Page 42 of In Another Time

We sat on the porch together, a bottle of wine between us. As we sipped, Sherelle asked about the service and how my mom was holding up. I told her about the stories everyone had shared, how much my dad had meant to so many people.

Sherelle sighed, swirling her wine in her glass. “Your dad was a good man, Lennox. He raised an incredible woman.”

Her words brought fresh tears to my eyes, but I managed a small smile. “Thanks.”

The conversation shifted to lighter topics—Sherelle’s new relationship and the drama at her job. But eventually, it circledback to what had been gnawing at me since Omir walked off my porch a few days ago.

“I’ve been thinking about Omir,” I admitted, staring into my wine glass.

Sherelle raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“I want to reach out to him,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “I don’t know what I’m expecting, but I feel like I need to say something. Maybe it’s selfish, but I can’t stop thinking about him.”

To my surprise, Sherelle didn’t try to talk me out of it. “So, reach out. What’s stopping you?”

I looked at her, my brow furrowed. “I don’t know. . . Everything? He’s engaged, for one. What if I’m just reopening old wounds?”

Sherelle shrugged. “Or what if it’s the closure you need? Or the start of something new? You won’t know unless you try, Lennox.”

Her words stuck with me long after she left. I sat on the porch, staring at the stars, my mind a storm of conflicting thoughts. Did I have the courage to tell Omir how I really felt? Or was I setting myself up for heartbreak all over again?

I didn’t have the answers, but as I went back inside and climbed into bed, one thing was clear: I couldn’t keep ignoring the pull I felt toward him. I just had to figure out when and how to take that leap.

I lay in the guest room bed, eyes fixed on the ceiling, following the lazy turn of the box fan blades as they cut through the still air. The soft whirring sound did little to soothe the chaos behind my eyes. My skin felt too hot beneath the sheets, the air too thick, and no position I twisted myself into could bring peace.

I sighed, kicking the blanket down to my ankles and pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. Nothing worked. Sleep wouldn’t come. It hadn’t for nights. And when it did, it never stayed long enough to matter.

Every time I closed my eyes, I saw him.

Omir.

The way his lips curved when he was amused but trying not to show it. The way his voice dropped when he was serious. The way his energy could fill a room, even when he wasn’t saying much. It was like he’d been stamped onto the backs of my eyelids, showing up every time I blinked.

I turned onto my side, hugging the pillow tighter, breathing deep in hopes it might slow my racing mind. But thoughts of him ran wild—how we ended, how I walked away, how I still felt him in the softest places of my memory.

At some point, the hum of the fan grew distant, the shadows in the room blurred at the edges, and the ache in my chest softened. My limbs got heavier, my breathing slower. I didn’t even realize I was slipping. It just. . . happened.

And suddenly, I was standing in a sunlit room.

Everything was warm. Soft. Like honey melting on my skin. I looked down and saw ivory silk hugging my body in all the right places. I turned, and there he was.

Standing across from me in a cream-colored suit, no tie, shirt open just enough to show that spot on his chest I used to love kissing. His eyes held me steady, full of something too big for words. Something that made my knees weak.

We were saying vows—his voice deep, promising things that made my heart ache. Forever. Partnership. Home. My fingers trembled in his as I repeated them back, my voice smaller, but no less certain.

Then I blinked, and we were somewhere else.

A wraparound porch. A house with chipped white paint and sunflowers stretching tall from the yard. My back rested against his chest, his hands splayed protectively over my belly—round and full with life. He whispered something low against my ear that made me laugh, and I turned my face toward his, smiling like there was nothing else in the world but us.

Then came the sharp fluorescent lights of a hospital room. Sweat on my forehead, my fingers gripping his tighter than I meant to. I cried out—pain, power, fear—and his voice steadied me. Told me I was doing amazing. Told me I had this. Told me I wasn’t alone.

And then. . . two babies. Wrapped in soft pink and blue blankets, cradled in my arms like they were carved from the deepest parts of my heart. Omir’s lips pressed to my damp forehead. “You did it, baby,” he whispered, eyes glassy. “You gave us everything.”

The porch again.

It was dusk now. The twins—one boy, one girl—running wild in the grass. Omir stood at the grill, smoke rising into the golden air, laughter rolling from his chest like music. The kind that felt like home. My hand rested on my lap. . . and that was when I saw it.

The ring.

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