Page 2 of The Boy from Half Moon

A lot of guys, still relatively young after a decade with the same man, would’ve loved a break-up and the chance to sow some more wild oats before it was too late. I, however, was not that guy. I liked being part of a team and living a committed lifestyle with the person I’d given my heart to. I hurt. I hurt badly.

I didn’t date, avoided gay clubs, and basically lived at the office because I had no personal life. Moping about became my new lifestyle. I’d had offers, even a few dates, but a heart wants what it wants. What I wanted no longer wanted me. All of our couple friends followed the money and sided with Thomas even though it wasn’t me who cheated. Why wouldn’t they? Thomas was way more fun than I was.

Even when we’d first met at twenty-two, I’d been the homebody. Back then Thomas said that was my biggest appeal, my selling point, he’d added. Apparently, I hadn’t understood that, like milk, there’s a shelf life, even for men barely over thirty.

Coming out of the forest that surrounds Mt. Hood, I recognized civilization ahead, so I asked Siri where the nearest Starbucks was. I swear she laughed out loud when she reported that Madras had none. Looking at the limited stores in the Podunk town I was driving through gave me pause. Uh-oh. Was it too late to head back to Seattle, the headquarters of my beloved coffee brand? I could live with a pay cut, as well as in a new town, but without my Starbucks? Probably not.

“Hey, Siri,” I began again, craning my neck as I drove the required twenty-five miles an hour speed limit. “Find the nearest coffee shop or bakery, you bitch.”

The always pleasant Siri ignored my name-calling and suggested a bakery named Heart Comfort Nest in downtown Madras at the next light. “Next light?” I grumbled. “You’re inferring that there’s more than one in this shit-hole town?”

The parking lot was full, so I assumed the bakery must be good, or at least a local favorite, but did they have coffee? It was a bakery, so probably, right? According to the welcome sign I’d seen at the edge of town, Madras was a community of less than eight thousand people, so my expectations were low.

There were more jacked-up, four-wheel-drive trucks per square foot in the parking lot than at a rodeo in Wyoming. My Porsche stood out like a diamond on a cow turd. The fact it was a bright red convertible didn’t help.

Sliding out of my low-riding ragtop and standing to give me a better view of the interior of the bakery, I wasn’t completely surprised at my discovery. The inside had more gingham curtains hanging in the windows than the cabin from the TV show Little House on the Prairie, and I was convinced I saw the Ingalls ladies working inside.

“Welcome in, sir. It sure is a lovely day outside,” a Laura Ingalls wannabe greeted me. Her long hair hung down her back, all secured with a smart bonnet that matched her apron. She looked fifteen but could have been thirty with her non-made-up face and porcelain skin. “The strawberry-rhubarb pies are fresh out of the oven,” she declared. “We grow all of our own ingredients,” she added proudly.

I glanced around the inside of the charming bakery, the smell of aromatic spices filling the air of the Americana throwback. The workers, dressed in modest and simple attire, busied themselves as they scurried about, smiles plastered on each face as if someone had demanded they do so. I had to be getting punked. Where are the cameras? “What I really need is an espresso please,” I replied, still not trusting that I wasn’t on a hidden camera show. “Iced please.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, sir,” she began, smiling like a Stepford wife. “We don’t sell caffeinated products here.”

My eyes widened. I must have misunderstood her. “Plain coffee then. Make it black,” I said. “Pour it over ice if you have some.”

“No caffeinated beverages,” she said again, breaking through my refusal to understand how any food business on earth didn’t sell coffee. “Might I recommend some homemade lemonade? Rita Mae just made a fresh batch, and folks say she makes the best lemonade in all of Jefferson County.”

Rita Mae? Still not convinced, I checked all corners of the room and a mirror on the wall to see if there were hidden cameras. There weren’t. What I did see were four other female workers dressed exactly the same, with the same long hair and modest bonnets. Half the tables were occupied with local folks, the men all wearing cowboy hats, or had theirs sitting on a wooden chair nearby.

A family of tourists, all wearing matching T-shirts, had their cellphones out, taking pics of the interior, marveling at the old-time feel of the establishment and its employees. The staff of young women seemed accustomed to them and went cheerfully about their duties.

I was either in an Amish business or an Apostolic one because the modest dress and a subdued but pleasant attitude were the order of the day for the staff.

“The lemonade, sir?”

Rebecca of Sunny Brook Farms, not her real name, was so kind that I decided to take her up on the recommendation of lemonade. “That sounds delicious,” I stated, pointing at what I assumed were homemade cinnamon rolls in the smudge-free glass case. “And one of those, please.”

“Great choice, sir,” she said, still beaming rays of sunshine out of every orifice in her head. I wanted to ask her how life in the fifties was, but figured she was happy based on her personality. She leaned over the counter, cupping a hand near her mouth. “I’m going to have Luke get you a fresh one from the back. He just took a batch out of the oven along with those pies I was telling you about.”

After she disappeared behind the swinging doors to the kitchen, I wandered around the store, admiring all the quaint goods for sale. There were jars of jams with decorative cloth squares screwed under the ringed lids of the mason jars, small brown paper bags filled with the ingredients you could use to take and bake your own items, as well as cute knick-knacks with pleasant sayings about country life and America the beautiful. Boxes of baked goods were neatly stocked on tables, as well as local art for sale was hung on the walls. But what there wasn’t was any goddamned coffee.

I glanced at the menu board to see if they had colas of any kind when a young man came through the swinging doors with a tray of cinnamon rolls. He was making his way into the main room, about to slide the rolls into the glass case, and holding a small box in the other hand.

Screw the coffee. I wanted a quad shot of him. I hadn’t felt anything resembling sexual desire since Thomas left me for his trainer, but something woke up the instant this boy’s appearance registered in my brain.

All I knew was that as soon as I got my roll, I planned to rush back to my car and Google whatever church group or cult he belonged to. I immediately planned to pledge my allegiance as soon as I could locate their facility. Sign me up, take all my money, and call me bamboozled. I wanted in. Holy smokes, he was handsome.

The young man’s biceps popped like a Jiffy-Pop foil bag as he held the large tray in one hand, balancing what I assumed was my small box containing a single cinnamon roll in his other. He had wide-legged denim jeans on, held up by a wide leather belt, and a short-sleeved white button-down that was tucked into his non-brand jeans. Worn, leather lace-up boots were on his feet, supporting the entire structure of delicious sturdiness.

He carried himself like a young colt that had just been released in the pasture, understated but slightly cocky and almost ready to challenge the stallion of the farm for supremacy. The boyish look he portrayed was countered by something underneath his veneer. I couldn’t put my finger on what was there, but he had a wonderful combination of innocence and steeliness. His dirty-blond hair was buzzed short on the sides, with the top longer and boyish.

He obviously didn’t work in a kitchen most days based on his summer tan and the natural highlights in his hair. His chest was doing its best to burst out of his crisp white shirt. I wouldn’t get the honor of drooling over his bulging chest due to every button on his shirt being buttoned, including the top one.

I noticed the denim material around the waist of his jeans was bunched up after he’d cinched his belt tightly because his ass was so muscular and round compared to his slim waist, filling out the old-fashioned jeans to the maximum. The narrow waist accentuated his back’s V formation, leading to broad shoulders.

In my opinion, he had zero clue he looked like sex on a stick, a walking advertisement for every gay man’s fantasy. He was country, farm-boy innocence personified, with just the tiniest, almost imperceptible scorn, waiting at the corners of his mouth, an edge to him if you will.

He turned, searching the room. “I think that’s mine,” I said, trying to keep my voice level.

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