The biggest city Wes had ever been in before was Austin, and that was for his pre–college athletics physical. He’d run five miles on a treadmill with an EKG hooked to his chest, breathed into what looked like an experiment from the space station, and stood patiently for X-rays of all his bones. He’d had to squat to fit in the machine’s viewfinder.
Simply being in Paris was enough. It was enough to fly overseas for the first time, get his first stamp in his passport. Enough to take the subway for the first time, navigate the transfer, muddle through with his high school and college French.
He hefted his suitcase up the six flights of wooden stairs to the top floor. The staircase was so narrow he could touch both walls with his elbows. Eventually he made it to the landing, what used to be the rafters in ye olde times, probably around when his great-great-great-grandparents were setting down roots in Texas, and found the door to his shared room.
His metal key was like a Hollywood prop, something he’d only ever seen in old movies. But it fit in the lock and turned, and he shoved open the warped door with his shoulder before walking in.
Whatever the quaint little hotel lacked with its staircase and boring lobby, it more than made up for with the view. His first glimpse was through the south-facing windows, and he saw the Arc de Triomphe and the tip of the Eiffel Tower. Gauzy curtains blew on the hot summer breeze, ruffling into and out of his view. Spread before him were what seemed like all the rooftops of Paris, ceramic tiles and antique chimneys, delicate wrought iron scrollwork and Juliet balconies mingling as the city rolled on and on.
“Hello?”
Wes heard him before he saw him. His roommate, a guy he only knew as Justin S. from the paperwork he’d been emailed. There were no other details. “Hello?” he called back. His drawl, which always came in strong when he was tired, was thick as whiskey. He cleared his throat. A head popped around the corner. He lifted his hat from his head, held it over his chest. “You must be Justin.”
Wide eyes set in an angular face stared. Justin looked him up and down, a long, slow rake that took in every inch of Wes’s frame. He felt the burn of those eyes, felt them stutter and take a second look.
“Uhh, yeah.” Justin appeared in full view, then, his body following his head until he was fully facing Wes. He was slender. A runner, a swimmer, maybe even a dancer. Wes had an eye for bodies, for musculature. Justin was as tall as he was, and his strength wasn’t accidental. He worked at himself. Taut, wide shoulders—butterfly shoulders—and a trim waist, defined hipbones. Carved thighs, the muscles playing peekaboo with skintight denim. “You’re the late guy?”
He held out his hand and nodded. “Wes.”
Justin's touch was firm, his skin cool. “Justin. Sorry. You surprised me.”
Wes didn’t know what to say, so he said nothing. He waited, trapped in the entranceway, the rest of their room barricaded by Justin. They were in a staredown, it seemed, Justin’s saddle-leather eyes locked on his own. Searching for something.
“Oh!” Justin finally peeled his eyes from Wes’s and backed up. “Sorry. Again.” He shook his head, rubbed his fingers over his temples. “It was a long night. I think I had too much wine.” He gestured to the room, fluttering his wrist across the divide to the other single bed. The bed frames were pushed against the wall on either side of the hallway, set up so they could gaze out the windows over Paris at night. A tiny kitchenette, smaller than the one in Wes’s freshman dorm, and a skinny door squatted in the far corner. “Bathroom, kitchen.” Justin gave the grand tour with one point of his finger.
Justin checked his watch as Wes set his duffel on his bed next to his hat, crown down on the mattress. “Everyone is meeting up downstairs to take the shuttle to campus in twenty minutes. You got here just in time.”
He’d taken the red-eye, planned his arrival for this morning, right before classes started. Time to change out of his T-shirt, maybe wash his face. Brush his teeth.
“There’s coffee.” Justin’s voice came over his other shoulder, and from the corner of Wes’s eye, he saw Justin leaning against the window frame with his arms folded, staring over the city. “And I picked up a baguette this morning, but I didn’t finish it. Help yourself.”
“Thanks.” He shucked his shirt and dropped it on his bed, fished out his favorite Ariat tee, grabbed his toothbrush, and headed for the bathroom. He had to turn sideways to slide through the door, and there was no room at all to bend over. Clearly, indoor plumbing was a modern addition to the hotel, done sometime in the early 1900s and never updated.
Wes hesitated before he slid back into the room, his gaze sliding to Justin and stilling. Justin was still at the window, still staring over the Paris skyline, his head tilted against the frame. He wore skinny jeans, the ends tucked into untied boots. Fashion combat boots, not the working Ropers Wes wore. Justin wore a T-shirt and an unbuttoned plaid shirt, and his hair was somewhere between brown and blond, like honey left out in the sun too long. His eyes were pinched, his gaze fixed on the far distance, bottom lip slightly plump, as if he wanted to pout but was holding himself in. There was a coiled tension to him, a rattler drawing tighter around itself, readying to spit and fight.
Paris’s morning glow caught on all the glass and concrete and bustle of the city. Wes could hear cars and buses and a thousand voices call out, bike chimes and tires and brakes, exhaust bellowing. Laughter. Radios, French rap and hip-hop and even Arabic music rising from the street.
At the open window, Justin, statuesque, stared out over the city like it had already disappointed him. There was something in his shoulders, in the hard line of his back.
Wes poured himself a cup of coffee from the French press next to the sink. Justin’s mug was abandoned on the counter, and he refilled it, then brought it to Justin. Held it out and smiled.
Justin started, and he looked from the coffee to Wes then back to the coffee before he smiled back. It was a slow thing, like the unfurling of a sunrise, first his eyes and his cheeks crinkling, the hints of dimples appearing, and then his eyelids fluttering before his lips parted and curled, revealing perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth. “Thank you.” He cupped the mug in both hands and sipped.
Wes’s heart thump-thumped. He toasted Justin silently, and hooked one thumb in his waistband, leaning against the window frame.
With every sip, Wes’s eyes skittered sideways, sneaking glances at Justin.
“Right,” Justin finally said, straightening. He rolled his neck, stretched, and set his mug on the windowsill. “Time for class. Êtes-vous prêt à aller à l’école?”
“Oui.” Wes mirrored Justin, setting down his cup on the windowsill. He grabbed his hat from the bed, a wide-brimmed, cream cowboy hat with a cattleman’s crease, the edges turned up just the way he liked and the front tipped down to block the sun’s glare. He brought it to his chest and then tried to let Justin go first, but there was no way two grown men could squeeze into that narrow entranceway. He scooted out but turned to hold the door open for Justin with his fingertips. A flush rose on Justin’s cheeks, and he looked away as he locked their door.
They thundered downstairs, Wes’s Ropers echoing on the worn wood of the stairs. Justin held the door as they hit the street, and Wes fitted his hat on his head as he stepped into the sunshine. Parisians stopped and stared, and one or two spun all the way around.