Life on Pause: Love Life, #1

Chapter One

For the first time in five years, Niles had forgotten a change of clothes for after work, so he was still dressed like a poor man’s Buffalo Bill Cody.

He cranked up NPR, tried to ignore the chafing of his wool trousers and chaps, and tossed his wide-billed lawman hat into the backseat. It landed on the dirty workout clothes from his morning spin class.

He could have put those clothes back, but they smelled like balls. Really, the whole car smelled like balls.

Niles rolled the window down, hoping to blow away the stench—he liked balls but not that much—and the aftertaste of his hellacious day.

Work had sucked. He should know better than to let Denny get to him. That big, dumb redneck always spouted shit and tried to undermine Niles in front of the kids he supervised—Niles had gotten used to the giggles of the teenage docents following him out of a room, but Denny had never done it in front of museum guests before, until today.

Heat throbbed behind Niles’s eyes, and he swiped at them angrily, which meant the fringe on his sleeves lashed his cheek and neck. He normally managed to keep his emotions in check in front of people, but he enjoyed a good cry every now and then. Like when he was reading the scene where Dobby dies or watching any dog movie ever. Or when he was embarrassed by a bully from high school, despite graduating from that godforsaken nightmare almost ten years ago.

That was normal, right?

Niles’s mom would have said that Denny was nothing but an insecure jerk who never grew up, and if his dad could still talk, he would have said that Denny was a racist. Denny might be both of those things, but Niles was pretty sure Denny picked on him because he was a homophobe.

What exactly had Denny said to that old couple with their grandkids in tow?

"Tomorrow’s storyteller is better. More believable, you know?"

And that didn’t really sound too bad, but it had been the tone of Denny’s voice, as if Niles wasn’t believable because he wasn’t rugged or big or manly. And Richard, a volunteer and retired cattle roper who handled Living History of the Plains on Wednesdays, was A Man. With capital letters.

Niles had thought about going to the Director of Bushyhead Homestead about Denny’s comment. Janice had hired Niles straight out of college, and she was the closest thing to a mentor he had. But Janice wouldn’t do jack-shit besides tell Denny, again, to stop being an asshole, and that would have only made it worse.

It didn’t help that Niles wasn’t exactly a convincing prairie homesteader, even in the historical getup. He was too tall, too thin, and too weird. But he was a decent actor, and a good teacher, and he knew his shit. He knew how to tan a hide, and clean a deer, and churn butter, and milk a cow, and make a million different things from buffalo chips. This land was his heritage, for fuck’s sake. And Janice always said that he was the best Director of Education Bushyhead Homestead had managed to keep in twenty years, but none of that mattered in the face of Denny’s put-downs. That one sentence earlier had reduced Niles to the insecure teenager he so desperately wanted to leave behind.

The sun had started to sink below the tree line, and that perfect sunset glow spread over the hay fields on either side of the road. The tips of the grass blazed golden from the last dredges of sunlight, and the dusky sky tinged the trees pink. In an hour, lightning bugs would descend like fairy lights from heaven, and Niles would sit on the front porch of his parents’ house and eat dinner all alone. And he was okay with that.

As long as he could get out of this stupid outfit and take a shower to wash off this awful day before he had to interact with another human being, he would be okay with just about anything.

He was almost to the four-way stop before his driveway when his car suddenly pitched a little to the right. He braked hard, and at that exact moment, one of his back tires blew and shredded apart.

Of fucking course.

Rusty glanced at his rearview mirror to see his niece, Margo, in the backseat. Every day after school, Margo was bussed over from the Early Childhood Education Center to the high school where she hung out in his classroom until he was ready to leave, because his sister, Jacqueline, didn’t get off work in time to pick her up. Most days, Rusty and Margo returned to his apartment above the antique store on Main Street, and he tried to be a good pseudo-parent by feeding her healthy food. But on Tuesdays, they ate at Lupe’s because he couldn’t be good all the time and little girls deserved chocolate empanadas every once in a while.

