Chapter -14- #2
“I’d want Nic to recite a poem I wrote for him,” Kami goes on. “We’d be somewhere intimate and comfy, like Mom and Dad’s backyard.”
Denz smiles harder.
Kami’s eyes flick to a tipsy Emily. “And I’d wear something less…”
“Flashy?”
“Gauche.”
Denz almost loses it. Kami rotates to face him. “What about you?”
“What about me?”
Her gaze slides to Braylon, who’s dutifully listening to Warner’s high school football coach recite how he set them up. When Denz doesn’t follow, she hisses, “ Seriously? As much as you harass me about Suraj, you never thought about your own relationship?”
Denz wants to give Kami the easy answer: No. Never again . He believed in The One once. He’ll be damned if he gets burned twice.
A beat passes.
In his periphery, Braylon’s chatting with Kim and Connor at the table next to theirs. Denz wants to hate how gorgeous he is. His stupid, sometimes British, accent. Everything about this version of Braylon. But he can’t.
To Kami, Denz says miserably, “Sometimes.”
Kami squeezes his hand on the table like she knows whatever he’s not saying. How could she? Even Denz can’t figure out what’s happening in his head these days.
Eventually, the speeches end. The music is cranked up.
Denz relocates to the bar. He watches the world’s most rhythmless dancing over another martini.
On his right, Kami triple-verifies the checklist on her phone.
She has the feral look of a woman desperate for a glass of wine and an excuse to kick off her heels. That’s his cue to step in.
But she turns to Braylon and says, “You know what I could use?”
Braylon raises a curious eyebrow.
“A dance.”
“I’d love to,” Braylon says as Denz stares, wide-eyed.
“Wait, what the—”
“Fantastic,” Kami cuts in, side-eyeing Denz before grabbing Braylon’s hand. She leads him to where couples are swaying near the fountain.
Denz blinks. There’s a sudden tightness in his chest as Braylon twirls Kami around.
A burn in his belly that can only be the alcohol when Kami tosses her head back, laughing.
From here, their banter appears natural, as if they haven’t missed a beat, even though it’s been years since they interacted like this.
It’s everything he and Braylon haven’t been so far: effortless .
“Wow,” Jordan says, sidling up. “He looks happy.”
“Who?” Denz whispers.
“Braylon, obviously.”
Denz can’t take his eyes off them. Braylon’s clumsy attempt to dip Kami. The way they keep tripping over each other’s feet.
“Bet he’s missed this. Being around us,” Jordan comments.
Denz gives a sharp laugh. “Why would he?”
It’s ridiculous. Their family’s chaotic. There’s never a moment off. Why would anyone voluntarily be a part of this?
Jordan shrugs. Then, the corners of his mouth lift. “I don’t know, cuz. Probably the same reason you look so jealous watching them.”
Denz wheezes. Jealous? Of what? He doesn’t care that Kami’s giggling into Braylon’s chest. The stupid grin Braylon’s wearing.
Jordan swigs his vodka soda with lime, eyeing him with a devious interest that should only be reserved for Auntie Cheryl, not his favorite cousin.
“I don’t—I’m not.” Denz shakes his head. “It’s fake, remember?”
“Sure.” Jordan pats his arm. “Keep telling yourself that.”
And Denz does. While finishing his drink. For the long minute he catches the aunties whispering to each other, studying Braylon and Kami from a few feet away.
It’s what he needed. For them—and his dad—to fall in love with Braylon again. To believe their lie.
What he really needs is more alcohol.
Denz flags down a bartender. He drowns all the weird thoughts preventing him from doing what he’s here to do—be a supportive brother, look like a confident and competent future CEO—in a highball glass of top-shelf vodka with a cute lemon wedge. He’s okay.
He’s—being knocked sideways by a breathless Braylon.
“Um, are you drunk?” Denz says, annoyed. “I’m trying to—”
“We’re in trouble.”
Denz takes him in. Wild eyes, sweaty brow, cheeks darkening by the second. “What’s wrong?”
“My boss is here.”
Denz’s forehead wrinkles as if to say, And?
Of course, Braylon’s panicking. Just like in college. Every test and essay, swim competition, silly fight with Denz that turned out to be an excuse for great make-up sex.
Denz probably shouldn’t be thinking about that right now. Probably shouldn’t be ordering a new drink either. But, well, here he is.
