Page 3 of The Boy from Half Moon

He took four long strides and came to stand directly in front of me. I was just shy of six feet tall by a couple of inches, but he towered over me, his physical presence making me weak-kneed as I struggled to keep my fist out of my mouth and from biting down hard.

“Millie Jean asked me to give you this,” he said, his voice quite masculine for such a young-appearing boy.

“Thank you,” I said, locked in a battle as I struggled to look away from his face. Piercing eyes returned my stare. His eye color was deep blue, with the surrounding area whiter than any bleached hotel sheet I’d ever seen.

“She does kind things like this all the time,” he stated. “I guess she wanted you to have the freshest we could provide,” he added.

“And I appreciate that very much.”

“You can find a Starbucks at the local Safeway grocery store,” he said, turning and pointing outside the bakery windows. “Less than a mile back on the highway.”

Will you go with me? Can I kiss you? Wanna get married? “How’d you know I wanted coffee?” I asked.

“Millie Jean told me,” he admitted. “Plus, I overheard you when you first came in.”

He’d noticed me. That was promising. But what I thought we had here was a local group of devoutly religious people in the middle of nowhere on the map. My limited experience, from watching too many episodes of Dateline, was that they chose these small communities so they could practice their bizarre beliefs with as little outside interference as possible.

“Coffee’s my bad habit,” I confessed. “And I’m tired from a long drive from Seattle,” I added, trying my best to engage him in a discussion. I wasn’t sure what I’d do if he actually read minds and knew I wanted him naked, but I’d deal with that when we got married.

“Most city folks ask us for coffee. You’re no different, sir.”

“Please, enough with the sir, I’m only thirty-two,” I stated. “And do I look that city?”

He gave me a polite once-over. “Honestly, yes. Your car sort of gave that away as well,” he said. “We don’t get many flashy cars in Madras.”

“I guess you caught me,” I said. “Hopefully Bend will be more accepting.”

His face didn’t register that he was put off or understood my slight irritation at being called out by a country bumpkin, so I stepped around him and headed toward the register.

“I can ring you up,” he said, hurrying around me. I didn’t respond, instead laying the box on the countertop and reaching for a credit card. “We don’t take cards,” he said.

“Of course you don’t,” I snottily replied. “And of course, I don’t have any cash,” I added, looking at him before turning to the parking lot where my car was parked, wondering how many quarters I could scrape together from the console.

“You can owe us. How about that?” he asked. “Maybe make up for my insensitive remark regarding your car.”

So, he wasn’t a dimwit after all. His attire said rural un-chic, but he spoke like a man with many more years of maturity. “Your comment was fine,” I replied. “I’m just tired, is all.”

Thinking he’d express that he was sorry I was tired, or that life was a bitch, although I seriously doubted he’d use a word like ‘bitch,’ he surprised me. “What has you tired?” he asked. “Besides the drive from Seattle?”

Seemingly intelligent, engaging, and a fourteen out of ten on the fuckable scale? Kill me now. “Fear of the unknown,” I admitted, surprising myself at disclosing such a personal thought.

“Fear of the unknown is what makes life worth living, don’t you think?” he asked.

“Good point,” I admitted.

“Like me and you,” he noted, gesturing between the two of us. “Normally I’d be intimidated talking to a man with your style.”

I quickly looked around, wondering who he was talking about, or who may have heard his comment. “Really?” I asked. He nodded, digging through his jeans pockets before pulling four crumpled dollars out. “I’m just a normal guy,” I added, watching as he opened the register and began flattening and straightening out the wrinkled bills. “Are you paying for me with your own money?” I asked, moving my hand toward his to prevent him from doing so. “I thought you meant the store would cover me.”

“Tips,” he corrected. “I don’t get to keep them, anyway.” My hand was on his wrist when he looked up at me and there was a flash of fear in his eyes that caused me to jerk my hand back. “I’ll get in trouble if the register is short,” he said.

“I can’t allow you to do that.”

“But I’d like to,” he whispered, turning toward the two girls helping other customers to his right. “Next time, just remember to have some cash.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, mesmerized by his face. He was non-expressive and very hard to read, to the point I wanted to know all of his secrets, if he had secrets, of course.

“Yes, I’m sure,” he replied. He glanced outside, and the color left his face immediately. “I have to go,” he said abruptly, slamming the register drawer shut, shoving the box at me, and once again glancing toward the front door.

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