Chapter -20-
When Denz approaches Skye’s the Limit, he expects to find a disappointed but forgiving Braylon outside. Not an exasperated Whit wearing the facial equivalent of an ax murderer staring down their next victim.
To be fair, he should’ve expected both.
“I canceled dinner plans,” she says through her teeth, “with my wife for this.”
Denz raises surrendering hands, shielding himself. “I didn’t even know you were married!”
“I went to FAMU,” she says.
“Um, sorry ?”
Whit points a sharp gold nail at him, her left eye twitching. Denz promptly shuts up.
“I have a bachelor’s in economics. A minor in business,” she continues. “I don’t need to waste a Friday evening waiting for you to teach me which filter to use on a selfie.”
Denz nods very slowly.
“I’m here because your boyfriend is a great guy who cares. Never asks for anything,” she says. “He deserves better than my bitchiness over you being late.”
He deserves better than me, Denz wants to add.
“But you, Atlanta’s golden boy,” Whit growls. “You don’t get my kindness. My patience. Or my time.”
“I—”
“Fix whatever you did to him. Now .” She walks away.
In her place: Braylon.
Denz takes him in. The tired posture. His gray button-down untucked from his black slacks. The pattern of his loose tie punching Denz in the throat—a navy-and-white design identical to the sweater Denz wore to dinner with his parents.
I’m sorry sits heavy in his chest. He can’t get it out. Silence balloons between them as Braylon’s jaw flexes, his eyes turning sharp and annoyed.
“You didn’t answer my calls,” Denz says.
“You drove all the way here to say that?”
“No.” Denz rubs his jaw. “I’m sorry about today. I—”
He doesn’t want to say “forgot.” Or “failed.” That’s exactly what Kami said about him, and he hates how true it is.
“I didn’t mean to miss this” comes out, another truth.
Braylon stares upward. Past the streetlamps that leave his complexion pale. To the mauve sky where the occasional blue-gray cloud sits. He whispers, “It’s fine.”
“It’s not like this was the big party, right?” Denz steps closer. “The one that decides whether you get the promotion.” The one that’s going to take you away from me, he doesn’t say. “It’s a one-off. We can reschedule.”
Braylon’s chin drops. Anger pinches the skin around his eyes. “It’s not a one-off to them .” He waves a hand toward the building behind him. “They stayed after hours. Their lives aren’t something you can just ‘reschedule.’ You embarrassed me.”
“I didn’t mean—” Denz cuts himself off again.
God, what does he mean?
“Sometimes, Denz…” Braylon exhales. There are so many little reminders in his appearance—the forehead wrinkles, dark stubble, stiff shoulders—that he’s no longer the boy from college who easily forgave Denz’s mistakes.
Who’d rather kiss than argue. “I wish you didn’t miss so damn much in this life trying to be someone you’re not. ”
It’s a kick to Denz’s stomach. The only thing he thinks to say is, “Like the fact that you’re leaving? Again?”
“This isn’t about that.”
“It is, ” Denz argues. He’s shaking. “You dropped that fucking bombshell on me like it was a two weeks’ notice at your job. Like I… we—”
His voice gives out.
They had a deal. Denz’s stupid, unexpected feelings weren’t part of it.
“You’ve always had it figured out,” Denz tells him, the heaviness of the day finally pulling him under. “I wish I didn’t fuck up. That I wasn’t so worried about what the world thinks. What my family thinks.”
“Then don’t—”
“And I wish I would’ve had the guts to tell you the reason I wasn’t sure about London is because I was terrified you’d figure out I wasn’t good enough.”
Braylon’s eyes widen.
“I didn’t get a chance to,” Denz says, voice thick. “You took that from me. You let your dad take that from us.”
Braylon swallows but doesn’t speak.
Good. Denz isn’t done yet.
“I’ve spent my whole life trying to be the right person,” he says. “But I’m not sorry for everything else that’s happened. I’m not sorry we ran into each other. Not sorry we made a deal. Not sorry I kissed you.” He exhales, chest burning. “I’m not sorry for wishing you felt differently.”
About me, another thing left unsaid.
The fists at Braylon’s sides gradually uncurl. His shoulders sag. His features edge into something that’s not quite sulking or pouting. More spulking.
Denz accepts it’s the only response he’s getting.
“Everything’s set up for your party,” he tells Braylon, switching on Work Denz. “The mayor’s team has confirmed. The sponsors too. Donations will be ready for pickup. You don’t need my help for the rest.”
He knows he should leave it at that, but he can’t.
“This is your home, Braylon,” he whispers. “Those teens love you. Your coworkers love you. My family…” A shaky smile nudges his lips. “You fit in here better than I ever did.”
He turns and walks toward the parking lot. He doesn’t wait for a reply.
It never comes, anyway.
