Page 9 of The Jock
And… Justin hadn’t given any sign, any hint at all that he was anything other than straight. He was cooler than Wes, that was for sure. More connected to the world, more hip, more into things that were en vogue. Wes still shaved with Brut, something he’d picked up from his dad, who’d gotten it from his dad. He drove a twenty-five-year-old farm truck. He hadn’t ever been to a concert in his life, much less ballet. Culture seemed to roll off him like water on a duck’s back, passing him by without so much as a wave. He listened to the folk and Western music he’d grown up with on the ranch, and there wasn’t a radio station at the university that played anything he was familiar with. Justin’s phone belted out top 40s alongside classical masterpieces, soundtracks to ballets next to R&B legends. Wes felt all elbows and awkwardness in front of Justin, like he was constantly on the verge of tripping over himself, revealing his hick nature, his country.
Even if Justin was into guys, why would he ever be interested in Wes?
He wouldn’t be. He’d want someone fun and bold and hip, someone who knew about dance and pop culture and the world. The world beyond football and ranching. Someone who could talk about something more interesting than what ducks liked to eat. That pocket full of condoms stabbed at the inside of Wes’s eyeballs, rose up like a nightmare to remind him that Justin would tire of him, and soon. He’d be back on the prowl, sliding from Paris bar to Paris bar, or maybe wandering the clubs down on the Riviera or in Monaco, or chatting up a beautiful blond at a winery in the French countryside. Wes wouldn’t have Justin’s attention for long.
But he had today.
He hadn’t been this excited and sick to his stomach at the same time since the scout from the university had come to watch him play back at his old West Texas high school. His phone buzzed in his back pocket, right before Justin shouted through the closed bathroom door, “I just texted you the map.”
He wiped his face and pulled his shirt from his waistband, then squeezed himself out of the bathroom. Justin was perched on the end of his bed, tapping at his phone screen.
“Okay, if we start in Montmartre, we can go to the Sacré-Coeur, and then to Saint-Ouen for the market on rue des Rosiers. They sayChez Louisetteis where to eat while we’re there.”
Wes’s stomach cramped. He’d scarfed down two crepes after their morning run, but he was still hungry. Without the meal plan from the university and extra protein shakes throughout the day, he wasn’t getting the ten-thousand-plus calories he needed. But he couldn’t afford more than what he was buying. “How much is the restaurant?”
Justin kept scrolling. “I’ll buy lunch. You can buy dinner.”
Not an answer. But Wes let it go. He stared out the window as he tugged his shirt over his head. He’d like to take Justin out to dinner, someplace real nice with white tablecloths and more than one fork. He’d only ever seen that kind of restaurant on TV. Where he used to go with his dad, it was either a chipped plastic table or, at best, a red-and-white-checked plastic cover.
He’d also like to take Justin out to the ranch, bring him on horseback to his favorite camping spot. Bring down a deer or snare a rabbit and cook a country dinner for him over the open fire, beneath the stars. He’d like to cuddle close in the same sleeping bag, whisper the constellations to him, bury his nose in Justin’s neck. Run his hands over that flat stomach, the tautness of his hips.
He’d probably end up buying a couple slices of pizza, or crepes again, from a food truck. It was the cheapest food he’d found so far.
“How do you feel about museums?”
There was a small country museum attached to the gas station two towns over from where he’d grown up. It was a converted Taco Bell, and it was a tourist trap. Its claim to fame was that James Brown “Killer” Miller had blown through town on one of his outlaw sprees. Wes used to wander the two narrow aisles when his dad was buying gas, chewing on sour gummy worms as he stared at the sepia photos taped to the fake wood walls. “Don’t think I’ve ever been to a real one.”
Justin pursed his lips. “Thoughts on modern art?”
“Isn’t that like gluing a bolt to a Styrofoam cup and calling it a mediation on life? Or painting a white canvas white?”
Justin grinned. “Yes, but that was a mediation on consumerism and the circle of consumption. And white canvases are incredibly popular. The Paris Museum of Modern Art is free. Want to see it this afternoon?”
“Sure. You can educate me.” Wes winked. “Or you can try.”
Justin rolled his eyes, but he smiled, and he bit his lip as he folded his legs beneath him and pecked at his phone again. “We’ll be close to the Eiffel Tower if we spend the afternoon there. Do you want to head over after? Eat dinner on the way? See the park and watch the lights?”
There was probably a food truck or two by the Eiffel Tower. “Yeah. Let’s do that.”
Justin tapped out a few more notes, dropped a few more pins, and then updated the map he’d sent to Wes. He dropped his phone in his lap and beamed. “All right. Whenever you’re ready.”
“I’m ready.”
Justin’s gaze flicked down Wes’s body, taking in the university T-shirt tucked into his Wranglers, his Ropers, and then panning back up to his cowboy hat. It was the same basic outfit Wes had worn every day. Justin had a parade of outfits, from oversized plaid shirts to tight polos to trim-fit button-downs. He had a new look every day, from sultry to preppy to clean-cut upper-crust Dallas. Each time, he seemed to look better than the day before. Today, he was back to his skinny jeans, combat boots, and buttoned-up plaid, with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. His hair was sky high, combed into a straight-back swoosh that showed off his shaved sides. Gel held the whole thing in place. If Wes ever tried to do anything with his hair beyond keeping it short and trimmed, he’d sweat the style away two minutes into a game.
Wes stared down at himself. “Too boring?”
Justin snorted. “You? How could you ever be boring?”
“How could I not be?” He shook his head as he grabbed his wallet. “I’m not like you.”
There was a strangled noise from Justin behind his back, something like a cough and a choke and a whimper of pain. He turned, but Justin was grabbing his money and checking his eyes in the mirror, shoving his phone in his pocket, heading for the door. He didn’t look at Wes.
* * *
They tookphotos of each other at the top of Montmartre, then took a selfie together overlooking Paris. They were a respectable distance apart: friends, nothing more, according to their poses. At Saint-Ouen, Justin found the most ridiculous trinkets and dragged them out to show Wes. Wes was fascinated by the antique clothing—the colors, the textures of it all—and he fingered every dress and suit and handkerchief they found. There were gadgets and gizmos and antiques neither of them could figure out, and then modern knickknacks and cheap treasures. Justin found an antique print of a Russian ballerina, something smuggled out under Stalin before the censors could erase her and the photograph itself from history, the stall owner said. He bought Wes a black-and-white photo of a cowboy standing in front of the Eiffel Tower in the early 1900s and told him they were going to recreate the picture that afternoon. Wes laughed, but he tucked the photo into his wallet like it was a hundred-euro note.
Chez Louisettewas a museum to kitsch, to treasures salvaged from the trash and lovingly strung up with tinsel and blinking Christmas lights. Musicians serenaded the diners as Wes and Justin sharedboeuf bourguignonandcrème brûlée. They weren’t brave enough, yet, to try theescargots. Wes bought them a bottle of wine, despite Justin’s protests that he would buy lunch, and after they finished eating, they sat and drank side by side in the tiny plastic booth, listening to a Yugoslavian belt out Edith Piaf to the scratchy wail of his old accordion.
