Page 83 of I Think They Love You

A long pause. Braylon rubs his chin stubble, considering. How could anyone in Londonnotinstantly fall in love with him?

“Oh!Yes.”

Braylon snatches his phone from the counter. Denz regrets ever asking. He’s not ready to see a dozen sweet snapshots of Braylon and some British guy who probably looks like a young James Bond.

“I had a cat.”

Denz tilts his head. “A… cat?”

“British Shorthair.” Braylon flips his screen around. “Her name’s Fluff the Magic Kraken.”

She’s a ball of dusky white fur. Cute, but clearly irritated in every photo.

An unexpected laugh chokes Denz. “You named your catthat?”

For the first time, he notices the knot in his sternum has loosened.So, no boyfriend. No attachments. No lovesick fling waiting for him to come back.Denz can work with that.

“She was lovely. Quite beastly too,” Braylon says. “She didn’t care one bit when I left her with a neighbor to move back here.”

“Jesus,shut up.” Another laugh. “You sound like John Boyega.”

Braylon flips him off.

“London changed you,” Denz notes, not maliciously. Simply a fact. “Even your clothes are—”

“What’s wrong with myclothes?”

Denz tugs at the collar of Braylon’s shirt, willing himself not to focus on the brief appearance of collarbone. “Y’know other colors besides gray, black, and white exist, right?”

“Says, Mr. I Only Wear Blue.”

Denz inspects himself.Well, shit. He’s wearing the sweater from dinner with his parents.

With an incredulous huff, he says, “You’re different. I’m not.”

“Bullock—” Braylon cuts off when Denz raises an eyebrow. “I hate you.”

They grin at each other, but Denz’s fades too soon. He whispers, “You even changed your name.”

He’s not sulking. Or pouting. Spulking?

Braylon lifts the sandwich onto a plate. Cheese oozes from the sides. He drizzles the bread with maple syrup.

“Bray is what my mom called me,” he says. “When she was… alive.”

Denz has only ever seen one picture of Elyse, Braylon’s mom. The same one framed on an end table in the living room. She’s twentysomething with large hazel eyes, heart-shaped lips. In her arms is a napping, curly-’froed Braylon. He’s four years old in the photo.

“My dad named me Braylon.” He exhales. “Mom shortened it. She thought people would mispronounce it otherwise.”

“Oh.”Denz never knew that.

“Even after she died, I let people call me Bray,” Braylon admits, softer, sadder. “But when Dad passed, I realized I didn’t love that name. I just wanted to hold on to my mom. Keep as many parts of her around as possible.” Another pause. “And now I don’t have either of them.”

Denz’s fingers flex on his thighs. He wants to touch Braylon. Is he allowed? Is that something only reserved for arealboyfriend?Not some asshole who guilt-trips his ex for wanting to be called by his actual name.

He swallows, unsure of what to say next. Maybe that’s the thing about death. Maybe words, no matter how sincere and perfect, are never enough.

A brief emptiness shadows Braylon’s face. Like this apartment. Like his life since graduating college.

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