Chapter -6-
Denz can’t believe he’s back at the scene of the crime.
What is his life now?
He finds Braylon seated inside Crema at a corner table. Slung across the back of his chair is a black messenger bag with a Skye’s the Limit logo, the Freestyle Script font designed in a rainbow palette. His snug gray sweater hugs his biceps and shoulders.
Denz almost forgets how to order.
For a long moment, they sit in silence. Braylon sips his tea. Denz’s left leg jogs under the table.
Shit, when did starting a simple conversation with someone who’s seen you naked become the toughest part of my day?
His cheeks warm. No, no . His brain can’t go there. But it does. Flashbacks of Braylon stretched out on his dorm bed wearing nothing but a sleepy smile, his fingers drawing lazy circles on Denz’s bare shoulder, entices a twitching half erection in his slacks.
“So, uh…” He wiggles in his chair. “Come here often?”
Fuck, really? What’s next? I’ve lost my number, can I have yours?
“Sometimes,” Braylon says evenly.
“And you drink… tea now,” Denz points out, because he apparently has the conversational abilities of a thirteen-year-old boy on a first date while his parents eagerly spy from two tables over.
“Hard not to get into tea while living in London,” Braylon deadpans. “The company I worked for had shit coffee. The tea was exceptional. Is that a problem?”
“Nope.”
Enjoy your sewage water, Denz thinks, but doesn’t say.
“You’re making a face,” Braylon says.
“I’m not,” Denz argues, clearly making a face.
“If you have a prob—”
“Let’s just discuss how we’re gonna Wedding Date this situation of ours,” Denz suggests.
“How we’re going to what now?”
“You know.” Denz gesticulates wildly. “ The Wedding Date ?”
“Is that a reality show? I’m not into those.”
Denz growls so deeply, Matty almost drops a mug behind the bar. Thankfully, he just got on shift. Otherwise, Denz suspects his iced latte would have an extra hint of fuck you in it. “Since when are you not into reality shows?” He sighs. “ The Wedding Date is a movie. A rom-com.”
“Haven’t seen it.”
“Of course not. I forgot you don’t know real cinema. Only Marvel movies.”
“Those are quality films,” Braylon says. “ Captain America: The Winter Soldier is a proper rom-com. Friends-to-lovers-to-enemies. Amnesia. Star-crossed lovers. Don’t get me started on the Captain Marvel films. Carol and Maria obviously—”
“Boring,” Denz interrupts. He gives a quick plot overview of The Wedding Date .
Braylon’s forehead wrinkles. “But you’re not paying me. Are you?”
“No!”
Something flashes in Braylon’s eyes, the tiniest shift in the corners of his mouth. Denz focuses on his drink.
“We need to establish expectations. Like in the movie. We need to be on the same page.”
“About how this is going to work? Between us?”
“Exactly!”
Braylon pulls a fountain pen and leather notebook from his bag. At the top of a clean page, he writes, The Rules of Dating. He underlines the title.
Denz blinks. “You’re writing this down? By hand?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Hello.” Denz waggles his phone in the air. “You have one of these.”
“I like writing by hand.”
Braylon squints at Denz like it’s a piece of information he should remember.
And he does. From semester after semester where note-taking was an essential step in how Braylon managed a 3.
9 GPA as a trophy-winning student athlete.
Most nights, his highlighter-dyed fingers would angle Denz’s jaw for a long kiss between chapters before Braylon returned to leaving notes in the margins of thick textbooks.
Denz’s own study habits were the perfect blend of stress and all- nighters. He escaped UGA with a 3.7 GPA. He’s not ashamed of how.
“First,” Denz says, opening a new memo in his phone. “The places we need to act like a couple. The mayor’s gala, obviously.”
“I suppose any event your family will attend?”
“Coworkers too.” Denz lifts his eyes. “Not that you need to make random appearances.”
“Where else? Hypothetically. If it’ll help our causes.”
“Well…” Denz thinks for a moment. “There’s an engagement party for a well-known family. That’s in early March. My dad’s retirement party is later that month.”
Braylon scribbles notes. His tiny handwriting is still adorable and unreadable. Denz’s stomach knots at all the unwanted memories flooding his brain.
“You don’t have to show up. I promised you a one-on-one with the mayor on Valentine’s—”
“What if I did? Go to all of them?”
“Why would you?” Denz asks.
Braylon straightens. “One meeting with the mayor might not be enough for what I want to accomplish.”
“Which is?”
“I’m organizing a function for the teens at the nonprofit. During spring break.”
Denz hears Jamie’s voice in the back of his head. “What do you do now?”
“I’m the program director for Skye’s the Limit, an LGBTQ+ youth center.” That explains the messenger bag. “I’m trying to expand our reach. Buy-in from new donors is a struggle.” His mouth fights off a frown. “An endorsement from the mayor is a start, but I’m thinking bigger.”
Denz nods.
