Page 66 of Before I Say I Don't
Roman: Oh, okay. Has he made it home?
Me: Yes… a couple of hours ago. But what are you doing?
Roman: I’m trying to see you for a few hours… maybe watch a movie or two.
I smirked, fingers flying.
Me: Really, Roman? You act like we didn’t just spend dang near the entire weekend together.
Roman: Yeah, I know. But it gets lonely in this spot. Besides, I cooked, and I can’t eat all this shit by myself.
Seconds later, a picture popped through—fried catfish, collard greens, mac & cheese so creamy it glistened, and cornbread that looked like it whisperedhallelujahwhen it came out the oven.
My mouth watered, while my body saidWhere’s my fork?
Apparently, I wasn’t texting back fast enough.
Roman: I mean, that’s if you can get out.
It felt like he was daring me.
Me: I’m not a little girl. Lol. Yes, I can leave. He’s asleep anyway. It’s not like he’ll miss me. Give me about an hour.
Roman: Bet. You remember the code?
Me: Yes.
Roman: Aight. Let me know when you’re coming up.
Me: Okay.
I did a dash to the bedroom, praying Viangelo was still asleep. But if he wasn’t? I was still leaving. It wasn’t like anything exciting was happening there.
He was knocked out, snoring like guilt had weight. Which meant his weekend was long and his conscience was short. I stood there a beat, looking at the man I was supposed to marry, trying to count the flags I’d painted white. How did I miss so much? Was it the charm? The dimples? The way he could flip a lie so smooth it sounded like concern? Was it the sex—back when we were actually having it? Or was it the grief—me without Mama, him without his dad—two people leaning on each other until leaning turned into living?
Be honest, Kam: it was all of it. The attention, the dates, the “I got you’s… even when he didn’t.
I went to my dresser, grabbed a pair of leggings and a soft tee, then hit the shower. Twenty minutes later, I came back out with my edges laid, a hint of gloss I almost wiped off, the good perfume, and the black leather bag that meant I wasn’t just going to check the mailbox. I didn’t plan on staying the night at Roman’s, but the way I was packing light—phone charger, bonnet, toothbrush—said otherwise.
Viangelo stirred, then pushed up on an elbow. “Where you going?”
“Danica’s,” I lied smoothly, sliding on my shoes.
“Damn,” he half-laughed, half-complained. “You sure been going over to her crib a lot lately. Why can’t she ever come over here?”
Because for one, she doesn’t like you, nigga,I almost said, the words burning the back of my throat.
Viangelo complaining about me going over her house had me taken aback. If there was one thing herarelyquestioned, it was me staying the night at Danica’s or just going over for whatever. Viangelo knew our bond ran deep, and with the wedding so close, he usually assumed every late-night linkup had something to do with planning. Even before Roman slid back into the picture, Danica’s house had always been my safe cover. So I knew that was one place he’d never second-guess and the only excuse he never bothered to poke holes through… until then.
“It’s easier for me to go to her. She has kids.”
“I understand all that, but damn, your fiancé just got back and you wanna leave?
“Chill, Angelo.” I slung the bag over my shoulder. “I’ll be gone an hour or two… three at the most.”
He squinted. “Chill? Since when you start saying chill?”
“Since now.” I picked up my keys. “I’ll be back. We just gotta discuss some last-minute things about the wedding.”
