Page 28 of Before I Say I Don’t

“—reveal everything at the altar,” I finished. “Calm, collected, and in front of everybody.”

Danica leaned back, her mouth slightly agape as she processed my words. Then, slowly, a smile broke across her face.

“So you’re actually going to flip the script at your own wedding? That’s some serious Lifetime movie material.”

“More like a Netflix special," I countered with a wry smile. “At least then, people will be compelled to stick around and see how it all ends.”

I took a sip of my wine, letting the rich flavor momentarily distract me from the whirlwind of emotions swirling inside me.

“Oh, you savage-savage! I like this, Kam!” Danica spun the tea mug by the handle, gears turning.

“Seriously, if I call it off now, all of this wedding planning would have been for nothing. My money is going to a greater good for something… his public humiliation.”

“I heard that! Now run me your skeleton; I’ll add flesh.”

“At the altar, I’ll tell it all. With each word, I’ll lay bare the truth, and when I’ve finished, he’ll have to decide whether he wants to stand there, ring in hand, and lie not just to me but to God himself.”

Danica, unable to contain her amusement, slapped her hand against the countertop, her laughter ringing out like a bell. “My God today!”

“I want Diane planted in the front row,” I insisted. “I want her to hear exactly what her good son built out of my kindness.”

“Listen, sis,” she went on, pointing at me with her mug, “this isn’t some petty act of vengeance; this is a strategic move.

Petty is slashing his tires at midnight; what you’re planning is purposeful.

You're making sure the whole congregation knows the man behind the facade before you even waste your vows on him.”

I took a slow, deliberate sip of my red wine, savoring the velvety texture as it slid across my palate.

“Then purposeful it is.”

Danica reclined in her chair, an amused grin spreading across her face, her dark curls framing her features like a halo.

“Alright. Picture this scene,” she began, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

“The music abruptly cuts off, plunging the room into a heavy silence as everyone holds their breath.

He turns to you, eyes wide and innocent, draped in those pitiful, faux puppy dog expressions he thinks are so charming.

You look back at him, and in that moment, you recite my lines like a mantra… "

Pausing for dramatic effect, Danica cleared her throat, dramatically lowering her voice to mimic my tone, as if she were summoning my very essence:

“Viangelo… I can’t marry a man who forgot the venue, forgot the bills, and oh yeah… neglected to mention his other family. Amen.”

I snorted wine through my nose. “Danica!”

She grinned wickedly. “No, listen! That’s just the opener! Then you pause, sip some water, let the room gasp like they in a telenovela. And then you go for the jugular.”

Danica sat taller, mimicking my calm.

“See, I didn’t just bring vows today… I brought receipts.

While you were out having your fun, I was gathering evidence.

And now? The jury of our families is in session.

” Then you turn to Diane’s wanna-be- bougie ass and say, “And to my future mother-in-law—you always said your son was a ‘good man.’ Well, congratulations, he’s also a good liar, a good cheater, and a good waste of my time. Hallelujah.”

I doubled over in laughter.

“Listen, sis, this isn’t a wedding anymore; it’s a trial. And you? You’re the judge, jury, and bailiff. You get to slam the gavel and walk out with your dignity intact!”

I shook my head, tears of laughter rolling down my face. “You’re insane.”

“And you’re brilliant,” she shot back. “You’re about to turn your biggest heartbreak into a standing ovation.

Netflix gon’ call you for the rights, sis!

All jokes aside, you need to make sure you have some receipts on deck,” Danica included, eyes keen.

“Because men like him will call you a liar while standing in a puddle.”

“I have the recording, remember? So it’s not a rumor; it’s his own confession.”

Danica whistled low. “See, I take back every time I called that man a distraction. He’s not a distraction; he’s a damn deliverance. And you? You’re about to deliver a sermon the whole city gon’ be talking about!”

I chuckled.

We slid into the plan like we’d rehearsed it in another life.

“Now, if you’re gonna pull this off, you’ve got to move like nothing’s wrong. I mean, perfect fiancée, but not too perfect. If you suddenly start baking him breakfast and rubbing his feet every night, he’s gonna smell it.”

I nodded. “So, just enough sweetness to keep him thinking he’s safe?”

“Exactly. Don’t start arguments. Don’t act distant, but don’t be clingy either. You’ve got to hit that middle ground so good he won’t see you coming.”

I sipped my drink. “Calculated normal.”

“That’s the word,” she said. “Smile at him. Let him kiss you. Ask about his day. Keep the routine. And when you’re around people—especially Diane—keep the picture-perfect act going. We need everyone thinking you’re hopelessly in love right up until the moment you burn it all down.”

