Chapter -1- #2
His account, @notthatdenzel, started off as a hobby.
A much-needed distraction from the unexpected broken heart that came with his BA in communications.
Subconsciously, Denz always knew he’d end up at 24 Carter Gold.
That didn’t stop him from working hard to prove his position was earned and not solely nep otism.
But social media was his fun weekend activity… until it wasn’t.
He didn’t anticipate the influx of followers. Sponsorships. Paid advertising gigs. Something he could make a small profit from. He’d just wanted out of his own head.
The line edges forward.
Denz scrolls to his last post: a shirtless, fresh-out-of-the-shower photo of him holding up a new energizing face wash. Short, textured sponge curls still damp. Unshaven jawline. It’s not supposed to be a thirst trap, but the droplets of water slipping down his brown chest might suggest otherwise.
He ignores the comments. The usual pile of “hero” and “legend” and “icon.” Words Denz has never associated with himself. Exceeding “good enough” has always been his goal. Anything else is a bonus.
Over the café’s music, names and drink orders are called. Soon, he’s face-to-face with the college-age girl behind the register. Her name tag reads Sophie, with a smiley face in the o . She’s absurdly cheery for a Monday.
“What can I get you today?”
“I have an online order for 24 Carter Gold,” Denz says. “Assorted muffins.”
“Oh, you’re Kami’s little brother!”
“I’m Denz, ” he corrects, trying to mirror Sophie’s perkiness.
“Cool. We’re finishing that up. You can wait at the end.”
Denz shuffles over. Behind the espresso machines, two baristas cue shots and craft perfect cappuccino foam.
One is a tall, middle-aged woman with an armful of colorful tattoos.
The other, Matty, is a classically handsome white guy with freckles and sandy hair.
He’s still newish at Crema, but Denz has already introduced himself.
Intimately .
Denz turns away before eye contact is made. He’s halfway through reading TFW’s review when he hears, “Darjeeling tea with light milk and honey for… Braylon?”
The phone almost slips from his hands.
Denz’s head snaps up. It’s impossible. Matty didn’t just say—
“Darjeeling for Braylon?”
“Over here!”
And, fuck, there he is, cutting through the crowd—Bray Adams. Standing in Crema’s lobby, not London, where he’s supposed to have been for the last three and a half years. Since graduation from UGA.
Denz almost doesn’t recognize him. Broad shoulders hugged by a gray cardigan and white button-up. Traces of dark stubble lining his sharp jaw. Tight curls peeking from beneath a knit beanie. Everything about him, down to his honey-brown skin, is… wow .
Denz swallows hard.
Fuck, no. That’s not how this works. He’s imagined this moment a dozen times.
When… if Denz ever ran into the ex who ripped his heart into confetti, Bray wasn’t going to be hotter than before he moved to another continent.
And Denz would be in his ultimate revenge-sexy form, not wearing unmatching socks with his jaw on the floor.
Bray takes the cardboard cup. “Cheers!”
Denz doesn’t know whether to direct his rage toward Matty’s blushing face or Bray’s ridiculously defined cheekbones. He opts for none of the above. It’s time to leave. He can suffer through a month’s worth of his dad’s ridicule if it means—
“Denz?”
Shit . Did he really waste his three-second escape window thinking about stupid muffins?
When Denz turns, an uncertain smile sits on Bray’s mouth. “’Ello there.”
The light British accent prickles the hairs on the back of Denz’s neck. He hates it. “Hey!” His laugh comes out like a gasp. “It’s… you. Bray.”
“Oh, it’s Braylon. Not Bray.”
“What?”
“I go by my full name now.”
Denz forces himself not to scowl. For nearly all of college, he was Bray. Three of those years, he was Denz’s Bray.
The memory blossoms across his brain like a summer sunset:
It was mid-May in Athens. An overcrowded, run-down two-story house off campus.
A graduation party neither of them should’ve been at.
But, as a freshman, Bray was already fully dedicated to his swim teammates, even the seniors who were leaving.
And Paolo, Denz’s roommate, convinced him to come celebrate his older sister’s newly received finance degree.
In his first year, Denz had done a spectacular job of avoiding parties. Staying out of the spotlight. Being… normal. He hadn’t missed much. Nothing but flat beer, bad music, and a severe lack of interesting conversations.
And then he saw him. Prickly buzz cut, shy smile. Warm brown eyes watching Denz from across the room.
Denz stared back. It was that careful, curious gaze only queer people know. The one used in public when you’re deciding if the other person is trustworthy. If entering their space is safe. Three songs later, Denz went to introduce himself in a semi-dark corner.
