Page 8 of Because of Me

What I didn’t realise, was how seeing him berate her—over me—would feel like acid in my lungs. I didn’t anticipate the animalistic need to step in, to protect her. And as he storms for her, I can’t resist the pull to be by her side.

Amira’s father is a burly man with broad shoulders, a scruffy beard and wide set eyes that glower down at her with disdain. His voice sounds like sheer hatred as he spits his words at her. Calling me a blond Australian boy and towering over her. She stammers, trying to form a response as she shies away from the hand clasping her shoulder.

Skirting through the crowd, I come up behind her and place my hand on the small of her back. My fingers slip under the hem of her cardigan to rest against the silk of her dress and her back stiffens. Maybe I overstepped, but when I move my hand off her, she follows it back, sinking into my touch. I step closer and reach my free right hand out for her father.

“You must be Mr Solak, I’m Noah Wade. I’ve heard lots of great things about you.”

It’s only partially a lie. I’ve heard plenty about the man, but all from Cassidy. And none of it good, let alone great.

He eyes my hand with a scowl, before swallowing back whatever insult was forming on his tongue. Removing his hand from Amira’s shoulder, he shakes mine. And maybe I squeeze his fingers a little tighter than I need to, but the satisfaction of seeing him wince is worth it.

“And I’ve heard nothing about you,” he spits out as he shoves his hands into the pockets of his loose-fitting black trousers. “I wonder what that says about your relationship with my daughter.”

‘I imagine it means she values it enough to keep the filth away,’ is what I want to say. But I’m here to make Amira’s life easier, not harder.

“We agreed to keep it quiet for a little while,” I say instead. I tilt my head down to face Amira. She’s chewing at the corner of her mouth and looking down at where she plays with the stem of her rose in front of her stomach. I run my fingers up her spine a little, then back down, repeating the motion until I see her nerves calm.

“Dad, this is Noah. I should have told you about him earlier. Or brought him to meet you before listing him as my date for tonight.” Her voice is different. There’s none of the jovial gusto, none of the sweet-as-honey tone. It’s timid and soft, like she’s scared of him.

I step even closer to her, so our thighs are touching, and wrap the hand behind her back around her waist. Amira rests her head against my arm, and she fits so perfectly next to me. I’ve never met a woman whose height felt like the perfect match for mine. Amira isn’t tall, she isn’t even close to my height, but her head nestles underneath my clavicle in a way that feels so natural. Like we’ve been doing it for years. Like we do it every day. For a moment, I forget it’s all a show, but her father grunts at our subtle display of affection, reminding me of exactly why we’re standing like this in the first place.

“It was a pleasure—” I try to steer the conversation towards a close, but Amira’s father cuts me off with a stern look.

“I had an excellent date set up for Amira. He comes from the right kind of family, very respectful and traditional. The perfect match for my princess. I had to turn down a very fine young man because of you. His father is not impressed. And neither am I.”

Blood boils behind my temples. “Maybe if you let Amira choose her dates for herself, you wouldn’t have to turn anyone down.”

“If I let her do that, there’s no telling who she’ll bring.” His lips turn down as he speaks. He’s a good head shorter than me but tilts his head up so he can glare down at me over his nose. “Once, when she was younger, she even dared to talk about bringing a girl to family dinner.”

A friend, I assume, but from the way Amira stiffens against me, I can’t help but wonder if there was more to it.

“Well,” she pipes up, tipping on her heels a little. “Noah, do you need a drink? Let’s get a drink.”

She doesn’t wait for my answer. Her hand grips mine and tugs me away through the guests.

Before we reach the bar, we cross paths with a waiter carrying a tray of champagne flutes. They are filled with a bubbly beige liquid I suppose is the house sparkling. I wiggle my hand free from Amira’s and reach for two glasses.

Her face lights up when I hand her a drink. “I think we handled that about as well as we could,” she says with a smile. Her whole demeanour has changed. Where she was quiet, stiff and closed off only moments ago, she’s now returned to her regular friendly but sarcastic tone.

“Did we though? I don’t think he liked me.”

Amira takes a sip of her wine. Her mouth puckers as the liquid reaches her tongue, but she swallows quickly. “Oh Noah, all you had to do was exist and he wasn’t going to like you.”

“To not being liked, then.” I angle my glass to hers and she clinks them together.

“To pissing off dads.”

I take a tentative sip of the wine. The acidic taste burns my tongue. Years ago, I probably would have drunk anything if it was free. I might not have enjoyed wine, but I was never one to turn down a house white at a wedding. But since running the winery my taste has been refined. I spent hours with the wine tasters, learning the art, trying to appreciate the subtle flavours hidden behind bold strong bodies. So now, when it’s cheap, I know it’s cheap. And I hate being ‘that guy’ but I’ve definitely become a bit of a wine snob.

Despite her initial hesitation, Amira doesn’t seem to mind the flat aftertaste. She downs her glass in one final swig, then takes mine from where I’m swirling the glass in my fingers.

She downs that one, too.

And I guess, if I had a father like hers, I’d want to do the same.

As the evening drags on, Amira continues downing cheap wine, growing looser and freer until the sun has set far below the horizon. Through the big glass-panelled entrance the night sky is dark and overcast, but inside is a cacophony of colours from the disco lights hanging over the dance floor. Amira sways on her heels through speech after speech and grabs my hand to steer me away from her parents any time they look like they might want to come over.

I feel bad for not even introducing myself to her mother. She’s a short timid woman, with Amira’s golden skin and dark hair. Tied in a poofy updo, there’s no hiding the scattering of grey hairs around her ears. But as far as I’ve seen, she hasn’t left her husband’s side since earlier in the evening and Amira put me on strict instructionsnotto talk to her dad again. I’ve never been one for following orders. And I so desperately want to rock the boat. Amira deserves someone in her corner to stand up for her. But her eyes glistened as she begged me to understand, to not make her life any harder. So, I won’t. Instead, I’ve spent the evening following her around like a puppy being shown off to her cousins.

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