Chapter Four
NOAH
I knew, long before I helped Amira out of the car earlier today that I was not going to like her father. Knew their relationship was strained at best. That he wants things for her she doesn’t want for herself, and that he is so pushy he led her to faking a relationship just to escape his scrutiny for one evening.
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 instructions not to 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.
“This is my favourite cousin,” Amira says as she wraps her arm around one of the bridesmaids. Her words slur a little, and she tips on her high shoes, falling against my arm as she speaks.
The woman under Amira’s hold seems younger but shares the same so-dark-it’s-almost-black hair. The silky champagne dress is less flattering on her, but her shoulders and arms are bare. Of all seven bridesmaids, only Amira is covered up with a cardigan.
Even in the deepest heat of summer Amira always wears full-length pants or skirts and long-sleeve tops. I never stopped to wonder why, just accepted it as part of her style and did my best not to think about what her delicate shoulders might look like, or how soft the skin below her collarbone would be. Until now. Until seeing her cousin in the same dress styled so differently.
It’s not my place to wonder though, no matter how curious I might be. And it’s probably inappropriate to be thinking about what’s underneath Amira’s clothes—even if it is only her shoulders on my mind—when we are on a fake date. Maybe, the more I remind myself of that, the less I’ll hope otherwise.
“I’m Ella.” Her voice is high-pitched, overly chipper, and a little loud over the static noise of the crowd and band.
“Noah,” I respond with a nod. As the evening has dragged on, I’ve realised the less I give, the easier. Amira and I came into the evening without anything that resembled a plan. We never discussed things like how long we’ve supposedly been together or who made the first move. Four months, and me, we established on the fly when the groom asked. It’s easier to come across as shy and untalkative, than to fumble my way through the lies.
Ella turns to grab Amira’s shoulders. “Have you spoken to my mum? She is thrilled about this—” she lifts a hand to gesture between me and Amira. “Apparently she had a bet with Aunty Mae that it was just a phase, and now she’s two hundred dollars richer.”
Amira freezes, but Ella doesn’t notice. She turns to me adding, “All thanks to you!”
“Great. Tell her she’s welcome, I guess,” Amira mumbles. Her eyes turn glassy and she chews on the inside of her cheek. “Good to know my sexuality is something to bet on.”
A thick lump forms in my throat and something heavy pounds against my chest. It’s not my business, but after her father’s comment earlier, and now this?
I went into tonight with a little blind hope. I’ve had a crush on Amira for years and I thought maybe this was my chance to show her the kind of date I could be. Granted, I’ve done a pretty shitty job considering all I’ve done is avoid her father, force her to drink water between wines, and fumble my way through conversations. But I wanted it to be … something.
After all this time, I made an assumption about the kind of person Amira might be capable of falling for. And now I think I was wrong.
Ella’s face drops as she watches Amira slowly fall apart. I sweep in, scooping my arm around Amira’s waist and guiding her towards the exit.
“Bye, Ella,” I call over my shoulder. “It was lovely meeting you.”
“Get your hand off my back.” Amira shimmies away from my touch. The party is finally dwindling down, so we don’t have to dodge between guests, but a few still linger. A few watch. Amira’s father has his arms folded across his chest and a deep crease cuts between his brows. He stands with his wife and another couple, who all look equally displeased. I ignore their fierce gaze and focus on steering Amira out the door before she breaks into tears.
They’re coming, the tears. Her eyes still glisten with moisture and now her lower lip trembles. Her shoulders shake.
We’re about three steps from the door when she spins away and takes a step toward the bar. She stumbles and I reach forward to wrap my arm around her waist. For most of the evening, we’ve managed to avoid too much physical touch. The odd hand grazing the other’s arm as we make chit chat, her tiny hand wrapped around my fingers as we wove through guests to mingle. Something sparks between us as I hold her close to me while she steadies herself.
If she feels it too, she ignores it.
“Champagne,” she mutters between shaky breaths.
More alcohol is definitely not what she needs right now. “I can get you real Champagne if you come home now,” I whisper in her ear. I’ve been telling lies all night, but this one stings my lips. Even if I could find somewhere selling French Champagne after midnight, I wouldn’t let her have any right now. She needs water, not wine.
“Promise?” she asks, turning into me.
Her head falls against my chest. For a moment, we hug, and I let her catch her breath. I ignore the eyes that feel like knives on the back of my neck. I ignore how perfect Amira feels pressed against me. I ignore the warmth spreading through my body and settling below my belt.
“Take me home,” Amira says suddenly, stepping back and looking up at me.
We walk out hand in hand, and when she shivers in the night air, I drape my jacket over her shoulders. The silence between us is easy, broken only by the crickets hiding in the nature strip, the beeping as I unlock the car, and the low rumbling of the radio as we drive off. We’re halfway home when Amira speaks with a sob.
“It wasn’t a phase.” Her admission cuts open my chest and all the hope I’d held on to melts away.
I don’t pry, it’s not my place. She didn’t deserve to have her sexuality berated by her father, or bet on by her extended family, and it was unfair their inconsideration forced her out. Me asking questions would only make it worse. The freezing sensation of my hope melting squeezes my heart, but I ignore it.
Amira droops in the passenger seat, resting her head on the window. By the time I pull up to her apartment building, she’s asleep. Her eyelids flutter with dreams and her rosy lips fall open as I turn the engine off.
I place my hand on her shoulder. “Amira?” I whisper, and when she doesn’t respond I repeat her name a little louder.
She doesn’t wake, only grunts, curling in on herself and pulling her hands towards her face. I don’t want to wake her. She looks so … peaceful. So content. Like all the pressure of the evening has fallen from her shoulders.
Reaching to the floor near her feet, I grab the small bag she left there, hoping her keys are easily accessible. I release a breath of relief when I find them with ease, hooked to the inside of the zipper. Stepping out of the car, the breeze is cool against my ears and neck. I grab my jacket from the back seat and make my way around to Amira’s door.
Am I really going to do this?
Pausing with my fingers on the handle, I wage an internal debate with myself. I’m just helping a drunk and sleepy friend get home safely versus I have no right picking her up. In the end, I open the car door slowly, reaching my free hand in to prop up her head before she falls. She grunts again, only this time it’s softer. More like a moan. And she nuzzles into my hand. I try one more time to wake her.
“Amira, we’re home. You’re home,” I say as I unbuckle her seatbelt.
“You smell good,” she whispers against my hand. But her eyes are still closed.
I fill my lungs with air, releasing the breath slowly before reaching underneath Amira and scooping her into my arms. She wriggles against me, closer to me, wrapping her hands around my neck as I carry her inside.
The steps are even harder than they were earlier today, and my muscles strain as I support Amira with one hand while opening her apartment door, but it’s worth it when I place Amira on her bed. She snuggles against the plush purple pillows.
“Thank you for carrying me home,” she mumbles as she drifts back into a deeper sleep.
Silently, I unbuckle her shoes and lay the throw blanket from the end of the bed over her. I find some pain killers in the medicine tub hidden in the back of the pantry and leave two tablets and a bottle of water on Amira’s bedside table.
“Goodnight Amira,” I whisper as I leave her room. And despite all I know now, it still feels a little like I’m leaving part of my heart with her as I go.