Life on Pause

by Erin McLellan

  “Sure,” Niles said faintly and hoped his boner wasn’t visible in his cowboy pants.

  Nerves danced in Rusty’s stomach while he waited for Niles on the bench outside the entrance of Rose Rock Bakery. He normally wasn’t a nervous person. He could stand on stage and sing in front of hundreds of people and not break a sweat. He didn’t have any phobias. And when it came to men or women, he wasn’t afraid to go for what he wanted.

  But this anxiety over Niles was a whole other animal, and it surprised him. Rusty had dated his fair share of men, all of them like his ex, Todd—silver-tongued, stylish, fit, and fickle. But Niles was shy and kind of awkward, and for all Rusty knew, he might not own regular clothes—he’d never answered Rusty’s question about his after-work attire—and Rusty couldn’t remember the last time he’d been so drawn to someone else, so interested to get to know another person. He was as nervous as he was excited.

  A large SUV parked directly in front of the entrance, and a bunch of children poured out of the vehicle. At first, Rusty didn’t recognize any of the kids, but then he caught sight of a teenage boy, Martin Jacobs, who had been in choir the year before but hadn’t been able to fit it into his schedule this year because of his vo-tech classes.

  “Hi, Mr. Adams,” Martin mumbled, and Rusty smiled and stood up. He’d always liked the kid. He was sulky, somber, and had the most beautiful tenor.

  “Hi, Martin. How are your carpentry classes going?”

  “Good.”

  “I’m glad to hear that.” Rusty turned toward Martin’s mom, Mrs. Jacobs.

  She was grinning at him. “Mr. Adams, I was so sad when Martin wasn’t able to keep taking choir, but Vanessa will be in the seventh grade next year and she’s planning to pick it as her elective course.” She gestured to a tall girl standing between three younger kids.

  “I look forward to having you in my class next year, Vanessa,” he said to her. She blushed and her mom laughed.

  “You kiddos go on in and get us a table,” Mrs. Jacobs said, shooing her kids inside. Once they were alone, she turned back to Rusty. “I really am sorry Martin couldn’t be in choir. I know you’re always short on boys, and Martin loved your class.”

  “It’s okay. It’s hard for the vo-tech kids to take any electives, so I understand. We do miss his tenor though.”

  She paused and studied him for a beat. “None of my kids—God love ’em—are athletes, so having a teacher like you, who pushes the arts and accepts kids who are different, is a blessing to my family. I expect you’ll have a long line of my kids in choir in the coming years. And I’m sure you don’t hear thanks nearly as often as you deserve—none of you teachers do—but thank you.”

  Tears almost sprouted in his eyes, but he managed to push them down. “I appreciate hearing that.”

  “Sure thing. I better get inside before my passel of kids burns the place down.” She smiled at him, and then slipped into the restaurant.

  Rusty sat back down on the bench to wait for Niles, his earlier nervousness completely gone. He was touched that Mrs. Jacobs had stopped to chat with him, and that she had said such nice things. He’d never had that when he’d taught at a large, understaffed school in Oklahoma City, but that happened to him often in Bison Hills. He could hardly buy a gallon of gasoline without seeing and chatting with a parent of one of his students.

  And he liked that. He liked the hospitable, small-town charm. He liked that it felt like a community. But something Mrs. Jacobs had said hit him especially hard—that she appreciated that he was accepting of kids who were different.

  He imagined that growing up in a small town could sometimes feel like being under a microscope, especially if one didn’t conform to societal expectations. If he could provide one small-town kid relief from that pressure, if he could provide one class period where a child could just be herself, then moving to Bison Hills was worth it.

  When he’d moved here, it had been exactly what he’d needed. He hadn’t been prepared for his first teaching job, and he’d needed a break from the drugs and drama and competition of his friends in Oklahoma City. Simply put, he hadn’t been happy. When Jackie got pregnant and Daddy Douchebag forfeited his rights, Rusty had left with Jackie without looking back.

  And after a day like today—where he had gone to a local museum with Jackie and Margo, had a touching conversation with a student’s parent, and was about to have a date with a gorgeous man—he couldn’t imagine living anywhere else.

