Page 41 of I Think They Love You

“Like holding hands?”

“Yes. But, um, also…”

It’s Denz’s turn to frown. Why does this feel like some recurring nightmare? Like he’s stuck in high school sex ed and insteadof a carefully labeled diagram of the male body, it’shim,standing naked in the front of the class, everyone laughing.

He whispers, “Kissing.”

His family knows what he’s like. Remembers how he was with Braylon. They weren’t over the top with their PDA. But there was cuddling by the fireplace. Lingering stares, soft touches in public.

And yes,kissing. A serious relationship would require that.Right?

A quiet beat. “Only with verbal consent,” Braylon says, his voice rough.

Without looking at each other, they both add another bullet point. Crema’s eclectic music playlist shifts from a pop song to an acoustic cover of a Prince hit.

“Should we—” Denz’s eyes trace from the stubble on Braylon’s jaw to his bobbing Adam’s apple as he slurps more tea. “—have rules about… other forms of touching?”

“Do you mean hugging?”

“Kinda?”

“What? Touching your back? Hand on your hip?”

“Sure?” Denz’s cheeks flush. Fuck Jamie Peters for getting in his head like this. “But, well, actually…”

“Sex?” Braylon says flatly.

“Yes? Er, maybe?”

“Why would that be an option?”

This time, Denz’s screeching “I don’t know” does startle a mug out of Matty’s hands.

“How would having sex in front of your colleagues—your family—make our fake relationship more legitimate?”

“I—” Denz stops. His brain’s too preoccupied with how he’s going to murder his best friend, hide the body at the bottom of Lake Lanier, move to New Mexico, and get away with it.

Braylon bristles in his silence.

“Sorry. Never mind.” Denz’s eyes lower. “No sex.”

Aggressively, Braylon scribbles,#4: NO SEX.

“Anything else?”

Yeah, my self-esteem. A new life. A time machine so I can travel back to Old Denz and tell him not to talk to the cute boy with the buzz cut at a stupid graduation party.

“Jamie and I were gonna FaceTime. While I was at work,” Denz says instead. “You know, so my coworkersseeus doing couple-y things.”

“I’m quite busy at work. Dedicating time for that seems counterproductive.”

Of fucking course. Why did Denz think this is the same Braylon who would call himduring classto ask about dinner or where he left his swimming goggles. This tea-drinking, scruffy-faced, talks-like-the-long-lost-son-of-Idris-Elba isn’t that Braylon.

“I could,” Braylon’s tone softens, “text you.”

“Text?”

“Yes. Like, jokes. Things to make you laugh.”

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