“And I—” Braylon rubs the back of his neck. “—could use your help. Specifically.”
“Planning the event?”
“Yes. That.” The edges of Braylon’s face soften. “School breaks aren’t easy for these kids. No friends around. Unhealthy home situations. Loneliness. They need a safe space where they feel wanted. Celebrated.”
Denz rests his chin on his knuckles. He’s never heard Braylon so passionate. It reminds him of his own dad talking Audrey off the ledge on Marvelous Weddings .
“Also,” Braylon says, “we can’t show up as a happy couple on Valentine’s Day and fake break up the next morning.”
“Good point. When should we, uh. Call things off?”
“April sixth. After my event.”
“April sixth,” Denz repeats while typing in his phone. His eyes follow Braylon’s hand as he writes:
#1: Pretend to date whenever in public.
#2: End Date—April 6th
“Next—” Denz has to clear his throat several times. “Physical boundaries.”
“Like holding hands?”
“Yes. But, um, also…”
It’s Denz’s turn to frown. Why does this feel like some recurring nightmare? Like he’s stuck in high school sex ed and instead of a carefully labeled diagram of the male body, it’s him, standing naked in the front of the class, everyone laughing.
He whispers, “Kissing.”
His family knows what he’s like. Remembers how he was with Braylon. They weren’t over the top with their PDA. But there was cuddling by the fireplace. Lingering stares, soft touches in public.
And yes, kissing . A serious relationship would require that. Right?
A quiet beat. “Only with verbal consent,” Braylon says, his voice rough.
Without looking at each other, they both add another bullet point. Crema’s eclectic music playlist shifts from a pop song to an acoustic cover of a Prince hit.
“Should we—” Denz’s eyes trace from the stubble on Braylon’s jaw to his bobbing Adam’s apple as he slurps more tea. “—have rules about… other forms of touching?”
“Do you mean hugging?”
“Kinda?”
“What? Touching your back? Hand on your hip?”
“Sure?” Denz’s cheeks flush. Fuck Jamie Peters for getting in his head like this. “But, well, actually…”
“Sex?” Braylon says flatly.
“Yes? Er, maybe?”
“Why would that be an option?”
This time, Denz’s screeching “I don’t know” does startle a mug out of Matty’s hands.
“How would having sex in front of your colleagues— your family —make our fake relationship more legitimate?”
“I—” Denz stops. His brain’s too preoccupied with how he’s going to murder his best friend, hide the body at the bottom of Lake Lanier, move to New Mexico, and get away with it.
Braylon bristles in his silence.
“Sorry. Never mind.” Denz’s eyes lower. “No sex.”
Aggressively, Braylon scribbles, #4: NO SEX .
“Anything else?”
Yeah, my self-esteem. A new life. A time machine so I can travel back to Old Denz and tell him not to talk to the cute boy with the buzz cut at a stupid graduation party.
“Jamie and I were gonna FaceTime. While I was at work,” Denz says instead. “You know, so my coworkers see us doing couple-y things.”
“I’m quite busy at work. Dedicating time for that seems counterproductive.”
Of fucking course . Why did Denz think this is the same Braylon who would call him during class to ask about dinner or where he left his swimming goggles. This tea-drinking, scruffy-faced, talks-like-the-long-lost-son-of-Idris-Elba isn’t that Braylon.
“I could,” Braylon’s tone softens, “text you.”
“Text?”
“Yes. Like, jokes. Things to make you laugh.”
Denz grins slyly. “What kind of jokes?”
“Not that kind .” Braylon kicks his ankle. “Don’t be cheeky.”
“Fine. Text, not sexts,” he narrates while adding another bullet point to his list. “But we have to do social media.”
“Do what with it?”
“Look like a couple,” Denz says, annoyed. “You’d be surprised how invested people get watching a relationship’s success online.”
People like Auntie C.C., who has eyes everywhere.
“Selfies,” Denz explains, “us doing normal, cute things.” When his eyes retrain on Braylon, he’s grimacing. As if Denz suggested mandatory matching-outfit photos.
Braylon sighs. “I prefer we not.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to be stalked by your eighty thousand overzealous followers.”
“They’re harmless.” Denz pauses, backtracking. “Wait, do you follow me?”
“What? No!” Pink spreads down Braylon’s neck. “I mean, technically?”
Denz raises a suspicious eyebrow.
“It’s occupational research,” Braylon insists. “I like to keep up with who our teens are into. Who’s trending. They’re proper big fans of your content, by the way.”
“Are they?”
Braylon nods. “So, I may have perused your account. On a strictly professional level.”
Denz fights off a smirk.
So, Braylon follows @notthatdenzel. Because the teens he works with think Denz is cool, or whatever. He’s not going to make a big deal about it. He’s certainly not sitting taller, shoulders cocked, preening like a damn peacock.
“If it’s all right, I’d like to keep my personal life private,” Braylon requests.