Todd, Rusty’s accompanist at school and recent ex-boyfriend, used to be part of their routine. Margo didn’t quite understand why Uncle Todd now only gave her a hug when she arrived at his classroom and left without going to dinner with them. She didn’t get that Rusty wasn’t part of Todd’s routine anymore. Now a beautiful twink from Tulsa was the center of Todd’s world, and Rusty was the ex Todd had to work with.

Every. Single. Day.

Margo was playing with a plastic panda bear figurine but her eyes were droopy, and an unearthly pang tugged at Rusty’s chest. It was the same pang he’d first experienced when Jackie had handed him a baby Margo and asked him to sing her to sleep. He still sang to her when he was around at bedtime. It was their thing. And Margo was a girl after his own heart. She loved Johnny Cash and Ella Fitzgerald and show tunes, and he loved her like his heart would split to pieces because of her smile.

The road to Jackie’s duplex, which was outside of Bison Hills proper, was normally empty, but today there was a tiny, old Mazda kicking up dust in front of him. He began to break at a four-way stop and watched as one of its tires stripped completely off and the rubber went flying. The little car wobbled like a top losing momentum, but the driver managed to wrangle it into control and pull the car to a stop.

Then the driver of the Mazda dropped his head to the steering wheel.

Poor guy.

There was nothing for miles except homes and farms, and cell service was notoriously bad in this area. Rusty hoped the man had a donut or a spare.

Margo, he said, turning in his seat to look directly at her. She glanced up at him. I’m going to help this person in front of us, okay? He has a flat tire. I’ll roll the window down, so if you need me, all you’ll need to do is yell. Is that all right with you?

She nodded, so he opened several of the windows and then got out to help the man.

He approached the car, stepping over pieces of shredded tire, but when he reached the driver’s side, the guy didn’t roll down the window. Instead, he simply stared at Rusty through the glass with wide eyes before putting his head back on the steering wheel. It was a little alarming.

Hey, you okay? Rusty asked through the glass. All he’d seen before the man had put his head down was wavy black hair and big dark-as-pitch eyes. The driver reached for his door handle, so Rusty stepped back to give him room to get out.

But he was in no way prepared for the man who unfolded himself from the car. The driver’s height alone was impressive, but all in all, the least noteworthy thing about him.

Yee haw, Rusty choked, and the driver—completely decked out in suede and fringe and boots and a Western shirt—glared at him, so Rusty schooled his expression. Are you all right?

I’m fine, the driver gritted out before he kicked the rim of his shredded tire.

Where’s your hat? Rusty couldn’t help but ask.

Backseat, the man said dully.

This cowboy was tall and gangly, especially in his costume. God, Rusty hoped it was a costume and not, like, his normal clothing. The guy almost had a broody thing going, with tan skin and hair that fell into his eyes, but dark freckles on his nose and cheeks completely countered any mileage he might get out of his pensive-poet appearance. They made him seem young and innocent.

I’m Rusty, he said, his hand extended for a shake. The other driver placed a thin, long-boned hand into his, and the rough calluses against Rusty’s palm surprised him. Maybe this guy was a real cowboy. Do you need help?

The man wouldn’t meet his eyes, and he fidgeted with the fringe on his sleeves. I’m okay. I just need to get the donut on. I live close by.

Rusty was surprised. His gaydar was pinging pretty hard, and he thought he’d met most every queer guy in a forty-mile radius. It wasn’t like there were a ton of options here. Besides Todd. Grindr was a veritable wasteland in Bison Hills.

What’s your name, man? Rusty prompted.

Oh! the guy said, as if he’d only now realized that he hadn’t given it. Niles Longfellow. I’m sorry. I’m a little . . . flabbergasted.

‘Flabbergasted’? Rusty repeated with a teasing laugh. What a vocabulary!

Color rose up on the man’s—on Niles’s—cheeks. His chin hitched higher, though, and he flipped that adorable forelock out of his eyes.

Uncle Russell! Margo called from the back of Rusty’s car.

