Page 45 of In Another Time

When I pulled up, Anya’s car was parked out front. As I walked up to the front door, something in me felt. . . uneasy. Not the kind that made you look over your shoulder. Just the kind that made you brace. When I pushed the key in and turned the knob, I stepped inside, and there she was.

She was curled up on my couch like it was hers, wrapped in a cream knit blanket, candles burning low on the console table behind her. A half-finished glass of white wine sat on the end table, and her heels were off, tucked neatly to the side. She had on one of her silk robes—the one with the feathered sleeves I used to joke made her look like a 1920s jazz widow.

I paused in the doorway. She looked up, her expression softening as she closed her laptop. “Hey,” she said quietly. “I didn’t know how long you’d be. I wanted to be here when you got back.”

I slipped off my jacket and hung it on the back of the kitchen chair, walking toward her slowly. “I figured that.”

She flinched a little but recovered quickly. “I’m sorry. I just. . . I knew today would be a lot. For you. I didn’t want to be in the way.”

“In the way?” I repeated, dragging a hand across my face. “Anya, he’s my fucking brother.”

“I know,” she said, rising from the couch. “And I know I should’ve been there. I just—I’ve been to too many funerals, Omir. And I didn’t want to bring that energy to you. That grief? That weight? I thought maybe you’d need space.”

I exhaled slowly, leaning against the edge of the kitchen counter. “You ever stop to think maybe I didn’t need space? Maybe I neededyou?”

She moved toward me, slow and careful, like I might shatter. “I’m here now.”

“I needed you then, Anya,” I said. My voice wasn’t raised, but it had weight. “Shit didn’t feel like space. It felt like absence.”

She winced. “I’m sorry.” I nodded. “I brought dinner,” she said after a beat, trying to soften the air. “Well, takeout. I didn’t know if you’d want something different than what was there.”

“I’m not hungry.”

She stood there, robe tied tight, arms crossed in that way she did when she didn’t know what to say next. “I know today’s not about me,” she said quietly. “And I know you’re hurting. But Omir, Iamtrying. I don’t always get it right, but I need you to believe I’m doing my best to show up for you in the ways I know how.”

That was what made it harder; she wasn’t malicious. She wasn’t cold. But she didn’t see me. Not the real me. Not in the way I needed to be seen. She loved the surface of me. The success. The ambition. And I couldn’t lie to myself. . . I was starting to resent it.

“Do you want me to go?”

I looked at her, standing in the soft glow of candlelight, beautiful as hell and yet feeling like a stranger. “I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I really don’t.”

She took the blanket off her shoulders and disappeared upstairs. It seemed like I blinked, and she was back downstairs, slipping into her heels and reaching for her purse with trembling hands. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

I didn’t stop her when she walked to the door. Didn’t kiss her. Didn’t ask her to stay. The door clicked shut behind her, and the silence returned, thicker than before. I sank onto thecouch, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. Was this what love was supposed to feel like? Because if it was, why did it feel so goddamn lonely? And then, like clockwork, Lennox’s name floated up in my mind.

I didn’t summon her. She just came, like she always did. Was I making the right choices, or was I just trying to convince myself that I was?

LENNOX

The meeting ended with a polite chorus of “Take care, Lennox,” and smiles. The screen faded to black, leaving nothing but my reflection staring back at me, faint and worn-out in the gloss of the laptop. I closed it slowly, letting my fingers linger like the weight of everything I hadn’t said was trapped under the lid.

Jevon’s smile had been tight the entire time. Ever since that night at my place, things between us had shifted. But I didn’t care in the least, especially not when my thoughts were full of another man. Omir. That man was in my bloodstream. I couldn’t shake him if I tried. And God, I’d tried.

I stood and began pacing the guest bedroom as the loop began playing in my head. The night we met. The intensity. Our first night together. Our last moments. Finding out he’s engaged.Missing him. Wanting to feel him again. Seeing him. Him in the kitchen with my mother. Laughing. Hugging me. Kissing me. Everything hit me. The way I’d stood in his presence but hadn’t said a damn word that mattered.

I was leaving for Chicago the day after tomorrow. My perfectly structured life. But here I was, spinning, spiraling, stuck. Could I really just leave without saying it? I stopped mid-step, ran both hands through my hair, and whispered, “No.” But I wasn’t the kind of woman who begged. I didn’t chase. I didn’t show up at no man’s door, spilling feelings like a broken faucet. Except, . . . maybe I did. Because I couldn’t not say it. Not now. Not after everything.

I sat down on the edge of the bed, grabbed my phone, and stared at Omir’s name in my recent Instagram messages. My thumb hovered over the screen as I typed:

Can you meet me tonight? I need to talk to you. It’s important and can’t wait.

My heart pounded as I stared at the message. Sent. And then came the wait. I stood. I sat. I stood again. I told myself I was being ridiculous. That he probably wouldn’t even respond. That maybe he’d moved on for real this time.

But then my phone lit up.

ODaGoat: Where do you wanna meet?

My breath hitched. I typed back quickly:

---