  At exactly six thirty, Niles pulled into the parking lot in his Mazda, now with four new tires, and when he stepped out of the car, Rusty’s relief almost made him laugh out loud. Niles was wearing jeans and a T-shirt with Cookie Monster on it. His curly hair was slightly damp from his shower, and he looked clean and young and, yes, very nervous when he saw Rusty waiting for him.

  “Hi, Rusty,” Niles said shyly when he reached him.

  A shiver worked its way up Rusty’s spine. Maybe that was where the attraction originated—Niles’s voice, so soft and sweet and earnest, saying Rusty’s name like he liked it.

  Rusty ushered Niles inside, they seated themselves, and within seconds, a frazzled teenager Rusty vaguely recognized from school came to get their drink orders. Rose Rock Bakery—a restaurant that didn’t actually sell baked goods—was one of Rusty’s favorite places in town. Todd had worked there through high school and knowing the intricacies of the kitchen had made it inedible to him. That probably should have scared Rusty off, but Rose Rock Bakery bore the welcome distinction of having zero Todd memories attached to it. Rusty saw the man every day, for God’s sake. He would like to go on a date without the echo of Todd haunting him.

  Rusty and Niles both ordered Dr Pepper and then stared at each other. Niles rearranged the salt and pepper shakers. Then did it again. And again.

  “So do you like working at Bushyhead Homestead?” Rusty asked.

  Niles nodded and smiled, his lips curling and flashing an enticing sliver of pink gums above his front teeth.

  “I’ve always loved that place. We used to go when I was a kid. My parents were really into heritage and history, so we went to all the events and festivals.”

  “That reminds me,” Rusty said. “What is Cricket Plague Days? You mentioned it earlier. Every year I see it in the newspaper and the kids talk about it at school, but I’ve never paid that much attention.”

  Niles’s eyes lit up. “Oh, that’s probably my favorite festival at Bushyhead Homestead. I love the powwow in the spring too, but Cricket Plague Days is special.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “Okay, so sometime after statehood—around 1909—Bison Hills started having a local trade market. It was a chance for farmers to come into town and sell their livestock or produce, and they called it Bison Hills Trade Days. Things got weird in 1915. One of those charismatic, end-of-days churches sprung up in the area and developed a loyal following. I’m not saying they were snake handlers or anything, but pretty close. Their preacher, a man named Teller Chafin, did not at all like the direction society was heading. He didn’t like that there were so many illegal stills, moonshiners, and bootleggers in the area. He had major problems with white people marrying Native Americans. And he absolutely abhorred Bison Hills’s dance hall.” Niles paused dramatically and hit Rusty with a sly smile. “So … Preacher Chafin claimed God had spoken to him in a dream and said that a great plague of crickets would come down from heaven, scourge all of the farmers’ harvests, and ruin Bison Hills Trade Days if the townsfolk didn’t change their evil ways.”

  Rusty laughed. “Shut up. This is not true.”

  “No! I promise. It’s totally true. So it created this huge division in town. A lot of people were very anti-liquor, anti-Native, and anti-dancing. The newspapers called them Plaguers. But a lot of other people liked their booze, their neighbors, and their honky-tonks. The newspapers called them Sinners—not kidding. So it got closer and closer to harvest, and there were still no crickets. Preacher Chafin was not deterred.
He was adamant that crickets would ruin Bison Hills Trade Days. But … no crickets ever arrived, and Bison Hills Trade Days went off without a hitch. The Sinners in town felt vindicated in their ways, and the Plaguers were made a laughingstock. Preacher Chafin skipped town and was never heard from again. After that year, people started jokingly referring to Bison Hills Trade Days as Cricket Plague Days, and eventually the name stuck. Now, it’s more or less a kitschy fall market with a silly name.”

  “That’s nuts. So basically this preacher was like the precursor to televangelists who trick old ladies into sending them money,” Rusty said.

  “Yes. There were some Oral Roberts undertones there. Welcome to Oklahoma. We got a history.” Niles grinned at him, and heat rushed through Rusty’s skin. He’d take that genuine, open smile any day.

  His earlier conversation with Mrs. Jacobs flitted through his mind. “You know, growing up, I never would have expected I’d end up living in Small Town, Oklahoma. I’d dreamed of moving out of state, going to a big city somewhere,” Rusty said. “Now I can’t imagine living anywhere else. Bison Hills is great, and cost of living is so cheap here.”