I laughed, low. “You’re dangerous.”

Danica grinned. “I’m your sister… it’s genetic.”

She pushed her chair back and grabbed her phone.

“Alright, I’ll let you breathe, but don’t forget about the menu tasting. Noon!”

I raised my glass. “I’ll beat you there,” I said, although I knew she’d be the first to arrive.

When she was gone, I stood there a second, rolling her words in my head.

Perfect, but not too perfect. The kind of calm that makes a man believe he’s in control… right before you show him he never was.

Around one o'clock in the afternoon, I had my iPad propped on a soft throw pillow while immersing myself in the pages of a juicy book. The aroma of my Popeyes feast wafted through the air—spicy two-piece, Cajun fries, and biscuit drowning in honey.

The tranquility was suddenly interrupted as the front door creaked open.

The familiar sound of jingling keys echoed, followed by the heavy thud of a duffel bag being dropped onto the floor, and a distinctive cologne filled the space.

Under it, something else—hotel soap and a whisper of somebody’s too-sweet body spray that didn’t live in my house.

I didn’t look up right away. I broke the warm biscuit in half. With my pinky finger, I gracefully turned the page, completely absorbed in the story before me. The floorboards announced Viangelo crossing the room.

“Damn,” he said, stepping in front of the TV, his solid frame blocking the screen entirely. “No call while I was gone? No text? No warm welcome now that I’m back?”

I slowly lifted my gaze to meet his, taking my time. “Oh. Hey.” I nonchalantly popped a fry into my mouth, savoring the spice and crunch. “How was your trip?”

“You serious right now?”

I shrugged slightly, maintaining my focus on the book as my eyes drifted back to the sentence I had been reading.

“You asked a question… I answered,” I calmly replied.

Viangelo laughed once, no humor. “Trip was straight,” was all the detail he offered. “You good?”

“Mm-hmm.” I tapped the iPad to highlight a line, then lifted the biscuit, swiped honey with my thumb, and licked it clean. “Want some chicken?”

He blinked, like I’d asked him to solve a riddle. “What?”

“Spicy. Biscuit’s mine, though,” I said, not bothering to lift my eyes from the pages of my book. “But you can have a thigh.”

“Nah, I’m good.”

He crossed to the couch and dropped onto the cushion beside me like his presence alone might reel me back in.

“You didn't call me once. Even when we argue, you still hit me with ‘goodnight’ or ‘good morning," he commented, a hint of hurt lacing his voice.

“You didn’t reach out either… not until this morning at least,” I countered, ever so slightly defensive. “Balance,” I added, taking a bold bite out of the crispy drumstick.

Viangelo watched me chew… I watched my book.

“Well, I take it you’re not cooking today?” he prodded after a moment of silence.

“Nope!” I retorted with a satisfying pop of my lips, enjoying the defiance.

Viangelo stared a beat longer. Finally, he let out a resigned exhale and leaned back into the plush cushion.

“What you reading?”

“A story about a woman who finally stops allowing others to disturb her peace. Great plot.”

In response, Viangelo let out a scoff, stood, then pressed his lips to my forehead in a tender gesture, and murmured, “I missed you. I’ma go shower and lay down.”

“Okay,” I simply replied.

He shook his head and kept walking.

Three hours slid by, and I finally hit a stopping point in my book. Sure, I could’ve been combing through a case file, but I was one of those lawyers who treated weekends with a quasi-religious reverence.

Through experience, I had learned that burnout rarely announces its presence with a polite knock.

Instead, it creeps in quietly—it shows up in forgotten arguments, sloppy motions, or, worst of all, snapping at the people I care about.

Folks loved to glorify “Team No Sleep,” as if wearing exhaustion like a badge of honor, but I knew better.

In all honesty, it’s an eviction notice on a person’s health.

And I just so happen to like my edges intact, my body not breaking down, and my emotions stable enough so I wouldn’t lash out in tears during a heated discussion.

So whenever I heard phrases like “No Days Off,” I would simply look away and sip my glass of wine.

Fighting my battles in court required a mind that was alert and invigorated; anything less would be fodder for the ruthless courtroom; the courtroom would eat me alive.

With that thought lingering in my mind, I powered down my iPad, rose from the sofa, and stretched my weary muscles. Just as I settled back into my thoughts, my phone vibrated, pulling my attention sharply back to reality.

Roman: You good? I ain’t heard from you.

A smile crept across my face.