Page 37 of In Another Time

She smirked. “You were definitely watching him. Don’t even try to deny it.”

I rolled my eyes. “It doesn’t matter. He’s engaged. End of story.”

Her expression softened slightly. “And how do you feel about that?”

“Why does it matter?” I shot back, more defensive than I intended.

“Because you’re my sister,” she said simply. “And I can tell this isn’t just some random reunion for you. There’s history here—something unresolved.”

I looked away, unable to meet her gaze. “It doesn’t matter,” I repeated.

She sighed, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Okay. But if you ever want to talk about it . . .”

“I’m fine,” I said quickly.

She studied me for a moment before nodding. “Alright. Just remember what I said.”

I nodded, and she walked away, leaving me alone in the hallway.

As I stood there, I felt the weight of everything pressing down on me—my father’s death, Omir’s presence, the memories Icouldn’t shake. I made my way back to the dining room and sank onto the couch, my thoughts spinning. Despite my best efforts to suppress them, they kept circling back to him.

I didn’t know how to describe what I felt—regret, longing, frustration. Maybe all three. But one thing was clear: Omir still had a hold on me, whether I wanted to admit it or not. And the worst part? I wasn’t sure I wanted to let it go.

Lunch was warm and inviting, a sharp contrast to the grief that had cloaked the house for days. The smell of roasted chicken, collard greens, mac and cheese, and cornbread filled the air, mingling with the sound of soft jazz playing in the background—a choice my mom had made without realizing how much it would remind me of Omir’s club.

She set the last dish on the table, smiling at Omir as she handed him a serving spoon. “Thank you so much for assisting, Omir. You make a great sous chef.”

“I’m glad I could help out,” Omir said, flashing that signature smile that had always disarmed me. “Everything smells amazing.”

“I’m sure she didn’t let you see the ingredients to the baked mac though.” I chimed in.

“You know she didn’t,” Lorna quipped, carrying a bowl of sweet potatoes to the table. “She’s taking that to her grave.”

“Exactly.” Mom agreed with a knowing smile. “Now everyone, have a seat.”

Lorna sat down beside me, throwing me a subtle glance as if to remind me of our earlier conversation. I ignored her and focused on my plate instead.

As the meal went on, conversation flowed easily. My mom asked Omir about his businesses, nodding along as he talked about the expansion of his jazz club, the new restaurant, and. . . his fiancée.

“That’s impressive,” my mom said, genuinely impressed. “Owning and managing two businesses and planning a wedding? You must never sleep.”

“Not as much as I should,” Omir admitted. “But it’s worth it. I love what I do.”

“And you’re getting married soon,” Lorna, not-so-subtly watching me, spoke. “You’re just checking all the boxes, huh?”

Omir gave a small smile, his expression unreadable. “It’s been a busy year, that’s for sure.”

The table grew quiet for a moment, and I could feel the tension creeping in. My mom broke it by turning to Omir. “So, how do you and Lennox know each other again?”

I froze, feeling the weight of her question. Omir, however, didn’t miss a beat. “Lennox used to come to my club,” he said smoothly. “We got to know each other through a mutual friend.”

“Mutual friend,” Lorna echoed, her tone laced with amusement. I shot her a warning look, but she only smirked.

“Small world,” Mom said, oblivious to the undertone of the conversation. “Well, I’m glad you’re here today. It’s been nice having a little distraction from everything.”

Omir nodded, his expression softening. “I agree.”

After lunch, as everyone started clearing the table, I noticed Omir gathering the plates and carrying them to the kitchen. My mom playfully swatted his hand away. “You’re a guest,” she scolded. “Go relax.”

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