16
For the next few weeks,Art and Wes found it nearly effortless to bridge their livestogether.
On a Monday in September, Wes and Art were enjoying some time in Frances’s garden, Wes sneakingkisses.
“You’re just doing this to rouse Carol’s attention,” Artwhispered.
“Oh, she’s disappointed these days,” Wes assured him. “You can see how her eyes have turned dull now that our romance is public. They prefer the secrets. They have nothing when we flaunt our exhilaration with oneanother.”
“They can at least talk about what sinners we are, which plenty of themdo.”
“We’ve given them this much to talk about so far, so let’s not disappointthem.”
Another stolen kiss, one that Art appreciated even more knowing Wes had such sneaky intentions behindit.
Tuesday was set aside for golf with Tony before spin class with Gabe and Frances, and then their usual training for theday.
Wednesday evening was Art’s book-club meet, and before they left Wes’s house to head to it, Wes was scrambling to read the rest of the assignedchapters.
“Wes, I promise I’m not going to call on you like some sort of student who hasn’t finished their homework assignment,” Artsaid.
“I’m almostdone!”
“You have twenty more pages until you getthere.”
“Oh, dammit. I thought it was to chapterseventeen.”
Art laughed at the confusion, but oh, how he appreciated Wes for trying, even as he closed the book and offered a serious huff, one Art had grown accustomed to when Wes became frustrated with something, like the painting classes they’d started taking on Saturdaymornings.
Thursday, Art had water polo and another training session with his crew, and Friday was another glorious bingo night, filled with all manner of scandals to discuss and laughs to be had. The Fabulous Five made sure to get a few extra drinks in them, which made them particularly loud, especially as Frances scored a bingo, which the rest of the gang could tell irritated Gabe as he ground his teeth and bashed his fist against the table—something that looked particularly amusing in the bright-pink jumpsuit hedonned.
The Saturday morning after, Art woke up in his bed beside Wes, as he had done every morning that week, the way he preferred to rise. The sunlight from the window on the opposite side of Wes pushed through the blinds, illuminating the room in a whiteglow.
Wes had the covers pulled up to just beneath his chest, his eyes closed, mouth hanging open as he released a powerful snore that rivaled anything Art had experienced with his previous partners. Bad as it was, Art enjoyed the sound because it seemed to fit Wes just right, and he took pleasure in recognizing the variations in the noises hemade.
When Wes finally stirred, his eyes flitted open, and he looked to Art. “I need to get up, don’tI?”
“It’s Saturday, so we don’tneedto get up. Unless you really wanted to make it to that paintingclass.”
“I’m a terrible painter. Can we just skip it and reserve this morning for a walk? Come on. We haven’t had one of those in awhile.”
“Only a fewdays.”
“Too long,” Wes said, his lips curling into hisdimples.
The oppressive summer heat had made it difficult for them to take their walk at their usual time, so they took fewer walks, though they valued each of them as much asever.
Wes rolled toward Art and offered a tender kiss, and Art pressed his nose against Wes’s face, enjoying the sensation of having Wes’s face against hisown.
They moseyed through their morning, enjoying breakfast with their friends before returning to Art’s unit and spending an hour or so dressing. Wes already had a space in Art’s drawer and Art in Wes’s, which made the task a simple one. It hadn’t been so much a question of where they were in their relationship as a natural evolution of spending timetogether.
Once they had their clothes on for their excursion, they packed Art’s backpack. Art made sure to give his lemonade that extra kick it needed before he and Wes ventured outtogether.
They took the most familiar path, the white trail, chatting about mundane topics. Even such trivial conversation seemed special when it was with Wes. Like with his friends, conversing was less about the stories exchanged than about the time it gave them to spend with oneanother.
Wes talked to Art about Proust’sIn Search of Lost Time, which despite his efforts in wading through, proved to be a battle—one that made Art appreciate the time he took to read it, and made it that much more satisfying. In the same way, Art read more contemporary authors who appealed to Wes’stastes.
Wes wiped his brow, sweat having gradually collected in quite a thick layer throughout theirjourney.