“Listen,” he says after a sip. “The Sedwicks are entitled asshats, but they’re also very generous with their donations. Tax write-offs. Good press. All that jazz.”
Braylon frowns. “I’ve never lied to my boss before.”
“You’ve never faked a sick day?”
“I don’t fake sick days,” Braylon snaps.
“Only relationships, huh?”
Admittedly, Denz enjoys the flash of annoyance in those brown eyes. The hint of canines when Braylon’s seconds away from growling. He wonders what Braylon might do with that mouth if…
Oh God . Why doesn’t anyone ever water down the liquor at these things? Denz is one gulp away from tipsy.
He shakes it off. “Just go talk to her.”
“She’s busy talking to someone else .”
Denz follows Braylon’s eyeline to an older white woman with grays streaking her businesslike blond bob. She’s like any other guest here. But next to her is—
“Fucking fuck of all the fucks,” Denz says under his breath.
Why? Why does his dad have to know everyone in Atlanta? Why is he escorting Braylon’s boss in their direction?
“What do we do?” Braylon asks.
“Change our names?” Denz suggests. “Find a couple of bodies in the morgue that look like us, stage a fire, fake our deaths, then use all my frequent flyer miles to relocate to Antarctica?”
“Excuse me, what ?”
“Drink this,” Denz instructs, passing off his glass to Braylon. There’s no reason to panic. This is Denz’s area of expertise. Lying under pressure. “Follow my lead.”
“Isn’t that how we ended up—”
Denz grabs Braylon’s free hand. Squeezes three times like they used to whenever the other was on the verge of a meltdown. Braylon’s face softens.
“We good?” Denz asks.
Braylon chugs the vodka, nodding.
“Here they are.”
Kenneth strides forward in a navy velvet Giorgio Armani tuxedo jacket. An Auntie Eva pick from New York Fashion Week. “Son, I was just having the most fascinating conversation with Nora Bridger,” he says, too boisterous. “Who just happens to be your boyfriend’s boss.”
Denz grins tightly.
Up close, Nora resembles a young Helen Mirren. Short, elegant yet not impersonable. Her wrinkles somehow elevate her beauty. The black gown she’s wearing has understated lace details. Her warm smile is inviting in a way Denz appreciates.
“I wasn’t expecting to see you tonight, Braylon,” she says.
Braylon tugs at his collar.
“He’s here with my son, Denzel,” Kenneth jumps in.
“Oh, I know you very well,” Nora says a little too cryptically for Denz’s liking.
“You do?”
“You’re the one all the teens at the center adore.” Nora turns to Braylon, ecstatic. “He’s @notthatdenzel, right?”
“The one and only.”
A wave of unexpected endorphins from Braylon’s endearing tone assaults Denz.
“I invited him to help out with our socials, remember?” Braylon says.
Nora nods like it’s gradually coming together. Her eyes lower to where Denz is still holding Braylon’s hand. “I didn’t know you two knew each other… in that way.”
Kenneth’s mouth puckers.
Blush reddens Braylon’s face. “Well, yes,” he stammers. “Thing is—”
Denz clears his throat. “Nice to meet you, Nora. I’m Denzel Carter,” he says smoothly, extending his other hand. “Event coordinator and social media director for 24 Carter Gold.” He swallows. “Also, Braylon’s boyfriend.”
Braylon squeezes his hand three times.
“ Oh . Boyfriend?” Nora blinks.
“Yes.”
In his periphery, Denz can see his dad carefully observing their interaction.
“He never mentioned dating anyone. Not that I’m privy to that kind of information about my staff. I figured with the kind of attention your family gets…” Nora’s voice drifts off.
Braylon coughs hard.
“We’ve kept it low-profile,” Denz explains. “For our careers. Braylon talks nonstop about his goals for Skye’s the Limit.”
Nora smiles proudly.
“And Denz is vying for CEO after I retire this month,” Kenneth adds. His suspicious eyes continue to roam over them.
“Wonderful!” Nora claps. “The company’s in great hands. Braylon’s also up for a promotion. Lots of responsibility. A big move too.”
Denz squints when Braylon laughs sharply. Whatever questions he has about Braylon’s reaction are derailed by Nora asking, “How long have you two been together?”
“October,” Braylon mumbles just as Denz reflexively says, “Early January.”
They both freeze, mouths open.
“I mean,” Denz stutters.
“It’s kind of,” Braylon attempts.
