Page 161 of I Think They Love You

Denz tilts his head. (Well, as best as he can.) He surveys Jamie and wonders when the hell he became the love expert in their friendship? Maybe he always was? Maybe all those relationships where Jamie fell fast and hurt hard gave him a wealth of wisdom neither one of them could ever find in the movies they’ve watched.

Maybe sometimes you just have to jump headfirst into the water to know whether you’ll drown or swim.

“Here.” Jamie shoves an aluminum foil–wrapped sandwich into Denz’s gloved hands. “Don’t forget this.”

How could he? Denz spenthoursthis morning making it. It took him four tries. Two were burnt. One fell on the floor. None of that’s relevant now because he has this and an iron suit and a heart lodged in his throat, ready to either leap into the hands of the man he’s hopelessly in love with or slip back down into the abyss of his stomach acid.

“You can do this,” Jamie assures him. He lowers the faceplate.

Denz takes ten wobbly steps in the direction of the white tent, chest high, ready to find Braylon and—

Someone steps in front of him.

No, notsomeone. Whitley.

She glares, crossing her arms over her white Skye’s the Limit T-shirt.

It’s enough for Denz to stop short. Or, at least, hetriesto, but the stupid suit. Stupid wet grass from a water balloon toss earlier. His heel catches. His arms pinwheel as he falls backward with a muffled “Fuck my life!”

Mud soaks into his costume. In the background, he hears laughter above the shocked gasps. A pair of hands yank his helmet off. He blinks against the sunlight before honey-brown skin and confused, dark eyes come into focus.

Frowning, Braylon helps him up.

“Are you okay?”

“Yes,” Denz lies. He squeezes his hands into fists by his sides, then realizes he’s missing something. His eyes flit to the muddy grass. To where shiny aluminum foil is splattered an ugly brown.“Fuck.”

“What’re you doing here?”

Denz forces his eyes away from the ruined sandwich, back to Braylon. He’s in the same T-shirt Whit has on, a nice pair of dark gray joggers, running shoes.

“I—” Denz tries, but he’s not as prepared as he thought. “Hi. Um. Hey.”

Braylon’s full lips purse, unimpressed. “What have you got on?”

Denz says unironically, “I’m Iron Man.”

Braylon snorts.

“And I came to—”

“Braylon?” Mayor Reynolds appears, eyebrows raised. She tilts her head at Denz. “Denzel? Why’re you dressed as a Marvel hero? Is this for the kids?”

“Yes,” Braylon begins, but Denz interrupts with, “No. It’s forhim.”

The mayor and her team trade stares, confused. Braylon steps back, surprised at Denz’s boldness. His honesty too.

“Can we talk?” Denz whispers.

“Braylon, the speech,” Mayor Reynolds says, tapping her wrist in ahurry up, my time is preciousmotion.

“Of course.” Braylon pinches the bridge of his nose. “Could Denzel and I have, like, five—no,tenminutes? Whit can get you set up on the stage. We have chilled waters. For the heat. Just, please, Your Honor? Or madame? Your Mayorship?”

“Tiffany’s just fine,” Mayor Reynolds replies, smirking. “Eight minutes. I have another appointment after this.”

Once the mayor and her team are out of sight, Braylon sighs. He motions to a shaded area nearby. “We can talk over there.”

Denz does his best to walk side by side with him. But, again, the suit. Pair that with the mud in places it shouldn’t be and his squishy shoes and Denz barely manages to keep up with Braylon’s long strides.

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