Page 12 of Before I Say I Don’t

In the bedroom, I swapped the jeans and top I’d worn at Danica’s for a black off-the-shoulder lounge set.

Nothing too sexy—just soft cotton hugging the right curves, shorts loose enough to be comfortable, fitted enough to keep him looking.

I slicked my hair into a bun and reached for my clear gloss…

then stopped. There was no sense in glossing up just to eat wings and fries. That was about dinner, not dessert.

When I returned, I was greeted by the sight of the kitchen island transformed into a scene straight out of a glossy restaurant magazine: plates stacked, wings steaming, golden fries, crisped to perfection, piled high, and—of all things—a candle burning in the center like he’d gotten the memo about romance.

A chill slipped out of me.

It was nice. It was normal. It was the kind of evening I wished we shared more regularly.

“Damn,” he said, eyeing me like I’d walked in naked, then approached me and closed the space between us. “Look at you. Later, I’m biting that shoulder, pulling those panties off with my teeth, making you call my name until the neighbors turn their TV up—then flipping you over and starting again.”

I smirked and raised a brow. “All that?”

“All that,” he confirmed, no hesitation.

My body warmed just hearing him say it.

Two weeks. Two long, frustrating, dry weeks. I couldn’t wait.

“I still can’t believe you cooked,” I teased, leaning on the counter, as Viangelo returned to the stove.

He smirked, then tossed over his shoulder, “You saying that like a nigga can’t cook.”

“Oh, I know you can. It’s just… been a while.”

And it was true.

If there was one skill Viangelo truly excelled at, he could throw down in the kitchen.

I often found myself reminiscing about the early days of our relationship, when he used to whip up meals for me on a regular basis.

It was likely his way of charming me and reeling me in, and to be honest, it definitely worked.

“Work,” he said simply—the same excuse he used for everything. “But since you’re always cooking and stressing over wedding plans, I figured I’d cater to you tonight. Give you one night where you can kick back and sit yo' fine ass down and eat.”

I chuckled. "No complaints from me,” I responded, settling into my chair with a smile.

With practiced ease, he plated our food.

I reached for the chilled bottle of Sauvignon Blanc I kept on standby, feeling that a little celebration was in order.

For one, that surprise deserved wine. Secondly, after the day I had, I deserved something crisp enough to scrub the seating chart and bridal party drama from my head, even if only for a little while.

As he dug into his meal, I observed him closely like a jury scrutinizing a witness on the stand, searching for any subtle hints or signs.

I took a breath and decided to step into something that had been rolling around in my head all that week.

“Do you know a guy named Roman?”

Viangelo paused, his gaze meeting mine as he swallowed thoughtfully.

“Roman Hill ?”

“Yes,” I affirmed, watching him closely, trying to gauge his reaction.

“Yeah,” he replied, leaning back slightly. “That’s my guy. He’s in the wedding party. We go way back—summer leagues, little business here and there. He stays out on the West Coast now. Why do you ask?”

I felt my shoulders loosen an inch.

His response had come effortlessly, without any signs of hesitation or fabricated confusion.

“We went to law school together. I ran into him the other day at the courthouse, which then, he explained he’s here for the wedding.”

“Oh, word?” He leaned back, genuinely impressed. “Small world.”

“Very,” I agreed, taking a sip of my wine while keeping my focus trained on his expression.

Viangelo didn’t flinch, there was no awkward stiffness, or an overwhelming barrage of questions like one might expect from someone burdened with hidden secrets.

We ate in silence for a while. The only sounds were the soft clink of forks and the low hum of the fridge… even the candle seemed to flicker like it was nervous, too.

And yet, all that mattered was he was there—fully present. Not scrolling through his phone, not rushing to be somewhere else, not feeding me crumbs of stories with holes big enough to fall through. Just here… With me.

That was how my life was supposed to feel, I told myself. That is what the ‘plan’ looked like when it was behaving.

“How was the meeting?” Viangelo asked between bites, breaking the silence.

“Efficient,” I simply answered, knowing it implied that Danica had led the meeting with an iron fist and a touch of fiery passion.

“Danica got on my mama?” His eyes narrowed slightly with a mix of concern and amusement.

