Page 27 of Before I Say I Don't
“Like… right away?”
I shrugged, idly toying with the stem of my glass, its stem cool against my fingers. “Not necessarily ‘let's leave the reception and go for it in the parking lot.’ But… soon. I’m thirty; I’ve built a career, and I’m... ready for that next step.”
For months, I had stuffed that conversation deep into the recesses of my mind, and that night, it had slipped free to linger between us like an uninvited guest at dinner.
Viangelo cleared his throat. “I’m not saying never. Just… notthatsoon. Baby, we just moved into this place. Work is… crazy. Hell, both of our careers. I want to enjoyus. Travel a little. Stack a lot. Maybe a couple of years from now we’ll be ready for kids.”
My appetite waned at his words. “A couple of years,” I echoed softly.
“Yeah. What’s the rush? We got time.”
After my Mama died, time lost its guise of eternity. Every tick of the clock felt like a countdown, a window slowly closing.
I stared at my plate, the food suddenly unappetizing. “I don’t always feel like I do,” I admitted, the vulnerability creeping into my voice.
Viangelo reached for my hand, thumb warm against my knuckles.
“Babe,” he said gently, “I just want to make sure we’re in a really good place in our lives before we make such a big change. Kids change everything… you know that. Look at Danica—she’s a machine, but even she’ll tell you it’s… a lot.”
I nodded because those sentences were all true; they just weren’t mine. I had the career I had always envisioned, the cozy house with sunlight streaming through kitchen windows, a sister who showed up with unwavering support like an army ready for battle, and a mother watching over me from above—a guiding spirit who taught me how to hold a baby and a boundary at the same time. I wanted noise that wasn’t arguments. I wanted ahighchair next to the island. I wanted to hear “mama” from tiny lips, filled with love that surpassed all others.
“You mad?” he asked softly.
“No,” I replied, which wasn’t a lie.
Anger was a bright thing…. that felt gray.
“I hear you,” I added.
“Good. I want to do it right. I want to be present. We’ll know when it’s time," Viangelo responded, and with that, he released my hand and returned to his plate as if we had flipped a switch.
I attempted to regain that sense of normalcy, but my mouth betrayed me, feeling emptier than before. Even the sauce felt like it couldn’t find taste buds.
“I’m going to use the bathroom,” I announced, standing up abruptly. “Be right back.”
In the bathroom mirror, I caught a glimpse of myself—radiant, yet distant. Turning on the faucet, I let the water’s steady flow drown out my swirling thoughts.
I lowered the toilet lid, settled onto the seat, and placed my hands together in my lap, just as Mama had taught me for our prayers at the dinner table. God deserved a semblance of order, even when my heart felt chaotic and unruly.
“God,” I murmured softly, conscious of the echoes in my home. “If this man isn’t going to be my forever, please reveal that to me. If you intend for me to stay, grant me the strength to embrace that. I don’t want to rush what you haven’t written, but I also don’t want to pretend I don’t know when something doesn’t sit right. I don’t want fear of being wrong to keep me in something wrong.”
A tear slipped down my cheek without warning, and I hastily wiped it away with the inside of my wrist.
“I want a family,” I whispered, my voice trembling with yearning. "I want to build something that doesn’t depend on whether he remembers to charge his phone.”
My mind, traitor that it was, played a short reel of Roman’s smile on a loop. The way he listened. The way the waitress tried and failed to distract him. The way his hands looked steady when he lifted his glass. A small, ridiculous part of me couldn’t help but suggest I call him. Just to talk. Just to breathe into a space that didn’t require me to translate myself.
“Don’t be messy. Don’t reach out to a man just because another one said, 'not yet,” I scolded myself aloud, as the mirror seemed to understand and silently agreed.
I splashed water on my face—the coolness refreshing and grounding—patted it dry, and returned to the kitchen.
Viangelo glanced up at me, concern etched on his face. “You good?” ,
“Yup! The bathroom mirror told me I’m gorgeous.”
He smirked. “Accurate.”
I sat back down and pushed the food around enough to make it look like I’d tried. We talked about something safe—the game that weekend, and the neighbor who kept putting recycling in our trash. He rinsed the plates, and I stacked them. It was domestic and boring. It should have filled me, but instead it put a soft hollow where the fullness should go.
