Chapter -12-
Unsurprisingly, Braylon’s apartment is minimalism on level ten.
The patio door is open. Below, through a gauzy blanket of fog, downtown Decatur restaurants and shops glow.
The living room feels simultaneously empty and inviting.
The plush-looking sofa from their FaceTime call.
A wall-mounted flat-screen hovering over a game console with neon green and blue wireless controllers.
Piled on the coffee table are paperbacks, folders, a closed laptop—organized chaos reminiscent of Braylon’s cubicle.
But it’s nothing like Braylon’s old dorm.
Denz hates how his brain works. Hates that tiny, electric ache behind his ribs. Why is he here again? He inhales. Bacon grease and cheese and cinnamon.
After leaving his shoes by the door, Denz finds himself sitting on the kitchen bar, watching all the action unfold.
“No stools yet. Sorry about that,” Braylon comments. Barefoot, he shuffles around. The same white T-shirt from earlier complemented by a pair of gray sweatpants sitting low on his narrow hips.
Denz tries not to stare.
“Picking some up soon,” Braylon continues. “Thanks to you.”
“Me?”
An embarrassed smile unfurls over Braylon’s mouth. “Remember when you called me out for not chatting up any of my old teammates?”
Denz grimaces. “I didn’t mean—”
“No. It’s true.” Braylon laughs while hand-drying a pan. “Remember Lyle Ng?”
“Of course.”
Denz liked all of Braylon’s teammates. Mostly, anyway. They were the perfect mix of loud and funny and softhearted. No one was ever a homophobic asshole after Braylon came out. Or when he introduced Denz as his boyfriend at a group pizza night.
But Lyle was his favorite.
He put extra care into looking after Braylon. He had a habit of dragging Denz into every group conversation as if he understood any of their references or jokes. Like he belonged there.
“I emailed him,” Braylon says while gathering ingredients. “We’re going to set up a time for him to come by soon. Properly catch up.”
“Aww. You’re learning to play nice with other adults.”
Braylon ignores Denz’s sarcastic grin. “Since this is your fault, you’re helping me pick out bar stools.”
A flicker of heat attacks Denz’s cheeks. He looks around. Is he the first person Braylon’s invited over? Has Whit been here? Also, was that a subtle invitation to spend an afternoon furniture shopping with Braylon?
He says, “IKEA challenge accepted.”
When he starts to scoot off the counter, Braylon stops him. “No. Stay there.” A gentle smile creases his lips. “Maybe you’ll learn something this time.”
“Doubt it.”
“At least try?”
Denz pretends the softness in Braylon’s voice isn’t unnerving. “Whatever,” he says, inventorying the kitchen.
Very few dishes sit in the sink near his hips. There’s an apron on a hook outside the pantry. A spice rack beside the four-top electric stove. Rows of Tupperware with prepped meals fill the stainless steel fridge.
“You cook more.”
“I lived alone in London,” Braylon says. “Couldn’t survive off takeaway forever.”
“It’s not a bad life.”
Braylon raises a suspicious eyebrow. “I take it you still don’t cook?”
“You want me to buy a million ingredients? Follow a recipe? Sweat? And for what?”
“Nutrition,” Braylon suggests dryly. “A lovely meal.”
“That’s what delivery is for.”
Braylon shakes his head, amused. He works methodically. He fills small gaps of silence with naming all his favorite dishes to cook and the complicated ones he’s still trying to master.
Denz tries not to stare at the flexing cords of muscles in Braylon’s forearms as he whisks the batter. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. Except, in the kitchen’s bright lighting, on a rainy night that leaves everything sluggish and dreamy, he’s spellbound.
“Are you okay?”
Denz jumps. He recovers before falling into the sink. On the other side of the counter, with a wraparound Union Jack design, is a mug of cold tea.
He wants to smash it.
“Tell me about London,” he requests, instead.
“What about it?”
“Did you like it there?”
“Yes.” Braylon lays the first slice of bread in a pan of sizzling butter. “Loads of beautiful, historical places to visit.”
“Okay, Downton Abbey, chill.”
Braylon smacks his knee with the spatula. “Shut it.”
“What else?”
“Food was good.” Braylon rests his hip against the counter, thoughtful. “Some of it was a bit dodgy. Have you ever had Marmite?”
“No.”
“Don’t. It’s quite tragic. You deserve better.”
Despite his best efforts, Denz grins. “And?”
He hates the affection in Braylon’s voice as he rambles. The way his eyes glaze over, almost euphoric, as he describes places, the weather, getting lost in Soho. But he can’t stop the questions from bubbling up.
“Were the people nice?”
“I got on with my coworkers. People ’round my flat were kind.
” Braylon flips the bread. “London’s like any other city.
Always nice places where you can walk down the street freely.
Then there’s the people who think we don’t belong.