Hold on a second, Rusty said before he jogged over to get Margo. He turned the car off and helped her down, and they walked back to the Mazda.

Niles was putting the emergency brake and hazards on, and when he stepped back out of the car, Margo squeaked, A pioneer!

He smiled at her, seemingly comfortable for the first time since Rusty had started speaking to him, and then he crouched down to be at her eye level.

That’s right. At my job, I pretend to be one of Oklahoma’s early homesteaders, so I wear this silly outfit. It looks pretty strange now though, huh?

Everything clicked into place. Rusty knew there was some kind of homestead museum in the area. In fact, when he’d moved from Oklahoma City out here to the boonies with Jackie, he’d told his friends, It’s not the total sticks. They have a museum. Of course, he hadn’t mentioned that the museum was just an old farm.

Margo had evidently used up all of her sociability for the day because she shrank back into Rusty’s side. Niles stood up, and Rusty was very aware of how he had to tip his head back to see Niles’s face.

An unsolicited lick of heat wound through Rusty as he imagined what that lanky man would look like spread out below him or behind him or, really, anywhere with him. He probably shouldn’t imagine strangers naked—it wasn’t exactly polite—but not every queer man he met had such long legs.

Or chaps.

You don’t need to stick around. I know how to change a tire. Accusation colored Niles’s voice, as if Rusty had insinuated he didn’t. And I’m literally a hundred yards from home. Niles pointed to a house up the road.

Rusty smiled at him, and Niles’s blush deepened, making his freckles harder to see in the decreasing daylight.

Let me help you. We’re losing sun here, and I don’t want you to have to do it in the dark. It’s easier with two people.

Niles stared down at his cowboy boots and nodded.

Great! Rusty exclaimed, and then bit the inside of his cheek. He could hear his sister’s teasing voice in his head. Sounding thirsty there, Russell. Let me get Margo set back up in the car, and then we’ll get you taken care of.

He turned to Margo, and she glared at him suspiciously, like he was about to cut her out of something fun.

Sugar pea, I’ll let you watch whatever you want on my iPad until I get done helping Mr. Longfellow, if you don’t mind staying in the car. Sound like a sweet deal to you?

"The Simpsons?" she asked.

He groaned. Deal, but don’t tell your mom.

Rusty could have sworn he heard Niles laugh softly behind him as he led Margo back to his car, and wished he had been watching Niles’s face to see it.

When he lifted Margo into her seat, she whispered, I liked his bandana.

He winked at her. Me too, bean sprout. I’ll be back.

Once Margo was buckled into the booster seat with her window down and the air conditioner on, Rusty returned to the poor Mazda.

Niles already had the car jacked up and the remnants of the tire pulled off. Rusty simply provided an extra pair of hands because Niles definitely knew what he was doing. He changed a tire like a pit boss.

Lightning bugs started to flicker around them, and a black cricket landed on Rusty’s boat shoe. Before he could even flinch, Niles flicked the cricket away and continued to change the tire as if it were nothing.

And something about that was unexpectedly sexy.

Do you live in town? Niles asked suddenly.

Yeah. I have for four years now. I moved out here with my sister after she had Margo.

Ah, Niles said. I wondered why I didn’t recognize you. I mean, it’s not that weird that I haven’t seen you before. I’m not exactly a social butterfly or anything. I kind of suck at social, actually. But I know all the townies. Townies know each other, you know? And I’m sure I’ve never seen you before. He bit his lip and ducked his head shyly before lowering the jack.

I haven’t really met a ton of people since moving here, Rusty said. Just coworkers and my sister’s friends, most of whom have four-year-olds.

Where do you work?

I’m the choir director for the middle school and high school at Bison Hills.

Niles hand-tightened the lug nuts, and Rusty tracked his long, nimble fingers. He had a thing for hands, and he liked the way Niles fluttered his when flustered, which had been pretty much the whole time they’d been on the side of the road.

Once Niles was done, Rusty stood up and reached down to give him a boost. When he pulled him up, Niles lost his balance and their shoulders bumped.

