Page 3 of The Jock
Wes nodded. “Okay.”
“Yeah.” Justin bounced on the balls of his feet, rocked back on his heels. “I mean, if you’d rather be alone, I can—”
“No, it’s fine.” Wes spoke quickly, cutting Justin off. “It’s good.”
The bus arrived, covering whatever Justin would have said in squealing brakes and natural gas exhaust. Everyone clambered on, most heading in gaggles to the back of the bus. Justin stayed near the front, sliding into the second row next to the window. His eyes flicked to Wes as he followed, then back out the window.
Wes slid in beside Justin and set his hat in his lap. He smiled, a crook of his lips that only worked on the left side.
Justin stared at him for three long seconds.
“Do I smell?” Wes sniffed at his underarm. Deodorant running a little thin, but nothing offensive, he thought. “Do you want me to move?”
“No!” Finally, Justin smiled again. It was quick, but it was there. “No, you’re fine. You don’t smell. You just surprised me is all.”
The bus doors shut with a hiss, and with a lurch and a rattle and a shake, they were off, merging into Parisian traffic and heading across the city.
Justin flicked the brim of his hat. “So, are you, like, a real cowboy? I know we’re all from Texas, but…”
Wes turned over his hands, revealing his worn and leathery palms, roughened from years of working the ranch and then, later, football. His knuckles were gnarled at twenty-one. Cracks split his skin already, canyons that had scarred over into ditches and furrows and white lines. He nodded.
“You don’t say much, do you?”
“Non, monsieur.”
Justin smiled again. “Your drawl with the accent… It’s unique.”
He ducked his head, tried to hide his own grin. “I’ve been trying to chisel that drawl out of me for years.”
“Don’t do that.” Justin’s fingers landed on his forearm. “It’s nice. I like it.”
He looked away, and Justin pulled back, and they spent the rest of the ride in silence, swaying into each other’s shoulders with every brake and turn. Wes gnawed on the inside of his lip, his entire body aware of those few inches of skin Justin had touched.
When they got to the university, he stood and blocked the rest of the group from stampeding down the bus’s aisle. “Après vous, monsieur.”
Justin’s cheeks and the tips of his ears pinked. He shoved his hands into his pants pockets when he leaped off the bus, but he waited for Wes, falling into step with him as they made their way to the classroom. Inside, they found tables already arranged in pairs: two seats at each table, two workbooks side by side, one textbook to share.
“So,” Justin asked. “Partners?”
Wes pulled out a chair for Justin. “Oui.”
* * *
All Wes wanted,after a red-eye flight and a full day of French class, was to pour himself into bed and sleep for three days. He barely kept his eyes open on the bus ride back to the hotel, and Justin had to flick his knee to pull him out of that woozy twilight space when they finally pulled up at the curb. He trudged up the stairs slowly, and this time, Justin pushed open the door for him when they got back to their cramped attic room.
He went face-first onto his bed, burying his head in the flat pillow and toeing off his Ropers. They dropped to the floor with two heavy thuds, and he dug his arms beneath the pillow, trying to merge himself with the old mattress. The ancient springs groaned beneath his weight. He hoped it held, at least long enough for him to catch a quick nap.
A presence hovered beside him. He rolled his head and peeled one eye open.
Justin ran his fingers through his hair, refreshing his thick pompadour in the mirror on the wall over his bed. He checked himself out, turning right and left and frowning before smoothing his hair again. The sides were cut short, but on top, he had enough hair for a man to lose his hands in. Wes blinked.
“Are you going out to dinner? The group has some kind of reservation at this restaurant.” Justin pulled a tube of ChapStick from his pocket and slicked it over his lips. Rubbed them together.
“No.” Wes blinked again. Swallowed. “I need sleep. I’m beat. You going?”
Justin snorted. He shook his head again. “Nah. I do my own thing.”
“Going out?” He recognized the signs.