“Your mama got on Danica,” I corrected playfully, and we both chuckled, fully aware that those two could ignite a flame war even in a completely empty room.

“I’ll have a talk with Ma,” he said, his tone serious yet lighthearted. “Just to make sure she knows how to stay in her lane.”

I made a noncommittal sound because lanes were just a suggestion to Diane.

“What else did y’all discuss?” he further inquired.

“Hair and makeup start times, arrival schedule, bouquets, and seating. Your sister tried to add two people to the guest list after the deadline, by the way.”

He smirked. “Of course she did. Everybody else was on good behavior?”

“For the most part. Serena suggested a champagne tower for the vibes.”

He groaned. “Serena loves a vibe.”

“Right,” I said, swallowing a laugh and bumping the edge of my plate an inch. “Your mom brought peach preserves as favors with a sticker that said, ‘spread the love.’”

Viangelo winced as if he could feel Danica’s reaction from across the city.

“I know Danica buried that.”

“With dignity,” I chuckled. “We’re doing the truffles.”

He nodded. “I fucks with it.”

“And Jayla…” I started, then paused because what I had wasn’t a thing to share; it was a feeling in a dress. “Jayla got sick.”

His fry paused at his mouth, his expression shifting to one of concern. “Like… sick, sick?”

“Yeah.” I nodded. “She threw up. She mentioned that she thought it might have been from the salad she had earlier.”

“Maybe,” he shrugged, nonchalantly returning to his meal. “You okay, though? It seems like it was a lot."

“I’m fine.” I twirled a piece of chicken drumstick. “It was just a lot of energy packed into a small space. Danica was on one, and your mom was on two.”

Viangelo smiled, then reached for his glass.

He took a sip, checked his phone, then put it face down.

The casualness of it made something small and sharp prickle under my skin.

I blew it off—he was there, the chicken was seasoned and cooked to perfection, and I just wanted a night without suspicion.

I watched him for a second longer, then put my napkin down.

“Can I ask you something?” I inquired, my voice almost tentative.

“Anything, baby.”

“When we get married…” I steered the conversation with caution, attempting to keep my tone light and breezy. “Are you going to want to try for a baby?”

He blinked at me, not caught off guard, but rather momentarily halted, contemplating.

“Like… right away?”

I shrugged, idly toying with the stem of my glass, its stem cool against my fingers. “Not necessarily ‘let's leave the reception and go for it in the parking lot.’ But… soon. I’m thirty; I’ve built a career, and I’m... ready for that next step.”

For months, I had stuffed that conversation deep into the recesses of my mind, and that night, it had slipped free to linger between us like an uninvited guest at dinner.

Viangelo cleared his throat. “I’m not saying never. Just… not that soon. Baby, we just moved into this place. Work is… crazy. Hell, both of our careers. I want to enjoy us . Travel a little. Stack a lot. Maybe a couple of years from now we’ll be ready for kids.”

My appetite waned at his words. “A couple of years,” I echoed softly.

“Yeah. What’s the rush? We got time.”

After my Mama died, time lost its guise of eternity. Every tick of the clock felt like a countdown, a window slowly closing.

I stared at my plate, the food suddenly unappetizing. “I don’t always feel like I do,” I admitted, the vulnerability creeping into my voice.

Viangelo reached for my hand, thumb warm against my knuckles.

“Babe,” he said gently, “I just want to make sure we’re in a really good place in our lives before we make such a big change. Kids change everything… you know that. Look at Danica—she’s a machine, but even she’ll tell you it’s… a lot.”

I nodded because those sentences were all true; they just weren’t mine.

I had the career I had always envisioned, the cozy house with sunlight streaming through kitchen windows, a sister who showed up with unwavering support like an army ready for battle, and a mother watching over me from above—a guiding spirit who taught me how to hold a baby and a boundary at the same time.

I wanted noise that wasn’t arguments. I wanted a highchair next to the island.

I wanted to hear “mama” from tiny lips, filled with love that surpassed all others.

“You mad?” he asked softly.

“No,” I replied, which wasn’t a lie.

Anger was a bright thing…. that felt gray.

