Chapter -8-
Formerly Known As Bray
How do astronomers organize a party?
They planet.
you thought this was FUNNY?
Formerly Known As Bray
Sorry. It’s been a busy day at work.
I’m not on top of my game.
you can make it up to me tomorrow
Formerly Known As Bray
Wow! How did I get such a generous fake boyfriend?
luck i guess
Denz can’t believe he’s working his lunch hour. He blames Auntie Eva. And his mom. Jamie and Nic too. Valentine’s Day is fast approaching, and Denz can’t let anything ruin the mayor’s gala.
Including what his fake boyfriend is going to wear.
So, one quick Google search later, he’s standing in front of a two-story building wedged between a small art gallery and a custom T-shirt printing shop. The exterior is white stucco with tall windows. In black lettering, surrounded by a rainbow circle, the sign reads, SKYE’S THE LIMIT .
On the double glass doors leading inside, a message awaits:
For the ones like Skye… you’ll always belong here.
Denz smiles.
Sunlight washes across the interior. Pastel furniture is angled throughout the open space. A rainbow river painted on the cement floor winds through a collection of cubicles. Beyond that, hints of a lounge area, stairs, and an elevator.
Denz knows most of the colorful flags hung on the walls: pride, transgender, bisexual, pan, ace. There are a few he doesn’t immediately recognize. A lavender, white, and dark green one. Another made up of oranges, reds, and pinks. A yellow flag with a purple circle.
He’s met by a pretty, twentysomething Black person with a Skye’s the Limit lanyard. The badge says WHITLEY, SHE/HER. Her sparkly blue nails tap against a defined bicep.
“Can I help you?”
Denz’s eyes search around. Why didn’t he text or call ahead? What if Braylon’s not here? “I’m looking for—”
“Denz?”
The voice comes from one of the cubicles. Then Braylon strides cautiously into the lobby. He grips a mug of steaming tea.
Denz waves awkwardly. “Surprise?”
Braylon blinks owlish eyes. Whitley has one of those should I call 911 or just pepper-spray his ass? expressions. Denz is equally intimidated and awed.
“Sorry. Um, this is Whit.” Braylon gestures toward his coworker, who may or may not be ready to take Denz down with a move she learned in a self-defense course. “And this is Denz. My… boyfriend.”
A tiny, weird zip of heat runs through Denz’s chest at that last word.
“Nice to meet you,” he says to Whit.
She cocks her head. “So this is the guy that has you smiling at your phone like an idiot?”
Smirking, Denz says, “Well, this is new information.”
“It’s false information.” Braylon clutches his mug tighter. “Shouldn’t you be at work? Planning the gala?”
“That’s why I’m here. I’ll explain later.” He turns to Whit. “Now, on average, how often is he smiling at his—”
“That’s quite enough,” tuts Braylon, stepping between them.
Denz shrugs. “Hungry?”
The other part of the reason he’s here is their earlier message exchange.
By the sheer volume of emails Denz has gotten over the last few days, he can tell Braylon’s pouring all his energy into the spring break day party.
In college, between managing classwork, swimming, and a boyfriend, Braylon often forgot to eat if Denz wasn’t there to remind him.
He’s not saying he drove twenty-three minutes in traffic out of concern for Braylon’s poor nutritional habits. He’s simply performing his fake boyfriend duties.
“You want to have lunch?” Braylon frowns. “Here?”
“I do.”
“And you won’t mind if I work while eating?”
“Not at all. I need to answer emails about the gala, anyway.”
For the most part, he’s got everything under control.
The mayor’s staff seems happy. Eric and Connor have his back.
He hasn’t forgotten to triple-check all his Post-it Notes.
But he keeps waiting for Auntie Cheryl to show up and reveal he’s really three cats in a trench coat pretending to be an adult.
An hour or two away from the office can’t hurt.
“I’ll order delivery.” Denz stretches onto his toes to search the cubicles. “Which one’s yours?”
He offers Braylon a giant, billboard-ready grin. Whit appears thoroughly entertained by the exchange. A beat passes before the left side of Braylon’s mouth ticks up.
“Actually, delivery sounds great.”
“Let me get this straight, you eat these”—Denz lifts a fry—“with vinegar now?”
“They’re quite good!” Braylon plucks one from his drenched pile. When he pops it in his mouth, chewing widely, Denz gags.
Braylon’s cubicle can only be described as systemized mayhem.
It’s big enough for a desk, a rolling office chair, and two standard chairs for visitors.
Piled in the empty seat next to Denz is a coat, scarf, and a stack of folders.
Books and papers are everywhere else, just like Braylon’s old dorm room.
All that’s missing is Denz’s gray UGA sweatshirt.
