“Don’t leave me…” he said.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
“… ever.”
When I didn’t say anything, he kissed me again and repeated it: “Ever.”
“Okay,” I said. And at that point I could not be certain as to who was more intoxicated.
*
Late in the night I slipped away to the restroom, and on exiting I encountered Oliver in the adjacent vestibule. We had until that point exchanged very few words.
“Well, you seem to be hanging in there.” He smiled, coy.
“Excuse me?”
“I just assumed you’d leave our boy after those photos.”
I paused. It was the way he’d phrased it. “Well, you assumed incorrectly.”
“Clearly.”
The vestibule was narrow, dimly lit. I could smell the gin on him.
“Where’s Charlotte?”
“It’s over. We’re through.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Yes, well … She ended it.”
“Can you blame her?”
He laughed. “Oh, Solène…” He was drunk. “Did Hayes ever tell you what he said when he first saw you in Las Vegas? Did he?”
I didn’t respond. Somehow I knew where this was going.
“‘I just want to fuck her mouth.’” He said it slow, soft. “Did he tell you that? ‘Did you see that mum? I just want to fuck her mouth.’”
I stood there, not moving. Feeling his closeness in the tight space.
“What’s wrong, Oliver? Do you just not want him to be happy?”
He shook his head then, and there was something in his eyes that seemed to me sad. “You have no fucking idea, do you?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t.”
But I’d begun to wonder.
*
On Friday morning Hayes and I flew to Aspen for four days to celebrate his birthday. I’d booked us a luxury suite at the Little Nell, a swank resort at the bottom of Ajax Mountain. The property was elegant, serene. Our suite decorated in soothing grays with multiple fireplaces and cozy throws and pristine views. The perfect winter hideaway.
In the late afternoon, after massages and lovemaking and a walk around town, Hayes decided that he wanted a “proper tea.” He rang up room service, and I listened as he requested a “spot of Earl Grey and something sweet like scones or digestive biscuits, if you have any,” and my heart ached. My sweet, sweet boy, so far from home.
“Well, that was a first,” he said, hanging up the phone. We were in the living room, peeling off our layers. Snow falling outside on the terrace.
“What was a first?”
“He just called me Mr. Marchand.”
I started to laugh. “You didn’t correct him? You didn’t say, ‘It’s Mr. Doo to you’?”
He smiled, pulling me into him, his hands and nose still icy. His cheeks, red. “No, I quite liked it. ‘Mr. Marchand.’ It’s rather sophisticated.” The last bit he stressed with an upper-crust accent, mocking his own people, as it were.
“Think I’ll try it out for a few days, see if I like it enough to make it a permanent thing. You know, in case we get married.” He kissed me. “I’m going to go warm up in the shower. Don’t hesitate to join me.”
I watched him make his way back into the bedroom. His broad shoulders in flannel, his jeans clinging to his ass. How the fuck had I gotten so lucky? How, in this great world, had we found each other? And how, I wondered, when the time came, was I going to let him go?
I made my way eventually to the master bath. Hayes was in the steam shower. I could smell his soap, his grapefruit body wash. He traveled with his own toiletries because he said he spent so much time in hotels, it was his way of holding on to his identity. Of remembering who he was.
He turned when I opened the glass door, his eyes brightening. I’d removed everything. “Hiiii.”
“Hi yourself.” I stood there, drinking him in. All of him.
And feeling everything.
And then I said it. “I love you.”
Hayes froze, a confused look on his face, water streaming down his long torso. “Are you saying that because I’m naked?”
“No.”
“Are you saying that because it’s my birthday?”
“I’m saying it because I love you.”
He was quiet, weighing the moment. And then he smiled, wide. “What took you so long?”
I laughed. “I was just making sure it was you, and not the idea of you.”
“Come here,” he said, pulling me under the stream of water. His hands pushing my hair from my face, his mouth on mine, his penis stirring against my groin. “Would you mind saying that again so I know I didn’t imagine it?”
“I love you.”
“Yeah.” He smiled, all dimples. “That’s what I thought you said.”
*
On Saturday morning, Hayes awoke early to go to the gym before we hit the slopes, his body still on Greenwich Mean Time. I watched him dress from the comfort of the bed: his shorts, his girlish headband holding his hair off his pretty face, his #BlackLivesMatter T-shirt.
“Hayes Campbell, political activist?”
He smiled, grabbing his headphones from the dresser. It was still dark out. “Hayes Campbell, concerned citizen of the world. Your country, as much as I adore it, can be a bit fucked up when it comes to race…”
“You don’t say?”
“I do. That’s one of the things I love about you: that you’re giving these artists a voice.
“I read an interesting piece in The New York Times this week on Kehinde Wiley—is that how you pronounce it? And he’s kind of fascinating. But it just made me proud of you. And I know I gave you a hard time about the Invisible installation, but I’ve been thinking about it a lot since our conversation in New York—about how we value some art more than others—and really, I think what you do is amazing.”
I lay there staring at him. Every time he opened his mouth, I liked him more. It had taken Daniel much longer to not view my work as some kind of self-indulgent charity project. In many ways, I’m sure he still did.
Hayes made his way over to me then, leaned in, kissed me. “I love this mouth. I’ll be back in a bit.”
“Oliver said something interesting the other night…”
“Did he?” He tensed.
“He said the first time you saw me, that night in Vegas, you said to him: ‘Did you see that mum? I just want to fuck her mouth.’” I allowed it to sit there. “Is that true? Did you say that?”
He was quiet for a moment, contemplating. “Mm, that sounds like something I might have said … But in my defense, I was a twenty-year-old lad. We can be crass.”
“Hayes…”
“Fucking Oliver … Oh, come on. What did you say when you first saw me? To yourself, what did you say?”
“Probably something like, ‘Oh, he’s cute.’”
“Really? Hmm … Because I clearly remember a conversation with someone saying, and I quote, ‘God, I just want to sit on this kid’s face and pull his hair.’”
I smiled at that.
“I don’t know,” he continued, “but that sounds an awful lot like fucking my mouth.”
“It sounds more delicate my way.”
“Delicate? Delicate mouth fucking?” He smiled. “Right. You’re insane, Solène, and that is why I love you.” He kissed me again before heading toward the door. “Let me know when you’re up for some delicate mouth fucking. I’ll be back.”