Page 43 of In Another Time

It wasn’t mine. It wasn’t simple or delicate or intentional like I would’ve picked. It was oversized. Flashy. Cold.

It was Anya’s.

My stomach dropped.

And just like that, Omir began to fade—one slow step at a time, his back to me, until the sunlight dimmed and I was left reaching for someone who wasn’t reaching back.

I woke with a jolt. My body shot upright, breath caught in my throat like I’d been drowning. I clutched at my chest, heart pounding against my ribs. The fan buzzed overhead, the room still dark, still.

Reality rushed in, mean and fast. It had been a dream. No porch. No babies. No vows. Just me. The tears came fast. Hot. Heavy. Unstoppable. I buried my face in my hands, my body curling inward like I could somehow protect myself from the ache blooming in my chest.

How could my heart do this to me? How could it dream him into my arms, into my future, just to yank him away? I’d walked away. I knew that. I had my reasons. But none of them felt like enough now. Not when I knew what it could’ve been. What it should’ve been.

I couldn’t just show up and ask him to choose me. Not when he’d already been chosen by someone else. A woman who didn’t run.

I curled into myself, the bed creaking beneath me as my sobs turned to shallow breaths. My fingertips trembled against my lips, like they remembered the way he used to kiss me when I couldn’t find the words. Eventually, the tears slowed. My chest still ached, but the weight of exhaustion was too heavy to fight off. I lay back down, eyes unfocused, throat sore, lashes damp. My pillow smelled like detergent and distance.

As I drifted again—this time with no dreams—I held onto one truth: I didn’t deserve him. But I would never stop wanting him. Not in this life. Maybe not in the next. Even if it meant crying myself to sleep every night until the feeling faded—if it ever did.

OMIR

The funeral was over, but the weight of it didn’t let up. It just clung to me—thick and heavy—like grief had soaked into my skin and made itself a permanent part of me. The sadness, Cindy’s screams as the casket was lowered into the ground and her running off with Juice, saying she was ‘fucking done with everybody.’ My father’s solemn demeanor, like he was too tired of my brother’s shit to even show a little emotion.

I stood there at the cemetery long after most people had drifted off to their cars, eyes locked on the fresh mound of dirt they’d just shoveled over my brother. O’Shea Harper. My little brother. My blood. Gone.

All because two dumb-ass, broke-ass cowards didn’t know how to take “no” for an answer. The cops caught them posted upin a raggedy motel like that would save them from what they did. I should’ve felt something when I got the call. Relief. Closure. Something.

But there was nothing. Just that same emptiness. That same burn behind my eyes that refused to fade.

“You good, son?” My father’s voice broke into my thoughts, his hand landing on my shoulder.

I didn’t answer right away. My jaw was tight, teeth clenched. But I nodded. “Yeah. Let’s head to the restaurant.”

The repast was packed by the time we pulled up. My staff had everything set up already—buffet trays lining the wall, filled with fried chicken, baked mac, greens, cornbread, all of it. Soul food. The kind O’Shea used to tear through like he’d never eaten before. The air was thick with the smell of seasoning, conversation, and mourning disguised as laughter.

I moved through it like a ghost. Nodding at folks. Hugging aunties. Dapping up cousins. Listening to stories about O’Shea—some funny, some heartbreaking. Everybody trying to act like we were celebrating his life, but you could still feel the ache in the air. The way it hung behind people’s eyes when they smiled too quickly.

“Omir,” my father called out from the bar, holding up a glass of bourbon. I made my way over. He handed me a drink, and we clinked glasses without a word. The silence between us was thick but not uncomfortable. It was just heavy. Like everythingelse. He sipped. Then, without looking at me, he said, “Where’s Anya?”

I took a breath. “She don’t do funerals.”

His eyes cut toward me—sharp, disappointed. “She don’t do funerals? Omir, she’s getting ready to be your wife.”

“She’s been supportive in other ways,” I said, my voice a little too clipped.

He shook his head. “Your mother wouldn’t have missed this if it was me burying my brother. Hell, she wouldn’t even ask.”

I downed the rest of my drink. “It’s not the same.”

“No, it’s not,” he said. “Because that woman stood by me when I didn’t have a damn thing but a name and a dream. And here you are, . . . already making excuses for someone who ain’t even tried to show up.”

That hit. Hard.

He stared at me for a beat, then his tone softened just enough. “You grown. I’m not telling you what to do. But don’t walk into marriage with blinders on. You either build together, or you fall apart.”

He clapped my shoulder and walked off to rejoin his brothers. I just stood there, gripping the bar, feeling like somebody had pulled the floor out from under me.

Later, when most of the crowd had trickled out, I found myself posted up at the bar with Marcus and Jordan, two of myday ones since back when we were hustling, trying to be the next Nino Brown and them.

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