They’ve been working and eating for thirty minutes now.
Denz answers emails. Braylon runs through his list of what’s needed for the day party.
Things like vendors, donors, decorations, permits to host the event outdoors.
The last five minutes, however, have been dedicated to Braylon’s questionable condiment choices.
“Try one,” he requests.
“I’d rather drink bleach.” Denz dips a vinegar-free fry into his ketchup. “It’s bad enough I’m voluntarily eating this trash, anyway.”
Since he’d inconvenienced Braylon with his spontaneous appearance, the least Denz could do was order delivery from The Varsity. He has many regrets.
“You used to love their food,” Braylon comments.
“False.” Denz sips his Varsity Orange milkshake. “I tolerated it because you loved their food.”
“Is that how you remember it?”
“Of course. Sophomore year, right?”
The corners of Braylon’s mouth twitch.
Nothing happened between them at that graduation party when they were freshmen.
Denz had only hooked up with one other guy before then.
An encounter he didn’t even initiate. And Braylon wasn’t out yet.
His anxious jumping at every new voice, thinking it was one of his teammates, didn’t lift Denz’s confidence.
By the end of the night, they parted ways without exchanging numbers.
Then came fall semester, sophomore year. A serendipitous encounter at Miller Learning Center. Denz reaching for the same book as the man he thought he’d never see again.
A fumbled smile as he said, “Hi. Again.”
Braylon’s stuttered, “I-I’m out now. Can we go somewhere and talk?”
Denz didn’t hesitate.
The red VARSITY sign on West Broad Street was a beacon. Denz wasn’t a fan of their very average food or atmosphere. But in a corner of the parking lot, he found new things to love—the crush of orange soda and mustard and tingling pressure from Braylon’s kisses.
He remembers it like this: a prickly buzz cut under his palms. Shaky hands tugging at his shirt. Even clumsier fingers unzipping his jeans. Hot breaths along his bare abdomen. A tentative tongue, lips closing around him.
An effortless first encounter? Not even close. But it was more than enough for Denz.
Too much, actually. Now, he’s discreetly crossing his legs. The heat in his belly climbs fast into his cheeks. It doesn’t help that his eyes can’t tear away from Braylon licking malt vinegar off his fingertips. Denz clears his throat.
“So, what else has changed? You know, about you?”
Braylon tilts his head, confused.
Denz motions to the soggy fries. “This. The accent. Your hair. Tea—”
“What’s wrong with tea?”
“You used to love Americanos!”
“In college, yes.”
“Sorry to disappoint you,” Denz says, agitated, “but that’s the only Braylon I know. Not by choice.”
A pause. Braylon frowns. “What about you, then?”
“What about me?”
Braylon crosses his arms. Denz doesn’t stare at the shape of those biceps under his black Henley. He merely makes a mental note to hit the gym soon.
“When did blue become your favorite color?” Braylon asks.
“It’s not.”
Braylon gestures to the navy-and-white-striped Fendi sweater Denz is wearing. “You wore the same color to dinner with your parents.”
Out of all the disastrous things from that night, Braylon remembers that ?
“All my other shirts were wrinkled” is Denz’s only defense.
“And the other day? At Crema?”
Denz scowls. “What’s your point?”
“I should know these things about you,” Braylon reasons. He rests his elbows on the desk, leaning forward, subjecting Denz to infuriatingly nice collarbones. “We can’t convince anyone we’re dating if I don’t know what you like or hate now.”
Denz’s sigh echoes.
They’re alone in the center. Whit left to run errands. Denz watches the door, thinking.
The second he was permanently back in his family’s orbit, Denz had to change. Everything down to his wardrobe shifted. He was Denzel Carter again. He had an image to present. Who he was in Athens isn’t who he was expected to be in Atlanta.
Thing is, he’s never had to share those differences with anyone before.
“I hate wine,” Denz admits.
“Have you—”
“Don’t tell me I haven’t found the right one yet,” Denz interrupts. “I’ve tried them all. Perks of the job. It’s a waste of time.”
“Incorrect, but fair.”
“Roller coasters make me sick now,” Denz says. “It’s… not pretty.”
“Devastated we can’t fake-date at Six Flags.”
Denz hates how easily his own mouth mirrors Braylon’s smirk. “Avocado on toast is overrated and trash.”
“Wow. How can your opinions continue to get worse?”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You contain rubbish,” Braylon counters.
“Also…” Denz ignores Braylon’s indignant expression when he plucks a single, drippy fry from his pile. “People who wear socks in bed are monsters.”
He chews vindictively, frowning even though— fuck him —the vinegar’s sharpness with the fries’ saltiness is delicious. God, he’s never telling anyone.
Braylon coughs. “Would that be before or after…”