Chapter -11-
It’s been forty-eight hours since the meeting with his dad, and Denz is good.
He’s great.
He’s—
“Okay, enough,” Jamie says, standing shirtless over him.
Denz is sprawled on the sofa clutching a bag of white cheddar popcorn.
He hasn’t moved, other than for a bathroom break, in nine hours.
The sun’s on a weekend-long retreat, the clouds outside thick and gray. His current situation feels earned.
Judging by the muffled lecture coming from the 5 O’CLOCK brEW T-shirt caught around Jamie’s head, he disagrees.
The black shirt is one size too small. It’s uncertain if that’s by design or from Jamie’s inability to follow basic laundry instructions.
Wavy hair sticking up everywhere, he says, “You’ve been like this for two days. ”
“Like what?”
“Like a puppy who’s waiting for their family to pick them up from the doggy hotel after a vacation, but they never do because they died in the zombie apocalypse.”
“That was… specific.”
Jamie scratches his scruffy jaw. “What happened?”
“Nothing,” Denz lies. “Rough week at work.”
Jamie scoots in close to Denz on the sofa.
Denz loves this about them. How they’ve never required space to be comfortable. Neither has ever subscribed to toxic masculinity bullshit. Cuddles should be a mandatory requirement for any friendship. Honestly, it should have been far easier for them to fake-date one another.
“The CEO thing?” Jamie asks.
Denz exhales into a nearby throw pillow, nodding.
“Want me to call out sick?” Jamie offers. “We can have a WTN.”
“Watching The Proposal won’t fix my problems.”
“I was going to suggest Neighbors .”
“That’s not a rom-com.”
“Blasphemy!” Jamie squeezes Denz’s ankle before standing again. “Zac Efron and Dave Franco’s characters were unquestionably boning. At the very least, trading blow jobs. That’s why Zac’s character is such a prick in the sequel. Jobless and dickless.”
“The perfect storm.”
While Jamie fixes his untamed hair, Denz tosses a handful of popcorn in his mouth. “What happened to you Friday night? I thought you were off?”
Jamie pauses his grooming, cheeks flushed. “Oh, I went to a… basketball game.”
“Is that a joke?”
Jamie averts his eyes. “The Atlanta Eagles are very good this year. They’re going to the playoffs.”
“Atlanta Hawks, ” Denz corrects, squinting at him. “You hate sports.”
“I literally work at three sports bars.”
“Where you’ve been banned from touching any remote for switching the games to House Hunters reruns.”
“People need to know the value of a housing budget and a qualified real estate agent,” Jamie argues. “I’m saving marriages.”
“I doubt that.”
“Anyway…” Jamie drops to his knees, searching under the coffee table for his door keys. “I don’t mind basketball. Sometimes. Jordan invited me.”
There’s a beat. Jamie bangs his head on the table. Cautiously, he peeks from behind Denz’s empty water glass like a mouse hunting for food.
“That’s cool, right?”
When they were younger, seventeen to Jordan’s sixteen, Denz would sometimes wake up to find Jamie and Jordan whispering and giggling. Fighting through another round of Mario Kart. He was never jealous of their connection. His cousin and his best friend getting along? It was the best.
But after Jordan left for UCLA, the trio reverted to a duo again. They never really got back to status quo. Denz chalks it up to getting older. He can’t remember half his high school classmates, despite how often Facebook tries to remind him.
He’s happy they’re hanging out, even if it’s without him.
He shrugs. “Jordan needs friends.”
Something weird passes over Jamie’s face. He blinks it away. “You sure you don’t want me to stay home?”
“All I need is this.” Denz raises his popcorn bag. “If you’re not spending Sunday nights with a hard lemonade, junk food, and watching a Netflix docuseries, you’re doing adulting wrong.”
“You forgot a vibrator.”
“Stay out of my room!”
Jamie jiggles his keys. “Fine. Our next WTN is a Jane Austen adaptation. Persuasion . It’s a rom-com.”
“I’ll be here.” Denz waves a dramatic arm at the sofa. “Living my best life.”
Except, when Jamie’s gone, even with the TV droning and the balcony’s French doors cracked to let in the soft drumbeat of raindrops, it’s too quiet. Denz’s mind drifts. To his dad’s office. His awkward conversation with Kami. All the way back to Auntie Cheryl’s words at the beginning of the year.
You’re young. Life is fun now. Why commit to anything or anyone, right?
He was so confident they were all wrong. No one understood him or his dreams. How he’s always wanted to be the hero people look up to.
But does Denz really know how to be a hero? A role model? As great as his dad?
On the coffee table, his phone buzzes. A text notification. He stares at the name—Formerly Known As Bray—for a long second. All weekend, he’s thought about texting Braylon. But when he’s in his head like this, he’s no fun to talk to.
