Page 5 of Before I Say I Don't
It takes a lot for me to cry, but there’s something about waiting on someone who saidthey’d be there… something about feeling like your presence isn’t enough to be urgent… that wears you down.
When the clock struck nine o'clock, I reached my breaking point.
I marched to the kitchen, grabbed a plate, and sliced into the cake. Then I returned to my spot on the sofa, feeling an odd mixture of defiance and self-pity.
I lifted my fork and whispered softly, “Congratulations, Kamira,” as I clinked my wine glass against the edge of the plate.
It wasn’t the celebration I had envisioned for such a momentous occasion, but it was the one I found myself having.
Truth be told, Viangelo had been “working late” more often lately—a euphemism that had begun to grate on my nerves. He claimed it was all for the sake of bringing in extra funds for our wedding—the one that was, in all honesty, primarily funded by me. I’d never thrown it in his faceoranybody’s; that wasn’t my style. However, Viangelo was running around, having everyone believinghewas the one carrying the financial burden, being the big provider, acting like the generous fiancé—the picture of a devoted partner.
The lies!
When it came to the wedding, Viangelo's contributions were limited to paying for the venue, while I bore the weight of everything else—my wedding dress, the flowers, the photographer, catering, DJ, and even compensating my sister for her efforts. All of it came out of my pocket, the result of countless late nights and billable hours at work. I told myself it didn’t matter because we were a team… and teams show up for each other. But I was starting to have the kind of doubts I couldn’t shake off with a pep talk—the kind that creep in when I was signing checks alone, when my email inbox looked like a battlefield, and the man who was supposed to be my partner was nowhere in sight. I kept telling myself,this is temporary, he’ll show up when it counts.But deep down? I already knew I was carrying the wedding—and maybe the whole relationship—on my back.
Thirty minutes later, I'd showered and dressed in an oversized t-shirt. I sat on the sofa and flipped through the options on the TV, searching for a good movie to ease the tension of the evening. Just then, the front door finally creaked open.
Fine as sin in a black button-down, sharp fade, and lips that knew how to lie like a preacher on Sunday, my fiancé walked in smelling like Creed cologne and excuses.
“Hey, baby.”
Viangelo kissed me on the cheek—not the lips—and dropped his keys in the bowl on the table like a man who lived in a hotel, not a home.
“Working late again, huh?” I asked, brows knitted.
“Hell yeah,” he replied, removing his jacket. “I had a client call come in last minute. Numbers weren’t adding up, and the whole damn team had to stay behind and fix it before morning. You know how it is—if I don’t keep these accounts tight, somebody else will snatch ‘em up.”
Viangelo was a financial consultant for high-profile clients—athletes, entertainers, rich folks with more money than sense, all of whom contributed to his impressive annual income of approximately $175,ooo. His work often demanded late nights at the office, especially during the chaotic peaks of tax season or when handling significant portfolio overhauls. Still, it wasn’t as though he was burning the midnight oileverysingle night, despite his recent claims that suggested otherwise. My job required more unpredictable hours than his, but somehow, I still managed to be home, in the moment, and present for the people I loved… especially when it mattered most.
As I observed him with a hint of skepticism, I replied, “Mm-hmm. A call… or even a simple text would’ve sufficed, Angelo,” before rising from my seat to follow him into the spacious kitchen.
“We were hella busy tonight, baby,” was his excuse.
I arched a brow.
Oh, so your phone didn’t die this time?
That was Viangelo’s go-toliewhenever he wanted to duck accountability. It was like he swore the battery jumped out andran away. I guess he had to pull something new out of the excuse drawer that night.
Viangelo swung open the fridge door and then reached for a bottle of water. His eyes briefly scanned the interior until they landed on the glass containers neatly stacked on the second shelf, each holding leftovers from my recentculinary endeavor—still perfectly plated like they were waiting for a magazine shoot.
"You cooked?” he asked, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
“I did,” I replied, giving my neck a slight roll for emphasis.
“I bet that shit was good.”
“I wouldn’t know. I was waiting on you to find out,” I shot back in the same sassy tone.
“Damn, I wish I would’ve knew; I already ate. I hate you went through all that trouble. But I’ma fuck that shit up tomorrow.”
It won’t be the fuckin’ same,I wanted to say, but I swallowed the words.
Viangelo finally noticed the cake sitting on the counter.
“Oh, damn, baby,” he said, realization dawning. “I… I forgot about your big day.”
“Yeah… you seem to beveryforgetful these days.” My voice climbed a notch. “But how, Angelo?! I’ve been talking about this case for the last six months straight!”