“I hear you,” I added.

“Good. I want to do it right. I want to be present. We’ll know when it’s time," Viangelo responded, and with that, he released my hand and returned to his plate as if we had flipped a switch.

I attempted to regain that sense of normalcy, but my mouth betrayed me, feeling emptier than before. Even the sauce felt like it couldn’t find taste buds.

“I’m going to use the bathroom,” I announced, standing up abruptly. “Be right back.”

In the bathroom mirror, I caught a glimpse of myself—radiant, yet distant. Turning on the faucet, I let the water’s steady flow drown out my swirling thoughts.

I lowered the toilet lid, settled onto the seat, and placed my hands together in my lap, just as Mama had taught me for our prayers at the dinner table. God deserved a semblance of order, even when my heart felt chaotic and unruly.

“God,” I murmured softly, conscious of the echoes in my home.

“If this man isn’t going to be my forever, please reveal that to me.

If you intend for me to stay, grant me the strength to embrace that.

I don’t want to rush what you haven’t written, but I also don’t want to pretend I don’t know when something doesn’t sit right.

I don’t want fear of being wrong to keep me in something wrong. ”

A tear slipped down my cheek without warning, and I hastily wiped it away with the inside of my wrist.

“I want a family,” I whispered, my voice trembling with yearning. "I want to build something that doesn’t depend on whether he remembers to charge his phone.”

My mind, traitor that it was, played a short reel of Roman’s smile on a loop.

The way he listened. The way the waitress tried and failed to distract him.

The way his hands looked steady when he lifted his glass.

A small, ridiculous part of me couldn’t help but suggest I call him.

Just to talk. Just to breathe into a space that didn’t require me to translate myself.

“Don’t be messy. Don’t reach out to a man just because another one said, 'not yet,” I scolded myself aloud, as the mirror seemed to understand and silently agreed.

I splashed water on my face—the coolness refreshing and grounding—patted it dry, and returned to the kitchen.

Viangelo glanced up at me, concern etched on his face. “You good?” ,

“Yup! The bathroom mirror told me I’m gorgeous.”

He smirked. “Accurate.”

I sat back down and pushed the food around enough to make it look like I’d tried.

We talked about something safe—the game that weekend, and the neighbor who kept putting recycling in our trash.

He rinsed the plates, and I stacked them.

It was domestic and boring. It should have filled me, but instead it put a soft hollow where the fullness should go.

Later, in bed, Viangelo was snoring. After we ate, he fell asleep fast—like he always did.

Needless to say, all that biting, sucking, licking, and fucking he swore was on the menu?

Yeah… that plate never even made it out the kitchen.

Nigga talked like a five-star chef and served me leftovers—sleep and snores.

The clock hummed, and the AC kicked on with a sound like a sigh.

I laid there, staring at the textured ceiling above, allowing the events of the day to play out in my mind against the dull white of the drywall. I grabbed my phone off the nightstand, unlocked the screen, and scrolled to the contact labeled Roman Hill.

My thumb hovered over his name, which glowed like it was waiting for me to choose a road I had no business walking.

Just in case you need a friend. The thought echoed in my mind, a siren call.

I flipped the phone back down onto my chest and shut my eyes tight, whispering, “Not tonight,” to the ceiling above, my words a plea for strength. “Not like this.”

Carefully, I slid the phone onto the nightstand, still screen-side down. I turned to face the shadowy silhouette of the man I had promised my heart to, mere weeks away from a lifetime commitment. The ring on my finger caught a slice of moonlight and made a small bar of brightness on the sheet.

It didn’t feel like a promise; it felt like a question.

Danica would’ve warned me against that internal conflict, Lena would’ve encouraged me to find my breath, while Serena would’ve likely suggested a drink to ease my troubled mind. Yet, all I could do was clasp my hands together beneath my cheek and pray for the elusive escape of sleep.

Sleep came slow, like a train whistling from counties away—loud enough to haunt and too far to reach.

By the time it pulled in, I was already dreaming of doors I shouldn’t open.

The next morning, the candle was a pool of hardened wax on the table, and my phone sat quiet where I left it, keeping a number I wasn’t ready to use.