Page 11 of Before I Say I Don’t

Girl, you don’t know the half, I wanted to say. And the half you do know ain’t even the expensive part.

I kept my face neutral, but inside, my mind was furiously shaking its head, thinking, Tell him when he shares that story again, he should definitely mention the part where the ‘good man’ asked me if I could put the caterer on Afterpay…

or when he thought ‘covering the wedding’ merely meant tipping the DJ.

“He’s a good man, Savannah. A good man,” Danica teased, sliding into a perfect imitation of the lady from Waiting to Exhale.

The room erupted in laughter—big, messy laughter—but only Danica and I knew the real reason behind the joke.

If Viangelo keeps up this charade for his mother as if he is the sole financier of this grand event, I’ll be left with no choice but to start distributing receipts like they’re party favors.

I checked my phone out of habit.

No messages from Viangelo… of course.

Jayla was unusually silent. Typically, the most vocal in our group, she sat there nursing her ginger ale and absentmindedly picking at a plate of crackers.

“You good?” I asked her gently.

“Yeah… just got a b-bit of a headache,” she replied, her words slightly slurred as she pressed her fingers to her temples.

Suddenly, Jayla shot up from her chair, her knee colliding with her glass, sending it tumbling to the floor with a loud clatter. She clapped a hand over her mouth, wide-eyed and panicked.

“Bathroom—” she squeaked, bolting from the room before anyone could react.

For a brief moment, we all froze.

The bathroom door slammed shut, followed by the unmistakable sounds of vomiting—the sound that twists your stomach in sympathy.

Serena winced and let out a breath, “Whew."

Lena’s hand hovered uncertainly near her glass, then hesitated before dropping back to her lap.

Zaria glanced at her phone, as if it held the power to distract her from the unfolding moment.

Kendall’s gaze flicked to me, then back to the closed bathroom door, and finally returned to my face.

Her expression gave off more nervousness than concern.

Diane stood up abruptly, trying to take charge of the situation.

“I can get her some water from the kitchen, perhaps?” she volunteered.

Danica scoffed lightly, shaking her head.

“You? Stepping into my kitchen? No, thank you. I’ll handle it.”

As Danica headed toward the kitchen, I stood up, my concern growing, and made my way to the bathroom.

I knocked softly but firmly. “Jayla, are you okay? Do you need anything?”

A weak response came from behind the door, “No—I’m fine.”

I could hear the faucet running, drowning out much of her voice, but not the unease beneath it.

I pressed my palm flat against the cool wood of the door, as if I could push kindness through wood.

“You sure?” I asked, carefully, just as Danica approached the door with a glass of water in her hands.

There was a pause on the other side.

“It was something I ate,” she explained, and then I heard the faint sound of a toilet flushing.

Danica caught my expression. An unspoken exchange passed between us, but she kept her lips pressed together in silence.

Jayla exited the bathroom, her complexion slightly pale but forced a smile.

“Sorry,” she said apologetically, brushing a stray hair behind her ear. “That chicken salad from earlier was definitely not fresh-fresh .”

“Mmm. Let’s hope that’s really all it is,” Danica murmured, her voice edged with doubt.

“You sure you’re okay?” I asked.

“Yes, girl.”

I’d seen enough witnesses on the stand to recognize the signs: discomfort, evasion, the little cracks that show when someone’s hiding more than they’re saying.

Maybe everyone else would let it slide, but not me.

My gut had already filed that under suspicious activity, and once my instincts tagged something, I couldn’t unsee it.

“You okay?” Kendall asked, hopping up instantly when we all reentered the room.

“I’m fine,” Jayla responded. “How much more do we have to go over? I need to lie down—it’s been a long day.”

“I agree,” I said, giving Danica a look.

“Not much,” Danica replied, flipping through her notes. “We’ll make this quick.”

Danica flew through the last two items with the precision of a surgeon eager to close an incision.

“Call times are printed on the back of your folders,” she instructed, her tone crisp and authoritative.

“The vendor contact sheet is stowed in the top pocket. Make sure your duties are highlighted. And don’t forget—bring your flats, edge control, and definitely your IDs if you intend to drink like you were raised in civilized company. ”

Diane reached for another lemon bar and then thought better of it when Danica’s eyes slid to her plate.

“I’ll package these to-go,” Diane offered sweetly. “That way, you can savor them later when you’re… a little less preoccupied.”

