Page 151 of I Think They Love You

It hits him like a tsunami. He’s not alone.They’re here. And no one looks mad, annoyed, or disappointed in him. He doesn’t have to deal with the weight of what’s happened by himself.

At least, not yet.

He doesn’t know how many seconds pass before they circle him. No questions are asked. It’s as if they saw it in his red-rimmed eyes, how quickly he was breaking, and immediately caught the shards.

The nightfinallyends with his tears on Nic’s shoulder. Jordan’s hand rubbing circles on his back. His face buried in Jamie’s neck.

With his mom whispering, “One breath at a time, sweetheart. Just one.”

It rains the next day. And the day after. For three straight days, the sky is one heavy, gray weighted blanket over Atlanta, unleashing intermittent thunderstorms across the city.

All Denz can do is watch from his bed. He rarely moves from the ball-shaped lump in the middle of his queen-sized mattress. He doesn’t talk to anyone. Only showers once, on the second day, when he permits Jamie to cuddle with him for an hour. He somewhat misses human contact but is too afraid to ask for it.

Jamie never comments on Denz’s shaky breaths. He never asks where Braylon is. With his arms wrapped tightly around Denz from behind, he says, “Please don’t punch me, but you smell like a middle school boys’ locker room.”

“Fuck off,” Denz mumbles into a pillow.

“No, seriously,” Jamie says. “You smell like the alley behind a gay club during Pride.”

“And how do you know what that smells like?”

“I was curious.”

Denz doesn’t punch him. Hedoeskick Jamie out of his bed, though.

“I’m being polite!” Jamie swears.

“By saying I smell like one of your sexcapades?”

“Don’t kink-shame me,” Jamie huffs. “I learned a lot of valuable techniques that night.”

“Well, you smell like a very specific cologne my cousin wears,” Denz accuses.

“We went for breakfast.” Jamie scratches the shadowy stubble on his pinkening cheeks. “Are we talking about this now?”

“No,” Denz moans, burying his face in the pillow. “I don’t have the energy.”

On his way out, Jamie says, “It doesn’t have to be all or nothing, bro. Youcanhave both.”

Denz rolls to his other side. No, hecan’thave both. That’s not how life works. At least not his. He watches raindrops streak across his window, waiting for his bedroom door to click shut.

An hour later, his tears swirl with soapsuds down the shower drain.

All his phone notifications pile up like a car wreck. The missed calls, unread texts. A couple of Snapchats from Nic, which he’s certain are out of concern or death threats for ignoring her, depending on how she feels.

Underneath all the rubble, the social media alerts and family group chat rants, Denz knows what he won’t find:

Braylon.

There won’t be a new joke that he’ll pretend to hate, but will secretly read over and over, laughing himself into a stomachache. Merely this prolonged nothingness that Denz has accepted as his new default.

On Monday, he emails 24 Carter Gold’s offices. He CCs everyone of importance he can think of, including his dad. The subject line is simple:Mental Health Week. He doesn’t go into details. Short and to the point:

I won’t be in.

Five minutes later, a reply-all response from Kenneth L. Carter’s official CEO account comes in:

Take as much time as you need.

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