Page 39 of Before I Say I Don't
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 thecut.”
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 adamnfool 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, Kamiratold 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.
