Page 69 of Because of Me

I’m bringing his daughter into his home, to meet him properly. No more hasty introductions before Amira skirts me off into a crowd of guests. We can’t escape his scrutiny today.

Amira said he was coming to terms with the fact he wasn’t the cupid to our relationship, but I’m still cautious.

“It’s going to be fine, Cupcake,” I say as I pull in behind an old tan Ford. Reaching across the centre console, I cover Amira’s hand with my own. “He’s going to love me.” I’m trying to convince myself as much as her.

After all, I’m a very loveable guy, right? I own a winery, have a mortgage-free house, I care immensely for his daughter, and I have a cat who has finally started to love me. Cats don’t lie.

“Are you trying to convince me, or you?” Amira says as she turns her hips towards me. Like she can read my racing mind. The small posy of bright flowers I got from Cassidy tips towards the floor, but Amira grabs hold of it just in time.

“Both?”

Hiking her leg up so she can twist even further, Amira wriggles her hand free of mine to hold my shoulder. “What’s the worst-case scenario?”

I tip my head back with a short laugh. “He hates me.”

“And then?”

“He … refuses to let you see me?” He wouldn’t go that far, would he?

Amira nods but squeezes my shoulder. “He can try.”

She’s out of the door and my shoulder still tingles from her touch. My body is always so in tune with hers, every touch is like the power reconnecting and every time we break apart it feels a little like the fridge light is broken.

I follow her up the stoop, lifting my hand to knock on the door when she pushes it open and calls out.

“Mum, Dad! We’re here.”

The lump in my throat threatens to cut off my breathing. I swallow it away, leaving a dry itch I can’t get rid of. I’m straightening my button-down shirt and following Amira’s lead in kicking off my sneakers when Amira’s mother appears in front of us. The woman practically appeared out of thin air, wrapping her arms around Amira’s shoulders and patting the back of her head.

“Go easy on him,” she whispers in her daughter’s ear. I’m not sure if I was meant to hear, so I ignore it.

I clear my throat, and Amira’s mother spreads her arms wide as she turns to face me. Placing her hands on my shoulders, the loose sleeves of her flowy green top dangle over my arms. The embroidered edges are rough against my skin, but I fight the urge to bat them away.

“Mrs Solak,” I say with what I hope is a pleasant smile.

Her hand slaps down onto my arm. “None of that. Please, call me Emel.”

I look to Amira for guidance. She raises her eyebrows and holds a hand towards her mother. Turning my attention back to Emel, I pass her the flowers.

“Thank you for having us.”

She takes the flowers and moves with a spring in her step as she leads us down the hall. Her arm trails behind her, fingers grabbing at air until Amira steps forward to hold her hand. The women whisper, and I can’t quite make out the conversation but the phrases “He’s very strong,” and “I like him,” push the corners of my lips into a wide grin.

It’s wiped clean off my face when we round the corner into the main room. Amira’s father stands at the head of the long dining table, arms folded across his chest. His brows are pinched together in a stern scowl that sends my limbs into fight or flight. Or freeze. I stop dead in my tracks, one step into the room. Amira does the same, three steps ahead of me, but her mother continues skipping through. She passes her husband and heads into the kitchen. Through the open archway, the sound of glasses chinking cuts through the silence.

None of us move anything other than our eyes, darting our gazes between one another, and all the while the crease between Mr Solak’s eyebrows draws deeper.

“Look what Noah brought me,” Emel chirps as she re-enters the room. The purple blooms are perfectly positioned inside a tall glass. “They remind me of the ones you got for my birthday,” she adds.

At least I’ve got Emel on my side. I roll my shoulders back, hold up my chest, and step forward. My arm stretches out as I walk forward to greet Mr Solak formally. “It’s a pleasure to meet you again, Mr Solak. I’m glad we’ll have the chance to get to know each other this time.”

He doesn’t take my hand. Instead, he grunts and turns to his wife.

“Get the food.” There are no niceties in his tone. No manners. I have to bite my tongue so I don’t blurt out a ‘please’ for him. God, if this is how he is with his wife, no wonder Amira has had a rough time. Things are not looking good for me right now.

Emel grabs the tub of baklava from Amira and skitters sheepishly back into the kitchen.

Amira plonks herself into one of the chairs, conveniently leaving a gap between her place and her father’s.

---