Page 25

OMIR

T he 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 up in 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 everything else.

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 my day ones since back when we were hustling, trying to be the next Nino Brown and them.

Marcus took a swig from his beer. “You holding up?”

I shrugged. “I’m here.”

“That don’t mean shit, and you know it,” Jordan said, dragging his toothpick across the rim of his glass. “You good?”

I didn’t answer right away. Just looked down at the glass in front of me, half-empty but still untouched. “I’m breathing. That’s all I got right now.”

Jordan nodded. “That’s fair.”

Marcus leaned in a little. “What did your pops say earlier? He looked heated.”

I let out a low sigh. “Asked about Anya.”

Jordan raised an eyebrow. “She really ain’t show up.”

“She said she doesn’t do funerals,” I muttered.

Marcus and Jordan exchanged a look. “She serious?” Jordan said, sitting back. “Man, come on.”

“I’m dead ass. She said it’d be too hard. Too emotional. Said she’d support me from home.”

Jordan whistled low. “I ain’t tryna throw salt, but bruh, that’s. . . wild. I know damn well if I died, and my girl didn’t come, my ghost would be petty as hell.”

I cracked a half-smile, but it didn’t last. Marcus was quieter, more thoughtful. “You sure y’all built for the long haul, O?”

“She’s been good to me,” I said. “She’s not cold. She just. . . processes different.”

Jordan scoffed. “Nah, there’s processing different, and there’s being absent when it counts. Today? That was one of those days. Your brother. Your blood. Gone. And she couldn’t show up just to hold your hand?”

I didn’t have an answer. Not a real one.

Marcus finished his drink and set the bottle down. “It ain’t our business to tell you what to do. But sometimes, silence speaks loud. And her not being here? That said a lot.”

I let the words settle. Let them hit how they needed to. Then Jordan changed the subject. “You hear anything new from the cops?”

I nodded. “Yeah. They got ’em. Motel out by the county line. Both of them facing first-degree.”

We went quiet again. All of us staring at the bottles, the scuffed bar top, the shadows dancing along the walls. There was nothing left to say. At least, not out loud. Eventually, they stood to leave.

“Call us if you need anything,” Marcus said.

Jordan dabbed me up. “Don’t sit on that shit too long. You got time to figure it out—but don’t wait until it blows up.”

They walked out, leaving the door swinging shut behind them. I stayed where I was, still leaning on the bar, letting the silence take over the way it always did after the last body left.

When I finally locked up, the night air outside slapped me in the face—cool, sharp, cleansing.

I leaned against the hood of my car, looking up at the sky. Black canvas. No stars.

Jordan’s words rang loud in my ears: “Don’t sit on that shit too long. You got time to figure it out—but don’t wait until it blows up.”

And then, without thinking, I reached for my phone.

I opened Instagram and scrolled through my messages until I found Lennox’s name. My finger hovered over the keyboard, but I didn’t know what to say. I’d already told her I was sorry for her loss. What else could I say without crossing a line?

But even as I thought that, I couldn’t deny the pull I felt toward her. I closed the app, locked my phone, and took my ass home.

The drive home was quiet but the kind of quiet that got under your skin. My thoughts were loud as hell. I’d turned the music off halfway through the ride because nothing sounded right. Not jazz, not soul, not even the old slow jams that usually helped me feel grounded. Everything felt off.

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 needed you ?”

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, I am trying.

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 the couch, 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?