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 took photos 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 Louisette was 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 shared boeuf bourguignon and crème brûlée. They weren’t brave enough, yet, to try the escargots. 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.
The afternoon was hot, and they wandered tipsily toward the museum before taking the subway when they needed a break from the sun. In the museum, Justin clung to Wes’s arm and giggled as Wes gave his uncultured interpretation of each piece of modern art, hamming it up more and more as Justin’s giggles turned to snorts and outright guffaws when Wes declared a series of sculptures were mannequins he’d seen at Walmart. Then Justin took over, steering Wes from exhibit hall to exhibit hall, explaining the theory behind the art, what the artist was trying to say.
Wes followed along, mostly, but the best part was how Justin stayed on his arm, leaning against his biceps and his shoulder, whispering into his ear to keep their voices low. Wes felt like he figured he was supposed to on his prom night when Cheryl looped their arms together and pressed her boobs against his side. Like he was her man and he was protecting her from the world, and he was escorting her through her days and maybe even her nights, maybe even through the rest of her life. He understood then why people walked this way at weddings, why old-time couples leaned together like this. His heart soared, and with every step, his and Justin’s bodies moved in synchronicity, like their hips and their thighs and their hands knew the ins and outs and sighs of each other’s lives. Like they were a part of each other. That’s what it felt like when Justin took his elbow.
They crossed the Pont de l’Alma and turned up the quai Branly, arms still looped together. Justin steered them to the bank of the Seine under the shade of a gnarled tree to watch the ducks and a family of swans. Wes pulled away to pay one euro for two cups of duck feed, and they tossed seed into the water and caused a waterfowl traffic jam. When the seed ran out, the ducks quacked their displeasure and splashed away, leaving a pair of swans behind. Wes tossed the swans a final handful that he’d held back from the greedy ducks.
“Swans mate for life,” he grunted. “Once they find their true love, that’s it.”
“Swan Lake is my favorite ballet,” Justin said.