Page 6 of Because of Me

“Right.”

Noah pulls my hand from the air and wraps his fingers around it. I feel his arm twitch like he wants to pull me into him, and despite everything I’m ready to fall into his arms. But instead he drops my hand with a faint sigh. “Amira, what can I do?”

“Be charming and friendly without drawing attention to yourself. Pretend you’re in love with me without being overbearing because I’d never put up with that in a relationship.”

“So, just be myself then? Got it.” Noah chuckles, then nods over my shoulder. “I think they’re waiting for you.”

I turn my attention to the venue, and sure enough a group of women in matchingbrowndresses huddle by the door. The outside of the converted warehouse looks classically drab. Tall white walls with paint peeling in the top most corners. There are no windows, but the wide entranceway must have been a truck-sized roller door in a past life. Wrought iron gates have been attached, and although most of the opening has been closed off by glass, the double doors are propped open by large wine barrels covered in overhanging greenery.

When I’d asked my cousin if she wanted Cassidy’s details for the flowers, she’d brushed me off saying it was ‘all sorted’. The way roses are scattered through the gum leaves that cascade over the tops of the barrels is haphazard, almost as though ‘all sorted’ meant ‘we will do it ourselves’. It wouldn’t surprise me; nothing has been conventional about this wedding. It’s all a big contradiction. Save money everywhere but spend a house deposit on a dress, finger food only but a wedding cake I know cost in the thousands, have a gaggle of too many bridesmaids but not spend the morning with them.

Noah’s out of the car before I even reach for my door handle. I’m still checking my hair and lipstick in the car mirror when he opens my door and offers his hand. I take it begrudgingly. His fingers wrap around my palm and now that he’s not instantly pulling it away, I notice just how big his hands are. And warm. Not in a weird way, but in a soothing way that cascades up my arm and over my chest.

His free hand rests against the car, caging me in as he leans down. For a moment, I think he’s going to kiss me. My eyes dart to his lips before fluttering closed and my body gravitates towards his. I’ve never wanted to kiss Noah; I still don’t think I do. But something about having an incredibly attractive man lean over me is apparently my undoing. I’m shocked back into reality when he brushes his cheek against mine.

“The bridesmaids are watching from the door,” he whispers. “Kiss my cheek.”

My mouth falls open on a gasp, but I turn my head towards his and do as he asked.Rosewood, that’s what my lipstick brand called the shade of pink now smeared across his cheek. There’s a flash, behind my eyes, a tease of where else I could smear the deep blush pink. It’s gone before I have a second to process it, but a searing heat is left in its wake. Reaching between us, I try to wipe it off with my thumb.

“I’ll get it,” Noah says with a smirk. “I’m going to get a beer and some food at the pub down the road. I’ll be back before the ceremony.”

He drops his hand to my back and steps out of the way, guiding me to the group of women now crowded just outside the venue. They’re not even trying to look like they aren’t watching us. I smile and wave, but after taking a few steps there’s a pull in my chest, an odd feeling like I’m being watched. Admired. I turn my head and look back at Noah over my shoulder.

Leaning against the car, Noah has his arms folded and one leg cocked up. His eyes light up when our gaze meets, and he winks as he blows me a kiss.

“Have fun, Cupcake!”

I turn away without responding and brace myself for the inevitable grilling I’m about to get from the posse of women now cheering like a pack of schoolgirls. My cousin is yet to be seen, but as I make my way to the group, a lively photographer in wide-leg black jeans and a loose black shirt calls us all further into the space. She hands each of us a single white rose tied with a satin ribbon as we enter.

“Slight change of floral plans,” she says with a smile and a shrug.

The old warehouse still holds its rustic industrial appeal, with exposed steel beams cutting across the ultra-high ceiling and brick walls. At least ten high bar tables are scattered around what must be destined to be the dancefloor but is really just an open section near the top end of the room. Venue staff carry chairs from beyond the side wall and begin lining them up facing the elaborate bridal arch covered in more of the native greenery. The old concrete floor has been covered in floating floorboards, and our heels click away as we follow the photographer towards them.

