Page 63 of Because of Me

The sound of the overhead fan thumps in my ears, reminiscent of the base that was playing on my birthday. The night that inadvertently shifted my whole life on its axis. All I’d wanted was a man to attend a wedding, someone to shield me from whatever date my father was trying to set me up with. I’d joked about the romance novels Cassidy reads and how the whole thing would play out if my life were one, but I never thought it was possible.

Even after Noah, of all people, agreed to help me, I still never thought. Never hoped. Never wanted.

Until it happened. Until we fell further and further into the web of lies I continued to spin, and I could no longer tell between illusion and reality.

I haven’t seen Noah in two weeks, since he took me on the first date to end all first dates. We kissed under the soft glow of a million Christmas lights, and I realised this is exactly what we needed.

The only way forward was to take a step back.

Now, I might not see him daily, but we talk on the phone almost every night. He sends me good morning messages and photos of Kitch, proudly sitting atop the bright red tree I ordered for her. The obnoxious colour is blinding against the dull interior of his grandmother’s house. His house.

We’ve settled into exactly what a young relationship should feel like. And it’s working. What I thought felt a lot like love has bloomed inside my chest until there’s no denying that’s what I feel, and I can’t wait to tell him.

“Amira, where is the boy?” my mother half whispers as she carries a rustic-looking pavlova past me towards the table. My parents don’t celebrate Christmas religiously, we don’t meet with our massive extended family to exchange gifts and have a fancy lunch. But we always have a pavlova after dinner. Store-bought base, of course, with decadently sweet, whipped cream and topped with more fruit than the whole thing can safely support. It’s not much, but it’s us. It’s ours, and all my family issues aside, I always look forward to it.

My father, seated in his usual place at the head of the table, grunts in response to her question. “He could have come,” he mumbles with a frown.

His hair is a little overgrown, no doubt he refused to sit at the barber and wait his turn along with the crowd of men and boys needing a trim before the week’s festivities. It curls in salt and pepper whisps above his ears. The style suits his face but is too haphazard and carefree to suit the man I know him to be.

“What?” My eyebrows have probably disappeared behind the side-swept fringe I had cut a few days ago.

He waves a hand around in front of his face. “You heard me.”

My mother and I sit down, staring at each other. We did, but I don’t think I heard correctly and from the way her mouth gapes open I don’t think she did either.

“Oh, quit it,” he grumbles. “I do wish he was someone we know, but he clearly cares for you. I trust he has the right intentions.”

“You only think that because he said he wanted to marry me one day.”

Under the table, my mother kicks my shin. I scowl at her, but hold in the yelp. Tilting her head, her eyes dart to my father before holding my stare. It’s subtle, but the corner of her mouth twitches up and she mouths … something. I’ve never even pretended to be good at reading lips, so I furrow my brow back at her and mouth, ‘what?’

“He’s trying,” she whispers, although I don’t know why she doesn’t just say it. They’re so close they could hold hands over the table.

He clears his throat, turning his head between the two of us. “I am, princess. I won’t pretend it’s easy, but I am trying to understand. To let you make your own decisions. Don’t make it hard by snapping at me.”

I squeeze my eyes shut to stop them from rolling in frustration. My hands turn to fists beside my still empty plate. It would have been nice if he started trying all those years ago. The fact it took this whole charade from him to realise I was going to make my own decisions regardless of what he thought has my blood thickening in my veins. Heat tracks up my spine until the back of my neck is burning.

Sensing my rising anger, or just realising it was never going to be that easy for my father and I to move on, my mother grabs the cake cutter from the table and stands.

“Well,” she says, all too chirpy. “Let’s eat this before it melts, yes?”

She divides the sickly sweet dessert into quarters, dishing us up a large slice each. Before sitting, she carries the leftovers back to the fridge.

I’m already four mouthfuls in by the time she gets back. “Anyway,” she all but sings as she sits, “where is Noah? Did he spend Christmas with his family? Will we meet them?”

I shake my head. Noah is spending his Christmas day at the winery, with a skeleton crew of chef hands and waiters. It’s cruel, that they should have to work on a day when it feels like everyone else is celebrating, but that’s the nature of the hospitality business. Or at least that’s what Noah said.

That, and his mother wasn’t interested in coming down to Melbourne for the holidays. Between the staff he has on leave, the hotel build still plodding along, and the fact it’s the winery’s busiest few weeks, he couldn’t head back up to Sydney either. He said it was okay, and he should probably be at the winery anyway, but there was a bluntness to his voice as it crackled through the phone line. A finality in the conversation that told me I shouldn’t press the issue any further. I let it slide, but even I feel like he is missing today.

“He’s working,” I tell my family. “He owns a winery, and they were booked out for lunch and dinner.”

My father straightens in his chair. His ears practically spring to attention as his spoon clatters against his plate. “Owns?”

Of course that’s what got his attention. I don’t think Noah’srich, but the winery must be doing well considering all the weddings Cassidy has done flowers for and just how busy the cellar door seems to be whenever I end up there. By extension I suppose that would mean Noah’s well off, but he never acts like it, never shows it, never flaunts it. I like it, knowing that despite all the money Noah’s just … my Noah. The same kind of awkward but incredibly friendly man I met when Cassidy first moved in. The same ultra caring and jaw-droppingly good-looking guy I’ve fallen for.

“He inherited it from his grandmother.”

Humming, my father picks up his spoon and eats another oversized mouthful of cream and berries. Across from me, my mother sips her lemonade. Her fingers leave dry patches on the outside of the sweating glass.

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