Page 9 of I Think They Love You

“I didn’t mean—”

Matty cuts in. “Bakery order for Dense!”

“It’sDenz,” he corrects, snatching the large box of muffins from Matty’s bony fingers.

“Oops. Sorry, I forgot,” Matty says, holding up apologetic hands while looking anything but. “Kind of like you forgot to call me three months ago. You know, after we—”

“Thanks, Matty!”

Denz is so done. The morning’s already been too long. He doesn’t need to add “one-night stand publicly humiliating me in front of my suddenly back-from-the-dead ex” to his list of New Year’s failures.

He glares at Braylon. “And how’syour dad?”

The iciness in Denz’s tone doesn’t match the fondness he feels when thinking about Emmanuel. All the lunches on campus. Virtual Scrabble nights. But there’s a spreading coldness in his chest when he thinks of his last memory of Braylon’s dad. The one where Emmanuel told Braylon to pursue a public relations job at a high-profile media outlet in London. The one where he convinced his son not to wait on Denz. To move on.

Will you come with me? To London?

Braylon’s offer echoes in Denz’s head. He never got to give an answer. Braylon left without him. Because of his dad. Because Denz…

Denz exhales, waiting for an answer.

Braylon’s face hardens. “He’s dead, actually.”

This time, Denz does drop his phone. It thuds against the bar. Cheeks burning, he chokes out, “Your dad—what?”

“Died,” Braylon confirms. “Nearly two years ago.”

Denz goes numb. He scrambles for the right words. Something better than “sorry for your loss,” because that’s so generic, so empty. But his brain doesn’t work quick enough. This awkward, mortifying moment stretches far too long.

Braylon sighs. “We don’t have to do this.”

“Okay,” Denz scrapes out.

He tucks the muffin box under one arm. Retrieves his phone. He doesn’t know why he backs away slowly like any suddenmovement might cause Braylon to change his mind. It doesn’t happen. On the way, Denz almost collides with a customer before walking right into a water bottle display.

Plastic scatters across the floor. Denz shrugs unapologetically in Matty’s direction before giving Braylon one last stare. “So. Um. I should. And. See you?”

Braylon’s lips finally part. “Oh, Denz—”

Nope. He can’t stay around to hear whatever Braylon’s decided to say. Denz kicks several bottles in his scramble out the door.

In his car, he tosses the muffin box into the passenger seat. Ignores the texts from Kami asking where the fuck he is. He desperately tries to erase the last ten minutes from his memory.

Forehead against the steering wheel, he whispers to no one, “It’s not too late to start the new year over again, right?”

-2-

“What took so long?” Kami hisses as Denz slides into the chair next to her, fifteen minutes late. He nudges the muffin box to the center of the conference room’s walnut-finished table. A peace offering.

At least the meeting hasn’t started yet.

“Was there a problem?” Kami persists.

“Nope!” Denz rasps, throat still too tight.

What happened at Crema was bigger than a “problem.” It was a whole epic-fail compilation video on YouTube. A replay of stutters and trips and what-the-fuck moments. A specific kind of nightmare where Denz’s ex-boyfriend drinks tea and speaks in a British accent and is suddenlyliving in Atlantaagain.

When Kami tilts her head expectantly, waiting for more, Denz blurts, “They were busy.”

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