14
Art struggledto focus during the water-polo meet. His thoughts kept returning to the night before, and his and Wes’s subsequent conversation on the trail. Excited as he was, with that enthusiasm came a discomfort, amplified as he stood in the locker room, changing, the wall-length mirror and the fluorescent lights presenting him with more truth than he cared tosee.
He’d spent so much of his youth criticizing his appearance, scrutinizing every perceived flaw—so many flaws that didn’t seem all that problematic now that he was looking at this much older version of himself. Art had certainly known his strengths at one time, but it seemed to him, those had all vanished withage.
The cruel effects of time transformed Art’s excitement into anxiousness. By the time he returned to his apartment, he was nearly shaking with nervousness as he prepared for Wes’sarrival.
What is he going to think when he sees me—all ofme?
After he finished dressing himself and popped a pill that would come in handy when the ever-important moment arrived, he took some private time in the bathroom, doing gentlemanly things, and despite his lingering apprehensions, when he finished up, he textedWes.
He needed Wes’s touch, his adoring gaze, the sound of that resonating voice hitting hisears.
When Wes replied to his message to let him know he was on his way, Art began making his bed and cleaning up any stray clothes he hadn’t taken care of. The cleaning frenzy helped him distance his thoughts from hisuneasiness.
As he tucked his fitted sheet between his mattress and box spring, he struggled to believe any of this was even real. His thoughts drifted back to a warm summer day, similar to so many of the ones they’d shared since. Wes sat beside him in those jeans that fit him so well. His biceps bulged in the white tee he wore. His cheeks were sun-kissed, a few sparse freckles across his nose. His arm lounged over the back of the bench as he took a drag of his cigarette, which Art found so sexy. He looked like a model in a cigarette ad. When Wes set those dark eyes on him, Art hoped that his own reddening face appeared to be a product of the sun and not anything that might make Wes say something to embarrass him or encourage him to walkaway.
Art was sure the image he had of Wes gazing at him through those same narrowed dark eyes, the sunlight catching the back of his head, making him look like some sort of angel, was a fanciful creation of his imagination, but he enjoyed itanyway.
Even if Art had manufactured—played up—some of the moments over time, he was pleased that at the very least, his memory of it was better than Wes’s. And of course, how could he have imagined that moment without taking it further…imagining Wes offering thatkiss.
What would it have been like if he’d given Wes everything backthen?
Again andagain.
It was a childish daydream, reminding him of the sort of fantasies he was prone to, even that afternoon on the bench. And so many afternoons and far too many nights after, when Art had reached back through his past to find a means to an end…which would bring him utter satisfaction, at least for a few moments that would escape him all tooquickly.
A knock at the door alerted Art of Wes’s arrival. He took a breath, mustering some courage before he opened thedoor.
Wes was dressed in shorts and a tee that fit his arms and shoulders so well, though different than that day in the park. Art noticed what he thought might have been apprehension in Wes’s expression, as though he was considering backing out—maybe because he had just noticed Art’s appearance for the firsttime.
“Come on in,” Art said, turning quickly and guiding Wes inside. The fumbling nervousness of his youth had returned full force—all those encounters when he was uncertain, or worried, or insecure. Sensations that, like so many of the ones Wes had evoked, seemed like they had been lost to him forever, to the time capsule of hisadolescence.
As Art turned back to Wes, Wes stopped just short of him, his lips lingering a few inches away. Art’s craving for the sensation they’d stirred the night before made him need to restrainhimself.
“Do you want a drink?” Artasked.
Wes smiled. “That would benice.”
Art took a breath and led Wes into the kitchen. He poured him a glass of lemonade, his hands trembling, leaving him wondering if it was his nervousness or arthritis—likelyboth.
Wes leaned back against the counter, resting his palms against it, and looked to him, same as he had back on that bench, through narrowed darkeyes.
“I heard at the meet that Margerie Canto and Roger Montez are having a thing going on,” Art rambled, trying to set himself at ease by making smalltalk.
As he set down the lemonade jug beside the glass, Wes walked behind him. Art froze, filled with tension and excitement as he felt Wes push up againsthim.
Wes’s hands rested on his hips, then made their way up under his shirt as Wes leaned close and whispered against his ear, “I don’t want to hear about Margerie Canto and RogerMontez.”
The way his hot breath touched Art’s flesh made him shiver, and his shaking only intensified as Wes ran his hands up against his stomach. Art’s heart rate sped up to the point where he wondered if he needed to beconcerned.
Wes pressed his face against Art’s and took a deep breath. As he exhaled, the air rushed against Art’scheek.
A wave of energy started in Art’s pelvis and rushed up to his chest, the sensations stimulating all his nerves, as though awakening them from a deep slumber. He hadn’t experienced anything so powerful in so long, and when he took a breath, it felt as though a great weight had been lifted off his chest, like it was the first good breath he’d been able to catch in toolong.
A part of Art had to believe this was a fantasy, one of the daydreams he had conjured up, because how could anyone have wanted him? How could Wes Brenner have wantedhim?
Wes kissed his cheek, and a tear escaped from Art’s eye and rushed down his face. Wes must’ve felt it because he leaned away slightly, but kept his body pressed against Art’s. “Art, are youokay?”
