Page 32 of Before I Say I Don't
I drove across town and checked into a quiet hotel, the kind where the hallways swallowed sound and the walls felt like they kept secrets. After setting my bags down, I pulled out my phone and texted Roman.
Me: I’m here.
Roman: On the way.
I sat anxiously on the edge of my neatly made bed, my heart pounding with a mix of dread, guilt, and something else I wasn’t ready to name.
That night, I was stripped of all my identities—no longer Kamira, the bride-to-be, nor Kamira, the ambitious lawyer witha thriving career and accolades lining my office walls. Instead, I was just a weary woman caught in the throes of uncertainty, craving an ear that understood without judgment—and Roman had always been good at that.
When the knock came at the door, my heart jumped, even though I knew it was him—or maybe that’s why it did.
When I opened it, Roman stood there in a black crew-neck tee that hugged his chest and shoulders, the kind of shirt that looked simple until it was on the right body. His dark jeans were crisp, cuffed just enough to show off clean white sneakers that made the whole look feel effortless. His skin carried that late-summer bronze, his fade was still sharp enough to look fresh out the chair, and a fine shadow of stubble cut along his jaw. He smelled faintly of cedar and spice, layered under the takeout bag in his hand—garlic, warm bread, something buttery and indulgent. Roman didn’t grin wide; just the corner of his mouth curled like he knew exactly what kind of picture he was making, and he wasn’t about to rush me through admiring it.
“You didn’t eat, did you?” he asked, stepping inside.
I smiled. “Actually, I did. But I’ll save it for later in case I get hungry. Thank you.”
Roman set the bag on the table, then looked at me—really looked at me—like he was reading every unspoken thought.
“You wanna tell me what’s going on?”
I hesitated, then sat on the edge of the bed.
“First, I think Angelo’s cheating,” I revealed.
Roman didn’t look shocked. “Wouldn’t surprise me,” he replied.
That stung, even though I wasn’t defending Viangelo. “Why do you say that?”
Roman leaned against the dresser, crossing his arms. “I’ve known the nigga a long time. Back in the day, he was always… moving grimy. Always had a main chick and multiple side pieces. I thought maybe getting engaged meant he finally grew up, but—” he shrugged, “some niggas don’t change; they just get better at hiding it. I ain’t saying he is cheating, but again, it wouldn’t surprise.”
I stared at him, searching for any sign he might’ve said that out of jealousy instead of truth.
“When I told you I was marrying him… what did youreallythink?”
Roman’s jaw tightened. “Honestly? It didn’t sit right with me. Not just because of who he is… but because of who you are. You’ve always deserved the best… even back in school, I knew that.”
I laughed softly, trying to lighten the air. “We barely even talked likethatin school.”
“Yeah,” he said, scooting closer, “but I noticed you… more than you probably realized.”
“You… you liked me in college?” Though deep down I already knew the answer, I just wanted to hear it from his mouth.
Roman’s mouth curved, slow and knowing. “Kam, you can quit with the good girl act—we’re grown as hell.”
“Whatever do you mean?” I asked, feigning innocence in my best faux Southern drawl.
He chuckled, low. “You really gon’ sit here and act like you weren’t feeling a nigga back then?”
A mischievous smirk tugged at the corners of my lips. “Well… I didn’t actually saythat.”
Roman tilted his head slightly, a teasing glint in his eyes.
“But you didn’t say you weren’t either.”
With each passing moment, the space between us narrowed, thickening the air with anticipation.
“Roman…” I breathed, almost as if saying his name could ground me.
