Page 17 of Before I Say I Don’t

In the background, a kid in the corner argued with somebody on speakerphone about sneakers, and ESPN mumbled above the buzz of clippers.

Somebody else was cackling over a story about his baby mama, swearing she put sugar in his gas tank.

A domino game clacked in the back room; each slam punctuated with trash talk.

Every so often, the shop went quiet just long enough for a razor to scrape, then burst back alive when somebody shouted about who was overrated in the league.

For a moment, I felt completely at home.

The bell jingled again. My nigga Dre strolled in, carrying the same energy he had running point for his D2 squad—head high, grin wide. Those days, he ran a logistics business, but he still ran every conversation within earshot.

“Ah, shit! Roman the Great!” he hollered, grinning as he came to grip me up in a brotherly hug.

“What’s good, man? Long time.”

Dre dropped into the chair next to mine. “Yes, indeed. How long you been back?”

“Two weeks.”

“Two weeks?” He smacked his teeth dramatically. “Nigga, you been back in the city that long and ain’t hit me up? Damn, I thought we were boys. I’m lowkey hurt!”

I cracked up. “Man, stop it! You know you still my guy. Ain’t nothing changed. But I was getting around to it.”

“So you back for good?”

“Vacation. Trying not to argue with middle managers for a month.”

He barked a laugh. “You still interrogating folks for a living?”

“Something like that.”

“You caught up with everybody else yet?” he asked.

“Some.”

Dre smirked. “Have you ran into ol’ girl you had a crush on in law school?”

I played dumb. “Who?”

“Bro, stop. You only had eyes for one girl back then. The Kam chick.” He snapped his fingers. “Yeah. Kamira Sinclair. She’s top-notch now—cold in the courtroom. I saw her on the news not long ago… she won a big ass case. If she wasn’t engaged, to yo’ homeboy Angelo… I’d tell you to shoot yo’ shot.”

“You know about her marrying him?”

“Shid… who don’t?”

Yusef dragged the blade down my temple, clean and careful, and chimed in.

“Yup, nephew. That wedding is the talk of the town.”

“Man,” Dre said, rolling his eyes. “The city been hearing Angelo’s getting married since he proposed.

That nigga is the type to propose just to see if he still got it.

Considering that he had been gone for years, I thought the nigga might’ve changed.

Let’s just say, some niggas don’t change.

And we both know, Angelo’s been outside… still be outside.”

I was going to circle back to the “outside” part, but that line about him being gone for years pulled me first.

“Wait. You said he’s been gone for years ? Like… he ain’t been here the whole time?”

“Hell nah. If I’m correct, he left right after you did and just moved back about a year and a half ago.”

That was news to me. Probably because me and Viangelo barely talked in the nine years I’d been away.

I could count on one hand how many times we did.

Like I mentioned before—me and Viangelo were boys, but not childhood homies, which is exactly why it surprised me when he asked me to stand in his wedding.

I figured maybe he just needed an extra, and since I could’ve used the vacation, I said… why the hell not .

“Damn… I didn’t know that.” I paused, narrowed my eyes. “But what had you sayin’ he’s still outside?”

Dre leaned forward, dropping his voice to a barber-shop whisper that was still loud enough for everybody to hear.

“Now you ain’t hear this from me, but a lil’ birdie said he’s supposed to have a newborn by some chick named Taryn. A baby his fiancée has no idea about.”

The whole shop went “damn” in unison like a choir that knew the song.

Hearing barbershop rumors was different; it became canon there. Still… that was the second person in a single day to question Kamira and Viangelo’s relationship—or more so, Viangelo’s character.

“Is that confirmed or hood confirmed?” I asked, eyes locked on my own in the mirror.

Dre scratched his chin. “I don’t repeat rumors; I report patterns. Pattern is, if that nigga’s still breathing, he’s auditioning for the next best thing… engaged or not.”

