Page 65 of Before I Say I Don't
I didn’t look up right away. I broke the warm biscuit in half. With my pinky finger, I gracefully turned the page, completely absorbed in the story before me. The floorboards announced Viangelo crossing the room.
“Damn,” he said, stepping in front of the TV, his solid frame blocking the screen entirely. “No call while I was gone? No text? No warm welcome now that I’m back?”
I slowly lifted my gaze to meet his, taking my time. “Oh. Hey.” I nonchalantly popped a fry into my mouth, savoring the spice and crunch. “How was your trip?”
“You serious right now?”
I shrugged slightly, maintaining my focus on the book as my eyes drifted back to the sentence I had been reading.
“You asked a question… I answered,” I calmly replied.
Viangelo laughed once, no humor. “Trip was straight,” was all the detail he offered. “You good?”
“Mm-hmm.” I tapped the iPad to highlight a line, then lifted the biscuit, swiped honey with my thumb, and licked it clean. “Want some chicken?”
He blinked, like I’d asked him to solve a riddle. “What?”
“Spicy. Biscuit’s mine, though,” I said, not bothering to lift my eyes from the pages of my book. “But you can have a thigh.”
“Nah, I’m good.”
He crossed to the couch and dropped onto the cushion beside me like his presence alone might reel me back in.
“You didn't call me once. Even when we argue, you still hit me with ‘goodnight’ or ‘good morning," he commented, a hint of hurt lacing his voice.
“You didn’t reach out either… not until this morning at least,” I countered, ever so slightly defensive. “Balance,” I added, taking a bold bite out of the crispy drumstick.
Viangelo watched me chew… I watched my book.
“Well, I take it you’re not cooking today?” he prodded after a moment of silence.
“Nope!” I retorted with a satisfying pop of my lips, enjoying the defiance.
Viangelo stared a beat longer. Finally, he let out a resigned exhale and leaned back into the plush cushion.
“What you reading?”
“A story about a woman who finally stops allowing others to disturb her peace. Great plot.”
In response, Viangelo let out a scoff, stood, then pressed his lips to my forehead in a tender gesture, and murmured, “I missed you. I’ma go shower and lay down.”
“Okay,” I simply replied.
He shook his head and kept walking.
Three hours slid by, and I finally hit a stopping point in my book. Sure, I could’ve been combing through a case file, but I was one of those lawyers who treated weekends with a quasi-religious reverence.
Through experience, I had learned that burnout rarely announces its presence with a polite knock. Instead, it creeps in quietly—it shows up in forgotten arguments, sloppy motions, or, worst of all, snapping at the people I care about. Folks loved to glorify “Team No Sleep,” as if wearing exhaustion like a badge of honor, but I knew better. In all honesty, it’s an eviction notice on a person’s health. And I just so happen to like my edges intact, my body not breaking down, and my emotions stable enough so I wouldn’t lash out in tears during a heated discussion. So whenever I heard phrases like “No Days Off,” I would simply look away and sip my glass of wine.
Fighting my battles in court required a mind that was alert and invigorated; anything less would be fodder for the ruthless courtroom; the courtroom would eat me alive.
With that thought lingering in my mind, I powered down my iPad, rose from the sofa, and stretched my weary muscles. Just as I settled back into my thoughts, my phone vibrated, pulling my attention sharply back to reality.
Roman: You good? I ain’t heard from you.
A smile crept across my face.
Me: Hey! Yes! Sorry, I was reading. You know I get lost in a book like rent’s due and the pages are my paycheck. Lol.