” He presses his forearm to Denz’s—two shades of brown skin.
“Racism doesn’t have a favorite city. It loves them all. ”
Denz hums sadly.
“Was there, um… a special someone?”
A long pause. Braylon rubs his chin stubble, considering. How could anyone in London not instantly fall in love with him?
“ Oh! Yes.”
Braylon snatches his phone from the counter. Denz regrets ever asking. He’s not ready to see a dozen sweet snapshots of Braylon and some British guy who probably looks like a young James Bond.
“I had a cat.”
Denz tilts his head. “A… cat?”
“British Shorthair.” Braylon flips his screen around. “Her name’s Fluff the Magic Kraken.”
She’s a ball of dusky white fur. Cute, but clearly irritated in every photo.
An unexpected laugh chokes Denz. “You named your cat that ?”
For the first time, he notices the knot in his sternum has loosened. So, no boyfriend. No attachments. No lovesick fling waiting for him to come back. Denz can work with that.
“She was lovely. Quite beastly too,” Braylon says. “She didn’t care one bit when I left her with a neighbor to move back here.”
“Jesus, shut up .” Another laugh. “You sound like John Boyega.”
Braylon flips him off.
“London changed you,” Denz notes, not maliciously. Simply a fact. “Even your clothes are—”
“What’s wrong with my clothes ?”
Denz tugs at the collar of Braylon’s shirt, willing himself not to focus on the brief appearance of collarbone. “Y’know other colors besides gray, black, and white exist, right?”
“Says, Mr. I Only Wear Blue.”
Denz inspects himself. Well, shit . He’s wearing the sweater from dinner with his parents.
With an incredulous huff, he says, “You’re different. I’m not.”
“Bullock—” Braylon cuts off when Denz raises an eyebrow. “I hate you.”
They grin at each other, but Denz’s fades too soon. He whispers, “You even changed your name.”
He’s not sulking. Or pouting. Spulking?
Braylon lifts the sandwich onto a plate. Cheese oozes from the sides. He drizzles the bread with maple syrup.
“Bray is what my mom called me,” he says. “When she was… alive.”
Denz has only ever seen one picture of Elyse, Braylon’s mom. The same one framed on an end table in the living room. She’s twentysomething with large hazel eyes, heart-shaped lips. In her arms is a napping, curly-’froed Braylon. He’s four years old in the photo.
“My dad named me Braylon.” He exhales. “Mom shortened it. She thought people would mispronounce it otherwise.”
“Oh.” Denz never knew that.
“Even after she died, I let people call me Bray,” Braylon admits, softer, sadder. “But when Dad passed, I realized I didn’t love that name. I just wanted to hold on to my mom. Keep as many parts of her around as possible.” Another pause. “And now I don’t have either of them.”
Denz’s fingers flex on his thighs. He wants to touch Braylon. Is he allowed? Is that something only reserved for a real boyfriend? Not some asshole who guilt-trips his ex for wanting to be called by his actual name.
He swallows, unsure of what to say next. Maybe that’s the thing about death. Maybe words, no matter how sincere and perfect, are never enough.
A brief emptiness shadows Braylon’s face. Like this apartment. Like his life since graduating college.
He laughs, bitterly. “I didn’t have ‘becoming an orphan before twenty-five’ on my bingo card. Cheers to therapy.” He passes Denz the plate. “Found a lovely therapist. She’s helped loads.”
“Sounds nice.”
“It is.” Braylon smiles. Small and lopsided, but it’s there. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
“ Please . You’re different too.”
“’M ’ot,” Denz says through his first bite.
“Hell no. The heir prince to the 24 Carter Gold empire doesn’t get to come to my flat—”
“Apartment.”
“—insult the way I talk, my exquisite taste in clothing,” Braylon continues, pulling a chilled bottle of water from the fridge for Denz, “and not acknowledge his own issues.”
After a sip, Denz says, “I have none.”
“Fuck off.” Braylon guffaws.
“No. Seriously. I’m perfect.”
“Since when did your life become so obsessively about a job that you’re miserable?”
“I’m not miserable.” Denz sighs. “Fine. I’m not always miserable.”
“Only on rainy Sundays?”
“Or when someone claims Captain Whatever is one of the greatest rom-coms ever.”
“ Captain America: The Winter Soldier, ” Braylon corrects, offended. “And it bloody well is. Fight me.”
“Or when,” Denz says, face wrinkling, “he puts vinegar on his fries.”
“So, basically, all the time.”
“I didn’t come here for a character assassination.”
“No?” Braylon smirks.
“I’m here for this .” Denz aggressively chews another bite. He eyes Braylon with extreme contempt, all the while melting inside at the grilled cheese’s flawless execution. It’s criminal how Braylon is still the one person who knows what he needs the most.
“Why do you want to be CEO so bad?” Braylon inquires.