Braylon’s not obligated to deal with Moody Denz. Not anymore.
Another text. Denz considers leaving it unread until tomorrow, when he’s less grumpy or sad or covered in white cheddar cheese dust. But he can’t help himself.
Formerly Known As Bray
I have an idea. I might need your help again.
sounds dangerous. should i contact the white house? parliament?
Formerly Known As Bray
Don’t be rude.
sorry thats my default mode
whats the idea?
Formerly Known As Bray
Are you interested in “coaching” the STL staff on proper social media content?
Denz squints at his screen. First off, he’s offended by the very violent quotes around “coaching.” As if what he does isn’t real.
Secondly, he has zero time for anything extra outside of concentrating on his dad’s retirement party. He just had his ass handed to him two days ago for less than 110 percent dedication to the company’s future. He can’t possibly help Braylon.
Dusting his hands on his T-shirt, Denz prepares a diplomatic response. Except, his thumbs hover over the keyboard instead of typing. He imagines Braylon on the other side of the screen. That little knot between his brows. Teeth worrying his lower lip.
Braylon’s been aggressively independent most of his life. A product of his mom dying young and Emmanuel’s attempts to balance work and raising his son alone. He hates asking for help.
This isn’t easy for him.
Denz considers his approach. He’s not fast enough.
His screen lights up with a FaceTime call from Formerly Known As Bray.
He freezes.
Why does a video call with his fake boyfriend feel oddly intimate? It’s not like he’s stretched out on the sofa, naked. Not like Braylon hasn’t seen him naked before.
Wow . The excited stir in Denz’s basketball shorts feels like being thirteen again. Between that, and his phone’s noisy deet-deet-deet, Denz ends up panic-answering.
“Hello?”
He’s met with a crooked view of Braylon’s kitchen. There’s a cutting board, slices of cheese, and a loaf of bread. The background noise is a familiar combination of soft music and a sizzling pan.
Offscreen, Braylon yells, “One moment!”
With a curious grin, Denz asks, “Are you… cooking?”
“Yes. Sorry. Ow!”
Braylon’s face finally appears on-screen.
He’s far from the brow-furrowed, nervous man Denz was picturing minutes ago.
Instead, he’s unshaven, curls rumpled, smiling sheepishly.
When he steps back, he’s wearing a wrinkled white T-shirt.
Everything about his appearance is cozy.
Like he hasn’t spent the entire weekend having an existential crisis.
Must be nice .
“I’m making a sandwich.”
“A sandwich,” Denz repeats.
“It’s an incredibly delicate process,” Braylon tells him. “Texting was a nightmare. I called to explain my idea.”
Denz rolls onto his back, holding his phone above his head.
“I’m listening.”
Please don’t be something like lip-synching to Ariana Grande.
“Hold, please.” Braylon disappears. “Fucking bacon grease! How dare you?” He peers back into the camera. “Are you laughing at me?”
“N-no,” Denz says around his choked giggles. “What kind of sandwich are you making?”
“French toast grilled cheese, of course.”
“You—what?” Denz yelps when the phone slips from his hand, smacking him in the face. Switching back to his side to avoid a concussion, he glares at Braylon. “You’re cooking that sandwich? With me on the phone?”
“Is there a problem?”
Denz swallows the fuck yeah he wants to yell, replying, “No” without a hint of longing in his voice.
In college, neither of them were experts in the kitchen.
Denz mostly lived off microwavable foods.
If it wasn’t on the coaching staff’s approved meal list, Braylon didn’t know how to cook it.
But his one specialty was the French toast grilled cheese.
Two slices of warm, egg-and-cinnamon-soaked, pan-fried bread stuffed with Gruyère cheese and bacon, the sandwich finished with a light drizzle of maple syrup.
It was the best thing Denz has ever eaten.
He misses the sandwich, not the way Braylon would cook one for each of them, brushing greasy kisses along the side of Denz’s neck afterward.
“So, uh.” He coughs. “Your plan?”
“You mean my brilliant idea?”
“Yes, that. Whatever.”
Denz watches as Braylon switches between flipping bread and talking.
He wants to create video content for the nonprofit’s socials.
Friendly staff intros spliced together with day-to-day activities.
Rapid-fire Q&A stuff, a tour of the facility.
Unfortunately, Braylon also proposes a dance video, but to Perfume Genius, not Ariana.
To his own surprise, Denz likes the concept.
“I can only Google so much on how to make relatable and informative content,” Braylon says, lifting his phone. “I need an expert.”
“Wow. Is that a compliment?”
“Is it working? Would it help if I said please?”
“Only if you get on your knees too.” Heat flares under Denz’s cheeks. He didn’t mean for it to sound so… suggestive. He almost drops his phone again, stammering, “What I meant to say is—”