The evening starts with a succession of champagne corks flying.
With the bursting flash of cameras.
With a red carpet leading out to Atlas’s rooftop bronzed by the setting sun.
The band revs up and their lead singer, Suki Firestone, an artist signed to Uncle Tevin’s record label, breaks into Thelma Houston’s version of “Don’t Leave Me This Way” like a pro.
Denz called in a second favor to his uncle after DJ Allegro’s cancellation.
From the guests’ reactions, Tevin didn’t disappoint.
In fact, everything about Kenneth Carter’s retirement extravaganza seems to be a hit with this crowd. No complaints, not even about the last-minute change of venue. Denz tries not to be on edge about how well things are going.
Which means, of course, he nearly jumps off the rooftop when Nic taps him on the shoulder. She’s striking in a Ralph Lauren blazer and cropped pants, pale pink to match her lip gloss. “My condolences,” she says, smirking.
“Who died?”
“Your personality, apparently.”
He side-eyes her. “Don’t be a brat. I’m working.”
“You look like Kami at these things,” she says, folding her arms. “Where is she, BTW?”
Denz shrugs. He’s only caught flashes of her metallic Badgley Mischka gown, the dipping sunlight giving the illusion she’s wearing constellations. They haven’t crossed paths. It’s safer that way. Except…
It’s strange to be at a 24 Carter Gold event without her by his side. Kami, who people-watches with him. Who drags him away from boring conversations with equally boring celebrities or politicians. Who laughs at all his tipsy jokes. Kami, who he was unnecessarily cruel to yesterday.
“Are you two still fighting?”
Denz’s eyes narrow. “Who said we were fighting?”
“Your face. Just now,” Nic says. “Is it about her secret boyfr—”
“Uh, I need to go check on the floral arrangements.”
Denz weaves through the noisy crowd. He finds a spot under the spiral staircase leading to the balcony.
From there, he observes the party. He forces himself to avoid checking his phone, to see if a new text from Braylon has arrived.
He’s overloaded with enough nerves, enough regret that every breath is like a fist trying to punch through his rib cage.
He’s not coming .
Denz knows it, and still.
“How’s The Final Word going to get a cover photo of you if you’re hiding?”
Eric steps forward in a classic tux, a champagne flute in one hand and his wife, Julie, on his other arm. She’s glowing—long, dark hair swept up into an elegant ponytail. Her pleated lilac tulle gown does nothing to hide a very pregnant belly.
Eric beams when Denz’s mouth falls open.
“Sorry to greet and run,” Julie says, rubbing her stomach, “but these two are treating my bladder like a trampoline. Everything looks beautiful, Denz.”
“So do you,” Eric whispers, kissing her temple, and then Julie’s gone, moving toward the indoor restrooms.
Denz smacks his shoulder. “What the hell?”
“Ow!” Eric rubs his arm. “Surprise?”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
“Really, Denz? When was the last time we had lunch? Got coffee? Shared an elevator?” Eric rolls his eyes. “I’ve never been introduced to your boyfriend, even though we were at the same parties.”
Denz frowns. “Fair point.”
“She— they are the reason I pulled my CEO nomination.” Eric sips from his glass, gesturing to where Julie once stood. “I didn’t want to put in more work. I didn’t have to. Financially, we’re good.”
“What about moving up? Making a name for yourself?”
Eric laughs, carefree. “You don’t have to get promoted to make a name for yourself,” he says. “ Love what you do. Be great at it. That’s the impact people see.”
Denz bites the inside of his cheek.
“I wasn’t ready to give up quality time with my wife or the twins,” Eric adds. “Not for a position I’d only take because your dad invested so much in me.”
“ Twins .” Denz coughs, then collects himself. “That’s smart.”
“At the end of the day—” Eric motions to where Kenneth holds court, the center of a laughing group. “—I know he’s proud I chose my happiness first.”
Denz studies his dad. The ease with which he moves through conversations.
Everyone surrounding him has their own Kenneth Carter story, a moment he created that changed their world.
Just beyond that, Denz sees the wrinkles around his dad’s eyes.
The slumped posture behind closed doors.
The way this job has aged and pulled from him.
All the seconds, minutes, hours he’s missed from his own life.
But this is what his dad loves. What he wants to do. Denz isn’t sure if his own dedication is built on a foundation of want or obligation anymore.
“I should check on the missus,” Eric says. “She’s been eyeing that seven-tier chocolate cake since we walked in.” He jostles Denz’s shoulder. “See you on the big stage soon, boss.”
Denz doesn’t correct Eric as he jogs off. After a minute, he meanders over to the corner bar. The band’s bouncing through “Single Ladies” and there’s enough people dancing that he can claim a prime spot in front of Jamie.
“You’re quite the hit,” Denz comments.