Nora tilts her head, confused. Kenneth rocks on his heels in that impatient way Denz recognizes from childhood.
With a deep breath, he collects himself.
“January, officially. After the holidays. But we started seeing each other again around Halloween.” An unhealthy amount of sweat dribbles down his spine. “It’s a funny story.”
Denz recounts the same reunion story Braylon told on Valentine’s Day.
He recites what he remembers. The party and the doughnut, their long walk through the city.
He clocks the unanticipated tenderness shifting through his dad’s features, as if he’s really hearing the story this time. Like he believes it.
“A second-chance romance,” Nora gushes. “How beautiful.”
Kenneth nods his approval.
Denz feels his heart slow to its normal, steady rhythm.
As one song fades into another, Braylon says, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve yet to dance with my gorgeous boyfriend.” His eyes land affectionately on Denz. “I’d hate to waste such a lovely party.”
Nora says, “We’ll talk more at the offices.”
Braylon ushers him toward the fountain. On the way, he steals a shot glass off a waiter’s tray, wincing as he downs it in one swallow.
Denz laughs.
Unfortunately, their dancing is like two plastic Ken dolls shoved together. Middle-school-level awkwardness. They fight over who should lead, then who shouldn’t as they collide with more than one couple.
“Have you always been this horrible?” Braylon asks.
“You’re no Usher, either.”
“You’re like a drunk Ewok.”
Denz rolls his eyes. “Has anyone ever explained to you what rhythm is?”
After the first chorus, a miracle happens. Braylon’s hands settle on Denz’s hips. Denz’s arms lock around his neck. They’re buzzed, stepping on each other’s feet, but it works. Somehow, it feels like… them .
Braylon’s soft baritone voice sings, “And you take me the way I am.”
“Oh my God.” Denz cackles. “You know the words ?”
“It’s a good song!”
Evidently. It’s been played hundreds of times during engagement announcements, wedding receptions, and romance movies Denz has seen.
But this is a startling revelation. After so many years together, Denz thought he knew everything about Braylon.
But he guesses that’s the thing about great relationships:
You can spend a lifetime with someone, and they never fail to surprise you with another side of themselves.
Long fingers squeeze his waist. Denz’s eyes lift. “Thanks,” Braylon mumbles. “For what you did back there.”
“It’s in the agreement,” Denz insists. “You lie for me. I lie for you.”
“You do realize how problematic that sounds, right?”
“Tell that to Margaret Tate and Andrew Paxton.”
“Who?”
“From The Propo —You know what? Never mind.”
In the distance, something that sounds like an unhinged lawn mower cranks up. Then, out of nowhere, Denz sees them.
Snowflakes .
They twirl in the air. Fall gently on tables. Across the guests’ faces. Gleeful laughter erupts, the Sedwicks cheering drunkenly. As Emily tries to gather white flurries on her palms, Kami stands proudly in the background.
So, this is her surprise. She’s a fucking genius.
Denz looks back to Braylon. Tiny flakes catch on his eyelashes. The dizzying mix of vodka and nostalgia has words leaving Denz’s lips before his brain can parse them.
“Can I ki—”
Braylon’s mouth meets his, cutting him off.
It means nothing, Denz tells himself.
The pressure Braylon applies. His own shaky exhale. The tongue teasing his lips apart. His fingers grazing the short hairs at the base of Braylon’s neck. He adds it all up and it equals not a single thing .
He pulls away first, half shouting, “I’m drunk!”
“Me too,” Mr. Sedwick says as he staggers by.
Braylon dusts snowflakes from his curls. “I’m quite out of it myself.” His nose scrunches, like he’s contemplating the last two minutes with extreme regret. “Probably best not to drive home tonight.”
He’s right. Denz could call a rideshare. It’d be expensive and, on a Saturday night with traffic and construction, the gardens are at least a forty-five-minute trip for him. Over an hour for Braylon. In the morning, Denz would have to get a way back to pick up his car, but—
“Maybe we should get a hotel?” Braylon blurts.
“Together?”
“Yes. No. Same hotel. Maybe the same room? But separate beds.”
Braylon’s scrambling somehow takes the weight off Denz’s chest.
“There’s a couple nearby,” he says. “I could get us a company discount.”
Braylon takes a wobbly step back. “So, shall we?”
Why not? Denz can’t imagine things getting any worse than everything else that’s happened tonight.