Page 77 of I Think They Love You

“You know,” Braylon starts. Denz’s gaze drifts back to the screen. The background’s shifted from the bright kitchen lighting to a standing lamp, the back of a smoke-gray couch. A living room like the one Denz is sulking in. “We don’t have to discuss it.”

“No. Um. I don’t mind.”

Braylon’s attentive eyes encourage him to continue.

He wiggles into the permanently dented spot from Will Thacker Nights. He tells Braylon about the meeting with his dad. Not catching the email from the mayor’s team. The weirdness with Kami. He rambles until his throat goes dry.

Braylon’s expression remains thoughtful from start to finish. He never makes Denz feel like the complete failure everyone else projects on him.

“You know,” Braylon says again, “I’ve heard the cure for a bad workweek is French toast grilled cheese.”

Denz’s stomach grumbles. “Too bad I never learned the recipe.”

“You could come over? I’ll make you one.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to.”

Denz bites his thumbnail. Is he really considering this? Driving to Braylon’s apartment in the sad, soggy weather for asandwich?

He glances at the white cheddar handprints covering his shirt. His big toe wiggles out of a hole in his sock. He doesn’t want to think about the last time he showered.

“I don’t even know where you live.”

Almost instantly, Denz’s phone vibrates—a text with Braylon’s location.

“See you in thirty minutes?” Braylon says.

“Forty-five.”

The least he can do is change his shirt. Brush his hair.

Braylon ends the call. It’s a long ten seconds before Denz scrambles off the sofa.

First stop: the bathroom to wash the stupid smile off his face. No one should ever be this ecstatic about a sandwich.

Six Years Ago

Sophomore Year—Spring Semester

Denz imagined cooking with his boyfriend in his studio apartment would go like this:

Hand-holding at the nearest supermarket. Wearing matching aprons while mixing ingredients. Dancing around the kitchen to soft music. Sharing long kisses over savory French toast grilled cheeses as a movie—preferably not another superhero one—played in the background.

Instead, the sky cracked open and unleashed a mid-May downpour the second they stepped outside Publix. His marble countertops are covered in spilled ingredients. Aprons are replaced by wrinkled T-shirts. Wet feet mean no dancing, and a Marvel movie booms on the living room’s flat-screen.

But then there’s Bray, leaning against the stainless steel fridge.

Bray in Denz’s worn-soft UGA sweatshirt and a pair of low-slung lounge pants decorated in strawberry frosted doughnuts, his swim season buzz cut growing out.

Bray, dark eyebrow arched as he says, “I said add adashof cinnamon.”

“I did!” Denz’s gaze dips to the bowl between his hands. Floating above the whisked milk, salt, sugar, and eggs is a thick layer of brown. “Sort of?”

“You’re a disaster.”

At home, Denz’s mom is the cook. Whenever she visits her family in Ohio or Arizona, his dad has a personal chef on standby. With almost two years of college under his belt, the best meals Denz can create on his own either involve pressing the right function on a microwave or sliding a frozen pizza in the oven.

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