Page 30 of Because of Me

I ignore that, even though it’s right. I’ve always been petite, a little on the shorter side. Never enough to be the short girl, but enough that I’ve always felt it. So maybe I am a little bite-sized, but I’ll never admit it out loud. My personality makes up for my lack of height.

“Anyway,” Ella continues, “I think you secretly like the nickname. And I think Noah knows. And I’m really glad you found your person after everything, Amira. I’m sorry our family is kinda shitty about it.”

“Thank you.” I stand from the chair and head back to the kitchen. Sensing movement in the room Kitch jumps from his sunny spot to loop around my legs. “These aren’t cool enough to ice, but do you want one?” I call over my shoulder.

When Ella nods, I throw one across the room before taking a bite out of one for myself. The sugary mixture is still a little warm and melts in my mouth. I let it wash away the words I nearly said. ‘Too bad it’s all for show.’ Because I’m starting to wonder if that’s true. And I don’t know what to think about it.

NOAH

I’m halfway to my house when I realise I’m driving in the wrong direction. Home isn’t really home for the foreseeable future. Home strangely doesn’t even feel like home anymore. But I turned off the highway by default and it’s not until I drive past the collection of painted hay barrels that I realise. They’ve changed since the last time I was here, almost a weeks ago, and it seems the owners of the farm sit firmly in the ‘Christmas decorations go up in November’ camp.

One gaudy red and white Santa sits atop a hay sleigh with barbed wire reins leading to twelve cylindrical reindeer. As I speed past, I can’t make out what the antlers are made from, but either way, it’s pretty clever.

I’m not much of a Christmas guy, and with the holiday coming up I typically scrooge away from anything holiday-themed. But seeing the decorations makes me wonder if all that is going to have to change. From what I can remember, Amira loves decorating for the holiday just as much as Cassidy. Which is a lot. Inflatable Santa on the balcony kind of a lot.

With a sigh, I turn onto the next semi-rural side street to turn around and head back the way I came. The drive back to Amira’s apartment—my apartment too, now—takes almost twice as long thanks to my accidental detour, and by the time I’m pulling into the underground parking garage, my eyes are dry. I stifle many yawns as I make my way up the stairs and wonder which version of Amira I’m going to see today. Her car wasn’t parked beside my spot, so she clearly isn’t home yet, and every day since I’ve been staying in the apartment she’s come home in a different mood.

She has many sides; I’ve come to learn. There’s the snarky, sarcastic side that makes my balls pulse and my lips turn up. There’s the accidentally sultry side at bedtime that makes my chest literally ache. And there’s the quiet, timid side that holds her emotions close. I like them all. I’ll take whichever side I can get, whichever version of herself she is willing to give. But it does make it almost impossible for me to get a read on her.

Since the first night, and the following morning, things have been amicably platonic between us. In the shared spaces—when Ella is around—I feel comfortable wrapping my arms around her or tucking a hair behind her ear. I kiss her forehead before I leave the room and squeeze her hand as she walks past. But when we are alone, in the bedroom at night or when Ella is out, the distance between us is startling. I don’t know if it’s me forcing the gap, or her. Or maybe it’s both of us. Too afraid of the bridge we crossed that morning. Too anxious to find out if it meant just as much to the other.

At least, that’s how I feel.

Waking up in her arms every morning is like an out-of-body experience. I want to do it every morning for the rest of my life. I would, too. Even if we never go as far as we did that first time. Just to smell her hair and hear her gentle breaths as she wakes is enough.

But at the same time, I want more. I want to hear her moan my name again. I want to feel her body beneath mine. I want to know how she feels wrapped around my cock. I want to know what her heart sounds like from the inside. I want to be hers, in every way possible.

Ella is lounging on the couch when I enter the apartment, and barely lifts her head as she says hello. On the screen, couples in regent ballgowns dance to a classical rendition of a tune that sounds familiar, even if I can’t quite place it. I don’t mind that she isn’t enthusiastically welcoming me home. I know what it’s like to escape into a fictional world for a while. Plus, Ella has been a great house guest. She cooks dinner more than I do, does more than her fair share of washing up, and the place is always spotless when I get home—and Amira is adamant it’s not her. So, an afternoon of lounging around isn’t a problem. Besides, she turns the sound down and I’m fairly certain that counts for something.

