Page 8 of I Think They Love You

The memory blossoms across his brain like a summer sunset:

It was mid-May in Athens. An overcrowded, run-down two-story house off campus. A graduation party neither of them should’ve been at. But, as a freshman, Bray was already fully dedicated to his swim teammates, even the seniors who were leaving. And Paolo, Denz’s roommate, convinced him to come celebrate his older sister’s newly received finance degree.

In his first year, Denz had done a spectacular job of avoiding parties. Staying out of the spotlight. Being… normal. He hadn’t missed much. Nothing but flat beer, bad music, and a severe lack of interesting conversations.

And then he saw him. Prickly buzz cut, shy smile. Warm brown eyes watching Denz from across the room.

Denz stared back. It was that careful, curious gaze only queer people know. The one used in public when you’re deciding if the other person is trustworthy. If entering their space is safe. Three songs later, Denz went to introduce himself in a semi-dark corner.

And promptly spilled his watery gin and cranberry on Bray’s T-shirt.

“Denz. Your shirt.” He winced. “Fuck, I mean… I’m Denz. And I ruined your sh—”

After a scratchy laugh, a low voice made of velvet said, “Is Denz short for something?”

Denz smirked, suddenly calm again. “Maybe I’ll tell you one day.”

“One day?”

“Are you going to tell me your name?”

Another laugh. Another wave of tickling heat spreading up Denz’s neck. He’d blame the alcohol but that was all over the other boy’s shirt now. A deep maroon spot contrasting with his full pink lips.

“I’m Bray.”

“Short for?” Denz prompted.

“You first.”

Denz snorted. “Come on.Youbumped intomydrink”—He’ll never admit how the scandalized, amused gasp Bray released in that second almost made his knees weak.Almost.—“so, you owe me!”

Bray leaned in. Their knuckles brushed. The corners of his mouth twitched as he whispered, “Maybe I’ll tell you. One day.”

The memory hangs like a raindrop suspended by a spiderweb in his head now.

Their start. His ending.

“Braylon,” Denz repeats, mashing the name around his mouth like a baby trying beets for the first time. “You’re here. In America. Since…?”

“A bit over a year now.”

Over a year. Denz doesn’t know why it stings. Why he even cares. Braylon is nothing to him. An ex, another man Denz has no attachments to.

“Welcome home,” he says sharply.

Braylon’s response is swallowed by ice crunching in the blender behind the bar. Who needs a coffee-flavored milkshake this early?

“What?”

“You look—” Braylon stops, cheeks hollowing. Denz waits for him to finish. He lookswhat? A mess? Like a cat run over twice by an eighteen-wheeler? Braylon clears his throat. “Do you work around here?”

Denz almost rolls his eyes.

“At 24 Carter Gold. I’m an event coordinator.”

“Oh.”Braylon tilts his head. “Your dad’s company.”

“Yup,” Denz says, faking a smile to cover his irritation. “Four years getting a degree just to end up a cog in the family machine. I’m living the dream.”

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