Page 15

OMIR

I t was midday, and the lunch rush had just settled.

The jazz tunes playing softly in the background gave the place the kind of vibe I’d always envisioned—warm, inviting, and steeped in culture.

I glanced at my watch, running a mental checklist of the day’s tasks.

Between this place and the club, there was always something that needed my attention.

The double doors to the kitchen swung open, and Kurt, my head chef, emerged, wiping his hands on a towel. “Yo, boss, we’re running low on the bourbon glaze for the ribs. You want me to adjust the recipe, or should I send someone to grab more?”

“Stick with the original,” I replied, crossing my arms. “We’re building a reputation on consistency. I’ll make sure we have everything restocked by tomorrow. Anything else?”

He shook his head. “Nah, just keeping you in the loop.”

“Appreciate it, man,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder before he disappeared back into the kitchen.

I exhaled, letting my gaze sweep over the restaurant.

It had been open for just under a month, and already it was a neighborhood staple.

Families came for the food, tourists came for the history, and everyone left with a smile.

The soul food joint complemented the jazz club perfectly, a one-two punch of culture and community.

But no matter how much success I had, there was always that nagging feeling in the back of my mind. I tried to shake it off, focusing instead on the here and now. I had a good thing going—a thriving business, a woman who adored me, and a life that, by all accounts, should’ve felt complete.

Just as I was about to head back to my office, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I pulled it out, smiling at Anya’s name flashing on the screen. “Hey, baby,” I answered, stepping into a quieter corner.

“Hey yourself,” Anya’s melodic voice came through. “Just checking in. Did you confirm the reservation for the final cake tasting next weekend? Time is ticking.”

“Yeah, it’s all set,” I assured her. “Everything’s gonna be perfect.”

“Good. You know how much this means to me.”

“I do,” I said softly. “You’ve been planning this day since you were a little girl, right?”

She laughed. “Something like that. But it’s not just about me. It’s about us.”

“Exactly,” I said, leaning against the wall. “And you know I got you. Anything you need.”

“You’re the best,” she said, her voice warm. “I’ll let you get back to work. Love you.”

“Love you too,” I replied before hanging up. I stared at the phone for a moment, the smile lingering on my face. Our wedding was just a month away. Still, there was that damn nagging feeling again, like an itch I couldn’t quite scratch.

Later that evening, I made my way to my father’s house.

After the passing of my mother a few years back, Pops refused to pack up and move, saying the house held too many memories.

The smell of fried chicken hit me the second I walked through the door.

Pops was already parked in his recliner, a beer in hand and the game blaring on the TV.

“Omir Rashad, you’re late,” he said without looking up.

“I’m five minutes early,” I shot back, grinning as I leaned down to give him a hug.

“Fifteen minutes late in my book,” he retorted, motioning for me to grab a seat.

I settled into the couch, grabbing a beer from the cooler beside him. We sat in comfortable silence for a while, watching the game and shouting at the screen when our team missed an easy play.

“You’ve been busy,” Pops said during a commercial break, glancing at me.

“Always,” I said with a shrug. “Businesses don’t run themselves.”

“And you’ve got that wedding coming up too,” he added, taking a sip of his beer.

“Yeah, that too.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Sound a little too casual for a man about to get married.”

I chuckled. “Nah, I’m just focused. You know me—always thinking ten steps ahead.”

Pops nodded, but his eyes didn’t leave mine. “You sure this is what you want, Son?”

“What the hell kinda question is that?” I asked, sitting up straighter.

“The kind a father asks when his son seems like he’s going through the motions,” he said simply.

I sighed, running a hand over my face. “Pops, Anya’s great. She’s everything I could ask for.”

“That’s not what I asked,” he said, his tone gentle but firm.

I stared at the TV, the players moving across the screen in a blur. The truth was, I didn’t know how to answer his question. Anya was great—on paper, she was perfect. But deep down, I couldn’t shake the memory of Lennox. “Anya makes me happy,” I said finally, though the words felt hollow.

Pops studied me for a long moment before nodding. “Alright, then. If she makes you happy, that’s all that matters. Just make sure you’re not settling for less than you deserve—or giving her less than she deserves.”

I nodded, but his words stayed with me long after the game ended.

As I drove home that night, the city lights casting a soft glow on the pavement, my mind was a whirlwind of thoughts.

The words Pops had said earlier replayed in my head: “Just make sure you’re not settling for less than you deserve—or giving her less than she deserves.

” I had everything I’d ever wanted, but why did it feel like something was still missing?

I pulled into my driveway, cutting the engine.

For a moment, I just sat there in the silence, staring at the darkened windows of my house.

My phone buzzed with a notification from one of my businesses, but I ignored it.

Instead, I found myself opening Instagram, my thumb hesitating for just a second before I typed in her name.

Lennox Anderson.

Her profile picture was predictable: a shot of her standing in front of Chicago’s skyline, her smile dazzling and her posture radiating confidence. I thumbed over the picture, my chest tightening as her image stared back at me.

She hadn’t posted much recently, just a few photos from work events and one of a view from a rooftop patio.

Nothing too personal, nothing that hinted at what was really going on in her life.

But it didn’t matter. Seeing her again, even through a screen, brought back everything I’d been trying to bury for the past year. Something I hadn’t felt in a long time.

For a moment, I wondered, what if? What if I had fought harder for her? What if I hadn’t let her walk away?

But then I remembered why I’d chosen to forget about her in the first place. Lennox didn’t want what I wanted. She was focused on her career, her independence, her freedom. And I wasn’t about to beg someone to stay who had already made it clear they weren’t interested in forever.

I locked my phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat, running a hand over my face. Get it together, O.

I had a fiancée who loved me, a life I’d built with my own two hands, and a future that didn’t include chasing what didn’t want to be caught. Whatever I felt for Lennox was in the past, and that was where it needed to stay.

With a deep breath, I got out of the car and headed inside. But as I lay in bed that night, staring up at the ceiling, her face stayed with me. The what-ifs lingered, no matter how hard I tried to push them away.