I swallow away the lump caught behind my Adam’s Apple.

Amira watches me with intent. Her smile drops and she fiddles with the clasp on her tiny bag, but her eyes drift their way down my body before returning to my face.

“No black?” she bites.

I hate black. Hate it even more because I have to wear it so often for work. Hate the most how somehow it has become my ‘colour’. That people—Amira—seem to think I look out of place when I wear something that doesn’t reminisce my teenage emo-punk stage. I wasn’t wearing black the first time we met, I wasn’t wearing black the night I agreed to attend this wedding with her. But all the times she’s seen me at the winery or still in my all-black work garb seem to negate the fewer times she’s seen me in something else.

The suit I have on is a tidy navy, with the slightest hint of a pinstripe. My shirt is white without being blinding, with tiny tan buttons down the front, matching my belt and shoes. I haven’t dressed up like this in a long time, and it feels good. Even if shopping for clothes, and trying on suits only to end up needing it tailored anyway, was incredibly annoying. But it’s nice to be not just out of my work pants and shirts but also out of my casual beachy tees that don’t always suit Melbourne’s unpredictable weather.

Realising I’ve left her jab unanswered for a little too long, I shrug my shoulders. I should say something nice about her dress, tell her just how stunning she is, compliment her hair and makeup. But my tongue has swollen under the sheer pressure, and I can barely make a sound. I force out a cough and slip my hands into my pockets.

“At least I don’t have to wear a brown dress,” I manage. It’s throaty and my voice hitches at the sarcasm. Her dress is far from ‘brown’, but I know the snarky remark will eat at her. And a little of our normal brings my nerves down a notch.

Cassidy warned me not to mention the dress. She said Amira hates it, although I can’t see why. It’s perfect on her. And it’s not brown, even I can see that.

Amira recoils, a hand on her chest. Her fake smile wavers before she paints it back on, wider than before. With ahumphshe strides past me to the kitchen and pulls an apple from the fridge. I wait for her to jab back, like we always do, but instead the apple crunches as she bites into it.

Storming around the bench, Cassidy finally pipes up when she moves in front of me and shoves at my chest. The pressure of her tiny hand barely registers. “I told you not to bring up the colour of her dress.”

“I’m merely pointing out the facts. Her dress is brown. It’s not my fault the bride made an odd choice.”

Cassidy can see right through my facade. She mouths the word ‘stop’ while poking my sternum. Her eyes widen and her head bobs in tiny movements. Although she has her back towards the kitchen where Amira still stands, Cassidy darts her eyes between me and Amira. Accusation is written all over her face, in the way her eyebrows are pinched in the middle with the outer edges raised, in the thin line her mouth forms. I wish I knew how long she’s known about my stupid crush, but I also wish she doesn’t know at all.

Oblivious to my silent conversation with Cass, Amira finishes her apple and drops it into the bin under the sink. It clatters into the container as she slams the cupboard door shut.

“You’re driving,” she announces. “I need as much wine as possible to get through tonight if I’m going to pretend to be in love with you.”

“Be careful,” Cassidy whispers, only for me to hear. “She doesn’t want what you want.”

A groan rumbles through my chest. “You have no idea what I want.”

Before I can storm past my cousin, she reaches out to squeeze my shoulder. There’s a hint of worry in the corners of her deep green eyes. With a soft exhale, she shakes her head. “Oh, but I do. And I don’t want either of you to get hurt.”

She moves her hand off my shoulder, bringing it down again with a firm pat. I stare at her but choose not to attempt to deflect. When Cassidy gets her mind set on something, there’s no changing it. And I’ve never been a good liar.

Moving past her, I pull a hand out of my pocket and stretch it towards Amira, who is now seated at the table. Her hands stretch down her leg, wrapping around her ankle as she does the buckle on a gold, strappy, very high-heeled sandal. My eyes trace the path up her legs, appreciating the slit of her dress that was hidden in the flowy skirt as she stood. Something wicked and warm flicks its way through my veins, right into my groin. I close my eyes, trying to ignore the intense way my body is reacting to the sight of Amira. It’s going to be a long night, if I have to hold this level of attraction back. Already my cock is aching for friction, threatening to pitch the unforgiving fabric of my pants.

Fake, I remind myself.

“You can’t be late for your photos, darling,” I say, trying on the fake name for my fake girlfriend as though it might act as a permanent reminder for the evening.

Amira stares at my hand for a beat, but ignores it as she finishes fixing her shoe, snatches her bag off the table and heads for the door.

“Don’t wait up Cassidy. I’ll help you pack tomorrow,” she calls before stepping into the hall.

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