The sound of chairs scraping against the hardwood floor filled the room. Then hugs were exchanged.

Kendall leaned in to plant a gentle kiss on my cheek.

“Text me if you need anything,” she said, knowing she doesn’t answer texts before noon or the fact that we hardly ever text.

Zaria, ever the trendsetter, excitedly shared her discovery of a makeup artist renowned for working with glamorous celebrities. Danica politely informed her that we already had one... a good one.

Lena gave my hand an encouraging squeeze and whispered, “You’re doing great.”

Serena murmured, “If your future mother-in-law wears ivory, I’m tripping her gently," she kidded, a mischievous glint in her eye.

They filed out in waves with perfume and laughter trailing behind them. When the last person exited and the door clicked shut, the house seemed to exhale—the lively energy dissipated into a hushed stillness.

Danica leaned against the doorframe with a look of exasperation.

“You sure you still want this wedding?”

I tried to make a joke stick. “Not you trying to get out of work.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time.” She giggled. “But seriously—what do you think is wrong with Jayla? I didn’t like her attitude today. Maybe it’s just me, but she was giving very much I’m just here for the food and to take a to-go plate. ”

“Nah, I caught that same energy too. But who knows? I barely been talking to her, so if she is pregnant, I can’t tell you who the baby daddy is.

But girl, come on! Let’s clean up! I do not want my brother-in-law blaming me because I cut into y’all sacred family night where everybody wears matching pajamas, the kids fight over the last brownie, Larenz falls asleep mid-movie, and you pretend not to notice so you can watch the movie in peace. ”

Danica smirked. “Don’t be a hater, sis. Your day will come.”

Soon, I hope. I kept to myself.

We cleaned the table together in the easy choreography we learned under Mama’s roof—her stacking plates, me wiping, both of us circling each other like we’d done it a thousand times.

When the surface gleamed, I packed the leftover macarons into their little box.

Danica slipped my folder into my bag, then topped it with a Post-it covered in her neat handwriting—the to-do list she knew I’d do without her even asking.

At the door, we hugged.

“Text me when you get home,” Danica said.

“I will. I love you.”

“I love you more,” she replied, same as always.

Outside, the evening air was soft enough to make me forget the chaos we’d just lived through.

I sat in my car for a minute, hands on the wheel, letting the silence stretch.

My phone lit up—nothing from Viangelo. My eyes landed on the little peach preserve jar Diane had left behind, wedged in my passenger seat.

I picked it up, turned it in my hands. “Spread the love,” I read out loud, the words circling through me slow, equal parts warning and wish.

When Danica’s dining room light finally went out, I started the car and drove off, feeling like I was carrying more than just wedding plans home with me.

As I turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open, an unexpected aroma washed over me. It wasn’t the stale scent of abandonment I had anticipated; instead, it was a comforting warmth, reminiscent of something deep-fried and savory—perfectly appealing in a way that made my stomach rumble.

“What the hell?” I muttered, my nose twitching like a bloodhound.

From the kitchen, Gucci Mane’s Lemonade was blasting loud enough to make the blinds vibrate.

When I entered, I caught sight of Viangelo, standing over the stove.

He wore a snug gray t-shirt clinging to his shoulders like it had been sewn on.

His sweatpants hung low on his hips, and his socks—one black, one white—betrayed his casual approach to home life.

“Look at God,” I exclaimed, a grin spreading across my face as I dropped my bag onto the counter.

He glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “Hey, baby. I figured I’d stay in tonight before you accused me of cheating on you with overtime… or running off to hang with the boys.”

I sniggered.

Viangelo leaned in quickly and pressed a soft kiss to my cheek—his lips warm and fleeting, as if he were afraid to linger too long and risk revealing too much emotion—and then he turned back to the stove.

“What are you cooking?” I inquired.

“American Deli,” he announced proudly. “Or my version of it.”

I chuckled, watching him move with easy confidence.

“Do yo’ thang, chef. I’ma go get a lil’ more comfortable.”

“Just don’t get too comfortable,” he winked, the playful glint in his eyes promising that the night ahead was bound to be anything but ordinary.

Now, normally I’m suspicious of sudden niceness from him—it’s either foreplay, forewarning, or a pre-apology for something I’m about to find out on my own. But I’ma roll with it.