And promptly spilled his watery gin and cranberry on Bray’s T-shirt.
“Denz. Your shirt.” He winced. “Fuck, I mean… I’m Denz. And I ruined your sh—”
After a scratchy laugh, a low voice made of velvet said, “Is Denz short for something?”
Denz smirked, suddenly calm again. “Maybe I’ll tell you one day.”
“One day?”
“Are you going to tell me your name?”
Another laugh. Another wave of tickling heat spreading up Denz’s neck. He’d blame the alcohol but that was all over the other boy’s shirt now. A deep maroon spot contrasting with his full pink lips.
“I’m Bray.”
“Short for?” Denz prompted.
“You first.”
Denz snorted. “Come on. You bumped into my drink”—He’ll never admit how the scandalized, amused gasp Bray released in that second almost made his knees weak. Almost. —“so, you owe me!”
Bray leaned in. Their knuckles brushed. The corners of his mouth twitched as he whispered, “Maybe I’ll tell you. One day.”
The memory hangs like a raindrop suspended by a spiderweb in his head now.
Their start. His ending.
“Braylon,” Denz repeats, mashing the name around his mouth like a baby trying beets for the first time. “You’re here. In America. Since…?”
“A bit over a year now.”
Over a year . Denz doesn’t know why it stings. Why he even cares. Braylon is nothing to him. An ex, another man Denz has no attachments to.
“Welcome home,” he says sharply.
Braylon’s response is swallowed by ice crunching in the blender behind the bar. Who needs a coffee-flavored milkshake this early?
“What?”
“You look—” Braylon stops, cheeks hollowing. Denz waits for him to finish. He looks what ? A mess? Like a cat run over twice by an eighteen-wheeler? Braylon clears his throat. “Do you work around here?”
Denz almost rolls his eyes.
“At 24 Carter Gold. I’m an event coordinator.”
“Oh.” Braylon tilts his head. “Your dad’s company.”
“Yup,” Denz says, faking a smile to cover his irritation. “Four years getting a degree just to end up a cog in the family machine. I’m living the dream.”
“I didn’t mean—”
Matty cuts in. “Bakery order for Dense!”
“It’s Denz, ” he corrects, snatching the large box of muffins from Matty’s bony fingers.
“Oops. Sorry, I forgot,” Matty says, holding up apologetic hands while looking anything but. “Kind of like you forgot to call me three months ago. You know, after we—”
“Thanks, Matty!”
Denz is so done. The morning’s already been too long. He doesn’t need to add “one-night stand publicly humiliating me in front of my suddenly back-from-the-dead ex” to his list of New Year’s failures.
He glares at Braylon. “And how’s your dad ?”
The iciness in Denz’s tone doesn’t match the fondness he feels when thinking about Emmanuel.
All the lunches on campus. Virtual Scrabble nights.
But there’s a spreading coldness in his chest when he thinks of his last memory of Braylon’s dad.
The one where Emmanuel told Braylon to pursue a public relations job at a high-profile media outlet in London.
The one where he convinced his son not to wait on Denz. To move on.
Will you come with me? To London?
Braylon’s offer echoes in Denz’s head. He never got to give an answer. Braylon left without him. Because of his dad. Because Denz…
Denz exhales, waiting for an answer.
Braylon’s face hardens. “He’s dead, actually.”
This time, Denz does drop his phone. It thuds against the bar. Cheeks burning, he chokes out, “Your dad—what?”
“Died,” Braylon confirms. “Nearly two years ago.”
Denz goes numb. He scrambles for the right words. Something better than “sorry for your loss,” because that’s so generic, so empty. But his brain doesn’t work quick enough. This awkward, mortifying moment stretches far too long.
Braylon sighs. “We don’t have to do this.”
“Okay,” Denz scrapes out.
He tucks the muffin box under one arm. Retrieves his phone. He doesn’t know why he backs away slowly like any sudden movement might cause Braylon to change his mind. It doesn’t happen. On the way, Denz almost collides with a customer before walking right into a water bottle display.
Plastic scatters across the floor. Denz shrugs unapologetically in Matty’s direction before giving Braylon one last stare. “So. Um. I should. And. See you?”
Braylon’s lips finally part. “Oh, Denz—”
Nope. He can’t stay around to hear whatever Braylon’s decided to say. Denz kicks several bottles in his scramble out the door.
In his car, he tosses the muffin box into the passenger seat. Ignores the texts from Kami asking where the fuck he is. He desperately tries to erase the last ten minutes from his memory.
Forehead against the steering wheel, he whispers to no one, “It’s not too late to start the new year over again, right?”