My whole body sighs as I drop my work bag and laptop onto the dining table. I left early today to pick up my new glasses, but I still have plenty left to do. Sitting down in what has become my favourite chair—the black steel and wooden style so similar to what we have at the winery—I pull the navy case from my bag. As I suspected, I’m long-sighted. I probably have been my whole life, although the optometrist did say it can present ‘later in life’ which I fear was code for ‘everything in your body turns to shit once you turn thirty-five’. The frames are simple, thin gunmetal in a squarish shape.

Wearing them feels … odd. Not bad, just something I suppose I will have to get used to.

A while later, my work is spread all over the dining table and Kitch has given up her favourite spot in the sun to curl up on my lap. She was never this affectionate, but living with the women has changed her. Gone is her snobbish streak, and I’m finding myself becoming more and more of a cat person. I always cared for her, because who wouldn’t look after any animal placed in their care, but I have never pictured myself with a cat so all my interactions with her felt a little forced. Lately though, it feels natural to have her stalk around my feet at dinner time or snuggle against my chest while I relax on the couch.

Amira enters the apartment with a huff, kicking off her shoes and skulking her way down the hall. It’s not until she has plonked herself down in the seat opposite me that she seems to react at all. Her eyebrows raise as she leans back, taking in my spread of printouts, empty coffee mug, and open laptop. I watch intently as she fixates on the open glasses case pushed to the edge of the table.

Ella coughs from the couch, but it sounds forced, and my suspicion is confirmed when she announces her presence as though she just entered the room. Amira jostles, turning to her cousin and giving a sharp “hey” before turning back to the hard leather container. The microfiber wipe they gave me is still folded in its plastic packet. Scoffing, Ella turns back to the TV.

“You have … glasses?”

Amira’s tongue darts out over her lips and she finally lifts her eyes to meet mine. Through the lens designed for close vision, her edges look a little blurry but even so, her beauty steals a breath and a heartbeat, just like it always does. Her bright pink work shirt is back, but if I’m not mistaken, she’s skipped one extra button around her neck. It sits open a little over her chest, a hint of her delicious golden skin poking through. Her wardrobe has subtly shifted over the past week. She’s worn a few tops with shorter sleeves, another that hugged her curves. And just yesterday her purple summer dress skimmed the bottom of her knees, far shorter than anything I’ve seen her wear before.

The changes are so barely there I wouldn’t have noticed if I hadn’t spent the past few years admiring her every chance I got. Everything about her style is still modest, but the little hints of change are there. At first, I thought it was a once-off coincidence, but I’m convinced now that something about our conversation has given her permission to leave behind her father’s judgemental words. I don’t want to bring it up though, because doing so would show her that people—even if it is only me—have noticed. And I’d hate for that to make her feel like she needs to cover up again.

“Noah?” she questions, leaning over the table and clicking her fingers. “My button is undone, I know. You can stop staring at it like a horny teenager now.”

I blink rapidly as my cheeks heat. “I wasn’t even … fuck never mind I kind of was.”

“Can we brush over my daring fashion choices and get back to the glasses?”

“Yes. Yes we can.” I nod, my neck bouncing like a bobblehead. “Yes, I have glasses. Today. I got them today.”

The heat in my cheeks hits a burning level, and I rip the frames from my face to hide behind my hands.Fucking hell, I’m acting like a child. Staring at a woman’s chest and getting embarrassed by my new glasses.

“I like them.” Amira’s voice has lost all the sharpness it often carries. Instead, it’s soft and sweet, melting in my ears and cooling me from the inside out.

Until her hand rests on my forearm. Her touch is barely there but I feel the weight of her fingers like red hot lead. I should be used to it by now, we’ve spent weeks lying side by side at night, waking up curled together in some way or another. Her touch shouldn’t set my soul alight the way it is right now. But it does.

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