Page 93 of I Think They Love You

Jamie considers this, the neon pinkNO PLACE LIKE HOMEsign above his head shining across his furrowed brow. He steps away to refill someone’s beer, mix a martini for another customer. When he returns, Jamie smiles and says nonchalantly, “Sounds like nothing to me.”

Denz winces at his next sip. It tastes like berry-flavored toilet bowl cleaner. Also, did Jamie not hear a word he said?

“Nothing?”

“You were upset,” Jamie says. “He gave you comfort head. Happens all the time. Especially with boyfriends.”

“We’renotboyfriends.” Denz buries his face into his hands. After a beat, he hisses, “We’re only doing this for my family. It’s not real.”

Jamie pops a cheese-soaked nacho in his mouth. “Is Braylon freaking out?”

Denz pauses. “No?”

Braylon’s perfectly normal. He still emails new ideas for the spring break party. Texts his awful “boyfriend” jokes that Denz finds himself laughing at in the middle of meetings with Eric. Nothing out of the ordinary. Maybe that’s why Denz’s brain is mush.

Does hewantBraylon to act differently? To show the slightest hint of awkwardness about what happened?

“It was good, right?” Jamie asks.

“No comment.”

“You needed to de-stress,” Jamie notes. “It’s not like you’re getting dick regularly.”

“I get dick,” Denz argues.

“Doesn’t sound like it to me,” a middle-aged white man wearing a mesh trucker cap and far too much flannel for March says from two stools over. “Another Guinness, J.”

Before Denz can react—or scream—a waitress sidles up with a tray of empty glasses. “Yeah, sorry sweetie,” she says, tucking a strand of overly dyed blond hair behind one ear, “but the way you’re acting, seems like that orgasm was long overdue.”

She ignores Denz’s unhinged flailing while offloading her tray. “Can I get a round of Fireball for table seven?”

“You mean the Jamie Peters Special?”

“No,” she grumbles, not in the mood for Jamie’s offbeat charm. “Fireball. That’s it. Don’t make me cut you.”

Jamie salutes her.

Blondie Waitress pivots to Denz with a sympathetic smile he wants no part of. “Work stress is the worst, hon. Get a vibrator. Saved my life.”

Then, she’s gone.

Denz wants to know when his sex life became a group project. He watches Jamie refill Flannel Guy’s beer before pouring whiskey into five new shot glasses. Reluctantly, Denz sips his lavender-hued cocktail.

Fine, Jamie—all of them—mightbe right. What happened with Braylon did feel good. Incredible. And he’s been less tense around the office ever since. But was itjustthe blow job?

“Stop!” Jamie smacks Denz’s hand. “Don’t do that.”

“Dowhat?”

“Get all in your head. It makes you look constipated.”

“Fuck you.” Denz laughs, ignoring the fact that no one’s said that to him since college.

Since Braylon.

Jamie wipes down the bar and adds, “It’s not the end of the world. You have what? A month left of this? Enjoy it.” He lowers his voice. “If one of my exes agreed to fake-date me and was that good with his mouth, I’d find out what other things we could fake-try while we still had time.”

“Anyway,” Denz says, shaking his head. “I didn’t come here to talk about…that.”

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