Page 72 of Last First Kiss

On his phone’s crisp FaceTime video, somewhere in the golden radiance of Culver City, is Denz. The same Denz who Jordan spent summers with. Eating hot dogs, swimming, staying up way too late playing video games. The same Denz he spoke to a couple of weeks ago. Except, now his hair is…

Blond.Platinumblond.

“You’re blond,” Jordan says for lack of anything better. Also, in case Denz is unaware.

He rolls his eyes, laughing. “I know.”

“Did Braylon break up with you again?”

Jordan knew he shouldn’t have gone this long without calling his cousin. He let work—and other things related to men withnice shoulders and border collie energy—get in the way. Still, Denz seemed happy on their last call. A tiny bit loopy from lack of sleep, but he was good. He was planning date night with Braylon. Either in WeHo or at a beachside bistro in Venice.

Where did it all go wrong?

“What? No,” Denz cries. “Me and Braylon are fine.”

“Is this a midlife crisis?”

“Jordan, I turn twenty-seven in less than two weeks.”

“Quarter-life crisis?” Jordan suggests.

“That already passed, remember? I faked a relationship with my ex to prove I was serious about a job I didn’t actually want?” Denz smiles. “We got back together. I moved acrossthe countryfor him. He’s not getting rid of me that easily.”

“Is this some kind of Gen Z ennui?”

Denz makes a face. It’s like a cat swallowed a roach. “What the hell is that?”

“I don’t know! I saw a post about it on Quora,” Jordan says, pacing his apartment’s kitchen.

“Why the fuck were you on Quora?”

Certainly not reading responses to the “Am I queer if I’ve only been into one guy before” posts, he thinks but doesn’t dare say.

He could though. Denz has been great about allowing Jordan to work his way through this process.

Instead, he says, “Why is your hair blond, cuz?”

Judging by the cloudless blue sky in his background, the distorted sounds of cars from somewhere below, Denz is on his balcony. Jordan imagines the weather’s perfect in California. It was for nearly all four years he had lived there. Never too hot, edging toward cool as evening unfurls. Unlike Atlanta where it was approximately seventy million degrees outside while the sky shifted toward a heavy gray on his drive home.

A storm’s looming.

“It’s for Pride,” Denz finally explains. “I’m doing sponsorship stuff around the city. I was on a parade float with some kids from a Hulu series last week.”

“Fancy,” Jordan teases.

“I’m still finding glitter in places it shouldn’t be.”

Jordan laughs. Serves him right. There’s still trails of glitter in Jordan’s closet from the Valentine’s Day gala Denz threw.

Last year.

He opens a brown bag on the kitchen’s quartz countertop. He pulls out a paper-wrapped fried chicken sandwich from his favorite on-the-go restaurant. Jordan considered cooking after leaving the office but today was too exhausting.

As if on cue, Denz says, “You didn’t call for updates on my hairstyle, Jordan.”

“I could’ve.”

“But you didn’t.”