  Niles giggle-snorted and then blushed. He was such strange mix. One minute, he was telling an in-depth story about his bizarre hometown without missing a beat, and the next he was self-conscious of his own laugh.

  “I never planned to move back to Bison Hills,” Niles said. “It feels a bit like fate that I ended up here.”

  “What did you plan?”

  Niles bit his lip and waved his hand a little impotently. “Oh, I don’t know, really. Dreams of grandeur—the Smithsonian or the Library of Congress. Hell, I would have been excited for the American Pigeon Museum in Oklahoma City. I didn’t think I’d be a Bison Hills townie.”

  Rusty hadn’t planned on Bison Hills either, but he liked Bison Hills with its population of seven thousand and historic downtown and off-the-wall festivals. And he liked that both he and Niles had ended up here, despite having different plans as younger men.

  When their teenage waiter came back, Niles ordered a burger, and Rusty stuck to a grilled chicken salad. An awkward silence settled over them once the waiter was gone, and Niles started popping his knuckles, one by one.

  “If you didn’t want to end up in Bison Hills, why did you? I mean, if you don’t mind me asking,” Rusty said.

  Niles fingered the wrapper from his straw and glanced away. “Life stuff, I guess. Shit luck. Plus, I never got my master’s. I would need it if I wanted to work at some of those bigger museums in a role similar to mine at the Homestead. What do you like to do for fun?” Niles asked abruptly.

  Rusty wanted to delve deeper, but couldn’t ignore Niles’s obvious redirection. “I sing and play the piano some. Luckily, I have an accompanist at school because I’m not good enough to play and conduct at the same time. Other than that, I babysit Margo a lot, and I’m a rabid college football fan. None of that seems very interesting. What about you? Besides, you know, wearing kinky costumes to work. Do you have assless chaps?”

  Niles laughed self-consciously. “I’ll have you know, most chaps are naturally assless. People simply wear pants under them. And I plead the fifth.”

  “Fair enough. So what do you do for fun?”

  “I don’t know. I’m so boring. Oh!” Niles gasped, like he was remembering something really important. “My best friend mailed me these coloring books that are evidently for adults, so I’ve been coloring a lot recently.”

  “Coloring books? That’s what you’ve got? You like to color?”

  “Well, that’s better than being a rabid fan for a barbaric sport where young men try to hurt each other,” Niles sassed back.

  Rusty smiled, oddly turned on by Niles’s cheek. “What else, besides adult coloring?”

  “I watch a lot of Netflix and just chill out.”

  “You Netflix and Chill?” Rusty asked, trying to stifle a laugh.

  “Hey! That’s cute!” Niles said happily. “I like it. Yes, I Netflix and Chill a lot. It’s like those Keep Calm and Carry On sayings.”

  Niles was evidently behind on his Internet memes.

  “I’m so glad that you like to Netflix and Chill, Niles,” Rusty laughed, unable to keep it inside now.

  “Why are you laughing at me?” Niles asked, his eyebrows furrowing and creating an adorable little divot between them. Rusty wanted to run his finger over it.

  “Oh, man, you’re cute.”

  Niles half-smiled, half-frowned at that. “You’re making fun of me.”

  “Netflix and Chill means to fuck,” Rusty whispered.

  “What?”

  “It means to have sex.”

  Niles’s mouth popped into a perfect O of surprise. He was the epitome of innocence, with those dark freckles and floppy hair and wide mouth. “No way,” he said. “I’m Googling that.” He pulled out his phone and rushed off a search. Then he laughed gleefully, and Rusty wanted to elicit that reaction from him as often as possible. “Netflix and Chill has a Wikipedia entry!” Niles glanced up at Rusty, joy radiating from him.

  Their waiter approached from Rusty’s left with a tray full of ice waters on his shoulder, and Rusty turned his attention to the teen. The waiter hovered for a second before stammering, “I’ll, uh, be back with your meal in a second. Or, like, a minute or so.”

  Rusty had a moment’s thought that the precariously balanced tray full of drinks was a disaster waiting to happen for their gangly waiter, before the kid skidded on a slick spot beside their table and tipped the whole tray onto Rusty’s head.

