“Who?” I point toward Marco, and M looks at him. Once he does that, he stays quiet and doesn’t say anything. Why is his silence even more deadly than a thousand spoken words from him?
“What is it?” I ask him. M averts his attention to his eggs and tells me it’s nothing. I let him be and go to Marco. He seems even more nervous now than when I left him about twenty minutes ago. Could it be because of his daughter?
“How can I help you, Marco?”
“Check, please.” I hand him the check, he pays, and leaves me a tip.
“I’ll come back again, Lana Osmanovic.” He is out the door, and my whole world is tilted on its axis. The air thins in my lungs, and the diner noise falls away, replaced by the pulse hammering in my ears. He used my real family name, my dad’s family name, and I feel a cold creeping up on me—the name I’d buried under smiles and quiet routines. For a heartbeat, I forget how to breathe. The hiss of the coffee machine, the scrape of a spoon, the pattern of footsteps outside—every sound locks into place, too clear, too loud. My pulse steadies, not from calm, but from instinct. The part of me I’d spent years suffocating lifts its head, wide awake.
I left that old life behind. I left those old habits behind.
Suddenly, I feel two strong hands grabbing me by the shoulders, and I recognize his smell immediately—a rich woodsy smell with a twinge of sweetness to it. I snap out of my trance and snap back in. I turn to M and plaster on a smile.
“Can I help you?”
“What was that?” he asks me. I slowly remove his hands from my shoulders and take a step back.
“It was a customer telling me his wife got gravely ill, and I just thought back to my mom. Kind of a flashback.” M studies my face and believes me because he nods at me with a lopsided smile.
“I’m so sorry, Lana. Listen, we’ll talk about this tonight because I really have to go.”
“I’m working tonight!” I call out to him as he leaves the diner. I don’t think that anything I say right now will change M’s mind. After a couple more hours, I take my second and last break of the day. Right as I’m drinking a cup of coffee, Emin walks in. He sits down with a cup of coffee himself and beams.
“I finally have the hen!” He is so happy, which makes me happy. I hug him and sit back down.
“You know what, since you have been so busy, I’ll go and get your hen.” Emin stops his cup midway to his mouth.
“Why?”
“Because the rooster may notice another man coming, and the hen might be more comfortable with a woman. He already knows you are coming, by the way. The hen confirmed it to me face to face.” I’m done, and we both burst out laughing. Emin throws his hands in the air and gives me the address of the chicken farm.
“Thank you. When can I pick them up?” I ask him.
“I don’t know, the owner is being a bit difficult about when to hand them over. I’ll let you know.”
Emin nods approvingly and goes out there to start his shift. Now I only need to make it through this shift and the evening shift.
31
MAfter I left the diner this morning, I felt odd. Lana seemed so out of place and scared. And the next question really makes me mad. Does Marco know Lana?
I’m pondering in my apartment downtown while people are already celebrating outside. New Year’s Eve is a big deal in Bosnia, and people start planning it five or even six months in advance. It is one night a year where we completely set loose. Most restaurants are completely booked, or people are celebrating it at home.
I look outside my window in my penthouse and admire the festivities. And the city.
Snow blankets the city, softening Sarajevo’s edges. From my window, the streets are already alive, even if the fireworks haven’t started. Café owners sweep slush from their doorways, steam rising from espresso machines into the cold air. Peoplehurry along Ferhadija, scarves tight, coats pulled closed, the air thick with the scent of smoke, diesel, and anticipation.
I watch it all and feel the tug of other New Year’s Eves—laughter that came easy, warmth that filled every corner of my chest. The city hasn’t changed; I have. And yet, seeing it like this, messy and radiant, I remember that Sarajevo always felt like home, even through all the heartbreak.
It reminds me of simpler times.
I wish my feelings right now were simple, but they're not. The last time I felt somethingrealwas when my mother died. The despair I felt then made me shut off any emotion. For the longest time, I convinced myself that if I wanted to survive this world, I should shut off all emotions. Getting hurt meant admitting that my heart was still beating.
And I was not ready for that because I almost killed someone innocent when mymamadied.
“Are you waiting for an invitation to drink coffee, or do you want me to pour it over you? Ha? Asshole.” I completely forgot that Hana was here. She sits down on the couch opposite me, and we drink the delicious Bosnian coffee she prepared.
“You always make the best coffee,” I say to my cousin as I take a sip. My eyes literally roll back.
