Page 24 of Before I Say I Don't
They filed out in waves with perfume and laughter trailing behind them. When the last person exited and the door clickedshut, the house seemed to exhale—the lively energy dissipated into a hushed stillness.
Danica leaned against the doorframe with a look of exasperation.
“You sure you still want this wedding?”
I tried to make a joke stick. “Not you trying to get out of work.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” She giggled. “But seriously—what do you think is wrong with Jayla? I didn’t like her attitude today. Maybe it’s just me, but she was giving very muchI’m just here for the food and to take a to-go plate.”
“Nah, I caught that same energy too. But who knows? I barely been talking to her, so if she ispregnant,I can’t tell you who the baby daddy is. But girl, come on! Let’s clean up! I do not want my brother-in-law blaming me because I cut into y’allsacredfamily night where everybody wears matching pajamas, the kids fight over the last brownie, Larenz falls asleep mid-movie, and you pretend not to notice so you can watch the movie in peace.”
Danica smirked. “Don’t be a hater, sis. Your day will come.”
Soon, I hope.I kept to myself.
We cleaned the table together in the easy choreography we learned under Mama’s roof—her stacking plates, me wiping, both of us circling each other like we’d done it a thousand times. When the surface gleamed, I packed the leftover macarons into their little box. Danica slipped my folder into my bag, then topped it with a Post-it covered in her neat handwriting—the to-do list she knew I’d do without her even asking.
At the door, we hugged.
“Text me when you get home,” Danica said.
“I will. I love you.”
“I love you more,” she replied, same as always.
Outside, the evening air was soft enough to make me forget the chaos we’d just lived through. I sat in my car for a minute, hands on the wheel, letting the silence stretch. My phone lit up—nothing from Viangelo. My eyes landed on the little peach preserve jar Diane had left behind, wedged in my passenger seat.
I picked it up, turned it in my hands. “Spread the love,” I read out loud, the words circling through me slow, equal parts warning and wish.
When Danica’s dining room light finally went out, I started the car and drove off, feeling like I was carrying more than just wedding plans home with me.
As I turned the key in the lock and pushed the door open, an unexpected aroma washed over me. It wasn’t the stale scent of abandonment I had anticipated; instead, it was a comforting warmth, reminiscent of something deep-fried and savory—perfectly appealing in a way that made my stomach rumble.
“What the hell?” I muttered, my nose twitching like a bloodhound.
From the kitchen, Gucci Mane’sLemonadewas blasting loud enough to make the blinds vibrate. When I entered, I caught sight of Viangelo, standing over the stove. He wore a snug gray t-shirt clinging to his shoulders like it had been sewn on. His sweatpants hung low on his hips, and his socks—one black, one white—betrayed his casual approach to home life.
“Look at God,” I exclaimed, a grin spreading across my face as I dropped my bag onto the counter.
He glanced over his shoulder and grinned. “Hey, baby. I figured I’d stay in tonight before you accused me of cheating on you with overtime… or running off to hang with the boys.”
I sniggered.
Viangelo leaned in quickly and pressed a soft kiss to my cheek—his lips warm and fleeting, as if he were afraid to linger too long and risk revealing too much emotion—and then he turned back to the stove.
“What are you cooking?” I inquired.
“American Deli,” he announced proudly. “Or my version of it.”
I chuckled, watching him move with easy confidence.
“Do yo’ thang,chef.I’ma go get a lil’ more comfortable.”
“Just don’t get too comfortable,” he winked, the playful glint in his eyes promising that the night ahead was bound to be anything but ordinary.
Now, normally I’m suspicious of sudden niceness from him—it’s either foreplay, forewarning, or a pre-apology for something I’m about to find out on my own. But I’ma roll with it.
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.