  Rusty’s body clenched in shock. The cups were plastic, not glass, so it didn’t hurt when they hit him, thank God, but the ice water hurt in its special own way. Adrenaline fired through him, and he shot up out of his seat. It was freezing, and body parts that weren’t supposed to shrivel were definitely trying to shrivel. The water soaked his pale blue button-down and navy shorts, making his clothes stick to his wide frame and revealing far more about his shape under his clothes than he was comfortable with in public.

  By the time the cups stopped clanking and Rusty’s shock receded, the whole restaurant was staring, the manager was at his elbow, and the waiter looked like he was a sharp word away from crying.

  “Holy shit, that’s cold,” Rusty said with a weak laugh.

  Niles had his hand over his mouth, and his dark eyes were wide and alight with humor. None of the water had reached him. Bastard. Rusty frowned at him, and Niles actually giggled.

  Rusty turned his attention back to the manager and the poor waiter, trying to mitigate any discipline that might be directed at the kid. After several fraught minutes, he convinced the manager that he was fine, but asked for their food to be boxed up to go. The manager and waiter hurried off to do his bidding.

  “Can we eat at my place?” Rusty asked Niles. “It’s right down the road, and that way I can get out of these wet clothes.”

  “I like the wet clothes,” Niles teased. “I can see your nipples.”

  Rusty’s jaw dropped, and that quickly, Niles tensed up, like he’d only then realized what he’d said.

  Rusty’s mind was still reeling from Niles’s words when the manager came back with their food neatly bagged up and the check. She’d comped his meal but not Niles’s, so Rusty pulled his wallet out to pay.

  “Hey! What’re you doing? Your meal was free.” Niles tried to hand Rusty a twenty.

  “No. I asked you out, and I want to pay for your meal,” Rusty said, refusing the proffered money. He was distracted by the manager for several seconds as she took his credit card, and when he turned back toward the table after she’d walked away, Niles had clammed up again.

  Rusty’s side of the booth was covered in water. His lap was already soaked, but he didn’t relish adding water to the seat of his pants too, so he stood next to their table and tried to figure out where Niles’s new bout of shyness had come from.

  The manager returned with his credit card, and he wrote in a healthy
tip on the receipt for the waiter, who had reappeared with an armful of towels and a broom to sweep up the ice.

  “You ready?” Rusty asked Niles.

  Niles clambered to his feet, but he wouldn’t quite meet Rusty’s eye. “Yeah, sure.”

  Rusty had never been so thankful for the blast of Oklahoma heat as when he left Rose Rock Bakery. He could practically feel the steam coming from his wet body when they crossed the parking lot. “You want to follow me to my apartment or ride with me?”

  Niles kicked at a concrete bumper block and then drew a deep breath, as if steeling himself for battle. “Is this a date?” he blurted out.

  Rusty froze because of course it was a date. How had Niles not understood that?

  “I mean, that’s nuts, Rusty. This can’t be—you can’t—I don’t believe that you—” Niles stammered.

  “Spit it out, gorgeous,” Rusty deadpanned and Niles flushed, his freckles almost completely disappearing.

  “I thought you said you wanted a friend,” Niles accused, like Rusty had pulled the rug out from under him.

  Maybe Rusty had. He’d said the friend thing at Bushyhead Homestead because Niles had acted like his head would explode from Rusty’s flirting. And he’d meant it. He wanted to be Niles’s friend.

  He also wouldn’t mind making out first to see if they might want to bang. Friends made the best lovers in his experience. That was how Rusty liked to meet people. He took them to dinner, they kissed and groped a little if both parties were so inclined, and then they either decided to be friends or fuck. It didn’t have to be complicated.

  But obviously it was, for Niles.

  Rusty put his hand on Niles’s elbow and rubbed a circle around the skin directly over his joint, trying to reassure him. Niles shivered.

  Was the elbow an erogenous zone?

  “Look, Cookie Monster, I do want to be friends, but when I asked you to go to dinner, I meant it as a date. It’s okay if you don’t want it to be a date. Next time we eat together, the waiter can dump beverages in your lap and you can pay for my meal. No harm, no foul.” Niles actually smiled at that, and Rusty wanted to pump his fist in the air. “Now, if it’s nothing to you, could we move this Avon party to my apartment? I’m dripping.”