We walk a straight line through the tables, and I realise this must be the aisle. It’s beautiful, at face value. Far more extravagant than anything I would choose, but it suits my cousin.

“Kaya!” One of the bridesmaids cheers. I still don’t know her name and I have little care to find out. Maybe that makes me a bitch, but I’m certain I’m only part of the bridal party because our mothers are sisters, so I’m not overly concerned with making friends with Kaya’s besties. The only bridesmaid I know is my other cousin, Ella. She lives in Adelaide though, and the last time I saw her she was more teenage punk than the young adult she seems to have grown into. She steps towards me now as the rest of the group crowds around Kaya and fawns over her vibrant white puffy ball gown.

“Do you think Kaya realised we’d look awkward in photos if we had nothing to hold?” She leans into me as she whispers under her breath, careful not to let her words carry over the group.

“Probably.”

We share a quiet laugh, but as I fiddle with the stem of my flower, I’m thankful to have something to do with my hands.

“So, who’s the guy?” Ella asks as we’re lined up around Kaya.

I stammer, choking on the words as I force them out. “My, uh, my boyfriend,” is all I can string together, and my voice pitches high at my blatant lie. I’ll have to figure out a way to say it without wanting to vomit. But I’ve been avoiding any kind of committed relationship for years now, so even pretend, the word tastes entirely foreign on my tongue.

The photos take all afternoon, and by the time Kaya is whisked off to some other room before the guests arrive, I’m ready to sit down. The empty rows of chairs practically beg for me to choose a seat and give my feet a rest. Before I can entertain the thought any further, the big doors swing open and guests begin to stream in. I spot my parents before they see me and duck into the bathroom to avoid seeing them before the ceremony. I’ll do whatever it takes to minimise the amount of time I have to spend talking to my dad about ‘the young man who dared fall in love with his daughter without his permission.’ Bold of him, to assume it was a man no matter how many times I tried to explain to him that gender doesn’t matter to me.

I’ve loved men and I’ve loved women, but he always finds a way to brush over or ignore my bisexuality. To the point that if I ever do find someone I don’t want to let go of, I almost hope it’s a woman, just to rub it in my father’s face a little.

I spot Noah as soon as I exit the bathroom. It’s not hard, with him being at least a head taller than everyone else. I run my hands through my waves, nervously fiddling with the ribbon tied to my rose. The satin knot comes loose too easily, and I nearly drop the flower.

Noah catches my eye as I’m fumbling to retie the bow, and my stomach drops. I look away before I break into a sweat. I can’t look at him. His hair is a little more windswept than earlier, like he took a brisk walk around the area. His jacket is slung over one shoulder, and he holds it in place with those large fingers. He wears a ring. On his right hand, but still. Who’s it from? I never thought to ask if there was someone in his life, never thought it mattered. But the thought has my cheeks burning all over again.

Stupidly, I risk looking up at him again. He’s turned away, but the sight of him still knocks me off my feet and I stumble a little as I make my way to the rest of the bridesmaids. His arm is curled up where he holds his jacket, the soft white of his shirt folded up over his forearm and stretched around his bicep.

Usually, he wears all black everything. I guess it became a staple colour when he moved to Melbourne and started working at the winery, and the few times I’ve seen him in anything other than work clothes he’s worn faded tees and casual shorts. This Noah is … something else entirely. I saw him back at the apartment, and I saw him in the car. But in this room, the way he stands out from the crowd because of how damn perfect he looks, it’s like I’m actually seeing him for the first time. His suit looks like it was made for him, and he stands like he owns the whole room. Polished and proud and honestly, downright fuckable. I want to tear the buttons off his shirt and run my hands across his chest. I want to know if he has a spattering of hair trailing down below his waistband. I want to follow it with my tongue. I want to …fuck.

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