Page 32 of Because of Me

Amira steps back before answering, grabbing my hands off her waist and holding them at arm’s length. With her thumb she traces a line across my fingers, pausing on the ring I’ve worn every day since I got it.

Her voice is just as shaky as it was a moment ago, and she speaks to our hands when she asks, “Who gave you this ring?”

“Why does someone need to have given it to me?”

“Did you buy it for yourself?”

I give our hands a little shake, urging Amira to look at me. Her eyes are heavy when she meets my gaze, and I give her what I hope is a reassuring smile.

“I think,” I say, squeezing her fingers, “it was my grandfather’s. I found it in my grandmother’s things. It has her name engraved on the inside.”

Amira drops my hands and steps back between my legs. She plays with her fingers a little before dropping her hands on my shoulders. “What was her name?”

“Alma Rose.” I run my hands up the outside of her thighs, resting them on her hips. All my teenage thoughts have dissipated but I’m left with an inexplicable desire to just be near Amira. Opening up to her feels insanely intimate, much like how she must have felt the first night we shared her bed. I want her to know every inch of me. My soul, not my body. I don’t want a single secret kept between us.

“Like the winery?” she whispers, and I feel the warmth of her breath on my forehead.

My throat begins to constrict, and I don’t notice my eyes welling up until a tear escapes down my cheek when I close my eyes to nod. Before it was my grandmother’s winery, it was my grandfather’s, and I’ll never know for sure, but I imagine he named it for the most important person in his life. Amira is quick to wipe the tear away with her thumb, letting her hand linger on my jaw.

She leans down to kiss my forehead. “I’m sorry you never got to meet them.”

NOAH

With an impressive leap, Kitch jumps from the island bench onto the small space in front of the coffee machine. She purrs up at me, her tail held precariously high over my cup. I’ll give her credit for not knocking it, at least. But I shoo her down all the same.

“Psst,” I hiss as I tap her shoulders and guide her off the bench.

Back in my grandmother’s old house, Kitch had right of way in every room. Including the kitchen. I assume it was that way long before she came to me, and I doubt I’ll ever be able to change it. There, she practically ignored me unless she was demanding food, but here, she demands attention. I blame Amira and Ella. For the past week and a half, they’ve coddled the old cat, and I hate to think how she will adjust when we finally return to the big house.

For once this morning, the apartment is quiet. Ella isn’t singing as she does her makeup or tapping away at her computer as she applies for jobs. Amira isn’t berating me for heating milk in the microwave instead of warming it in the jug like you’re ‘supposed to’. Instead, she’s still asleep. I left her curled under the purple sheets, trying to ignore the gentle whimpers her sleeping body released when I peeled myself away. For the first time since I’ve moved in here, we both have the day off work. And with Ella out of the apartment, I’m not sure the right way to behave.

Amira and I have fallen into our roles in an increasingly genuine way, but neither of us has begun to question just how much of it is an act. At least, not to each other. I’ve been questioning it constantly because the longer it goes on, the more it feels likenoneof it is an act. At least not to me. I just haven’t figured out how to show her yet.

I pour my microwave-heated milk into the coffee mug, watching it swirl with the creamy tan espresso brew. It’s not as pretty as the ones Amira makes, but it will do.

A yawn from across the room startles me as I pick up the steaming cup. Amira stands by the table, arms spread wide. Her hair is scruffy from sleep, pulled into a messy bun on top of her head. The pale pink robe is open, revealing the white lacy singlet she wore to bed and the tiny navy satin shorts.

“I thought I told you not to stare,” she says as her yawn slowly subsides.

“How can I not, Cupcake?”

Scoffing, she pulls the robe around herself and ties the knot in front of her stomach. “I also told you not to call me that.”

I shrug in defiance. I would stop if I thought she genuinely didn’t like it. But her eyes still sparkle a little every time, and no matter how much she tries to fight it, her mouth still tips up into the smallest of smiles.

Amira’s eyes rake over my body, from Kitch circling my feet, up to the stripy purple mug in my hands. “Did you make me coffee?”

No. But her cheeks puff out as she shuffles her feet and plays with the frayed ends of the bow in her robe. “Yes.”

She tips on her heels and practically skips over to take the cup from me. “No one ever makes me coffee. They always say I do it so much better so I should make it for them.”

When she has the drink secure in her grasp, I step back, out of reach before adding, “I did heat the milk in the microwave though.”

Her mouth drops open. And I shouldn’t think bad thoughts but fuck what I wouldn’t give to run my thumb along her lips. To see just what that open mouth of hers would feel like. I have to physically shake away the thought. Despite my very apparent attraction and desire, and a solid handful of increasingly intimate moments, we still haven’t spoken about that morning. Still haven’t had anything that physical happen again. I know we should just talk about it, I know I should just tell her how I feel. And God do I feel bad now for how much grief I gave Cassidy when she struggled to talk to Callum about her feelings. This shit is harder than I thought it would be.

What if she doesn’t want more? What if that moment for her was nothing more than a fleeting experience and not the mind-blowing, life-altering realisation it was for me?

Amira takes a slow, measured sip, and fights to hold in her cringe at my poorly made coffee. “You know what,” she says as she sits in her favourite red chair, “it tastes just as shit as I thought it would, but I don’t even care.”

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