Yusef snorted. “Tell the truth and shame the cut .”

The whole shop laughed.

“And I ain’t saying this on no hating type shit ‘cause I feel you’d be a better candidate for ol’ girl,” Dre went on. “Dude is cool. He just… him. You know him better than I do, but I know he ain’t built for quiet.”

I let the clippers hum against my jawline. “Some people get married for quiet sometimes.”

“Yeah,” Dre said, pointing at me with his chin. “And some get married for optics… and money. And that girl Kamira? She ain’t just the bag; she the whole bank. He’d be a damn fool to fumble that… but fools fumble. Or worse… they get sloppy and get caught slippin’.”

Somebody in the back hollered, “Amen,” like church had broken out between fades.

We all cracked up.

Dre and I chopped it up for a few more minutes before he had to bounce back to his office. He’d only stopped through because he was in the neighborhood picking up food.

Yusef spun my chair toward the mirror and dusted off my neck. “All done!”

I checked myself out: beard lined sharp, fade blended like butter, waves catching the light just enough to remind me I still had it. It was the kind of haircut that made a person walk with a bit more swagger past a mirror, just to catch themselves twice.

With a swift motion, I slid a crisp $100 bill into Yusef’s calloused hand, tucking an extra $50 on top as a token of appreciation.

He flashed me a smile shared between men who paid without asking the price and recognized the value of a good tip without needing to exchange words about it.

"Y’all take it easy,” I said, rising from the chair.

“‘Preciate you, nephew!” Yusef called out, the bills held high like a trophy. “And don’t be a stranger!”

“Never,” I replied, stepping back into the afternoon haze of the August sun.

Suddenly, my phone vibrated in my pocket. Seeing Kamira's name appear on the screen made the bustling street feel quieter.

Kamira: Hey. I hope you’re having a good day so far. Sorry I didn’t get to text yesterday; I was exhausted. But… I wanted you to know that I paid off the wedding venue.

I stared at the message, heat rising in my chest just reading it. She shouldn’t have had to type those words, let alone live them.

The night we stayed together at the hotel, Kamira told me how the reservation was at risk of cancellation due to Viangelo not paying off the balance. That was a call she should’ve never received—and a burden she should’ve never carried alone.

Her voice cracked as she explained it, equal parts anger and exhaustion.

Embarrassment threaded through every word—not because she couldn’t cover it, but because she had to and because he responsibility had been dumped in her lap while he walked around in tailored suits, playing the part of a man who had it all together.

She shook her head, laughing bitterly through it, but I could see the weight on her shoulders. Kamira deserved champagne and celebration, not invoices and overdue balances.

I felt my fingers flying across the screen before I could stop them.

Me: You shouldn’t have had to do that shit, period. But I’m proud of you anyway. Keep your receipts—literal and otherwise.

The three dots indicating she was typing appeared, then vanished, only to reappear again. I could vividly picture her, jaw clenched in concentration, phone cradled in one hand while the other clutched a folder.

Kamira: I know. I didn’t want to risk losing the date.

I leaned against a lamppost and let the savage version of me have one sentence.

Me: If that nigga says he “forgot,” about something again, tell him memory loss ain’t a disease; it’s a fuckin’ habit.

Two minutes passed. Then:

Kamira: Lol. I will. Thank you again for the other night and just being a listening ear.

Me: Anytime. And I mean that.

I slid the phone in my pocket and started walking without picking a direction.

I was dangerous, what she did to the inside of me—how she made me want to fix a world I didn’t break.

I wasn’t there to be her savior. I was there to be honest in a room where she was surrounded by actors.

And if I found out Viangelo was playing her, I was ending that wedding myself.

In the weeks ahead, maybe I’d say yes to Marcus’s offer… maybe I wouldn’t. But tonight, if Kamira reached out, I’d book another room—no hesitation. Maybe even tell her to come to my crib. And if she didn’t? I’d keep a light on anyway.