Gah! I’m sorry, Niles squeaked.

That’s okay.

Rusty glanced down at their hands to see their skin touching. The delicate bones of Niles’s hand against Rusty’s baseball-mitt palm. The difference in their skin tones. But then Niles jerked his hand away with an embarrassed squawk.

I’m sorry, Niles said again. He took a step back, tripped over the shredded tire, and fell against the side of his car.

Rusty decided it was about time for him to disappear before he made Niles any more uncomfortable, but then Niles laughed—a sad, barbed little laugh, but a laugh nonetheless.

Dude, you would not believe the day I’ve had. Niles slumped against his car. I thought the worst part of my day was a douche-hat coworker talking bad about me to museum patrons. I wasn’t prepared for this disaster.

Hey, I think this was a pretty successful tire change, Niles. I mean, you did most of the work, and I stood around like eye candy. I call that ‘being productive.’ Now I don’t feel guilty about spending the rest of the night watching Netflix. He smiled at Niles, and Niles returned it, all hesitant and shy. The guy’s historical getup was dusty from the road, like he’d come from a cattle drive—if it were a cattle drive of over-tall twinks—and Rusty was tempted to help him brush it all off.

Niles gathered up his tools and the flat tire and put everything in his trunk. It was time to go, but Rusty didn’t want to waste an opportunity here. At the very least, Niles was a man who was his age, and it would be nice to actually have a friend who wasn’t one of the women Jackie worked with at the salon or a parent of Margo’s classmates. Or Todd.

Maybe I’ll see you around, Niles? You ever go to O’Donnell Ducks? It was the only bar in Bison Hills and within walking distance of Rusty’s apartment.

Uh, no. Ducks isn’t exactly my thing. Remember? No social butterfly here. Niles toed at the dirt around his tire for a couple of pregnant seconds. The rejection hit Rusty like a kick to his shins. He took a few steps back and opened his mouth to say goodbye, but then Niles glanced up at him, rubbing the back of his neck.

It was nice to meet you, Russell, he whispered.

And the way Niles said his full name, all soft and sweet, made Rusty wish he’d get to hear it again.

Niles plopped down on his front porch and pulled out his cell phone. He had the worst gaydar in the history of gaydar. He wanted to call his best friend, Victor, to walk him through using Grindr again to see if he could find Rusty on there, but Victor was on a cruise right now. Well, he was constantly on a cruise because he worked on a cruise ship. Niles always thought of it as if Victor were on vacation, but he wasn’t. He was at work. Niles would try to catch him on Skype over the weekend, but that would not help with his current predicament—the mystery of Rusty’s sexuality.

And fuck! He had been in his stupid historical clothing like a total nerd! It was worse than those nightmares where he was naked in a crowd of people.

Rusty had been a total boner machine, too. Big and broad with chest hair peeking out from the V of his button-down. Surely his hair had been too styled for him to be straight: parted on the side and swept off his face with an undercut on the sides and back, like he was a playboy from the 1940s. But edgier.

Plus, Rusty had been wearing really nice shoes. Which, okay, Niles shouldn’t judge someone from appearance alone, but Rusty had also been super nice. Straight guys were never that kind to him. Not that straight men weren’t capable of being nice, but they didn’t go out of their way to make him feel comfortable. Normally, he could practically see them shouting No Homo! with their eyes, and Rusty hadn’t been like that.

Maybe Rusty had a horrible gaydar!

Oh hell, that would be worse.

Then there was the weird hand-holding thing, which had totally been Niles’s fault. He’d held on like a complete creeper. If Rusty were straight, he’d probably thought Niles was hitting on him! Nausea swept over him so quickly he had to put his head between his knees.

It was almost full dark now, and the August air smelled like grass and leaves and dirt and petrol. Like Oklahoma. He could barely make out the junk littering his parents’ front yard: rusted car parts, a broken tire swing, empty flowerpots, and memories. He should clean the yard or entice a pack of pickers to come and haul all the scrap away, but it was his parents’ stuff, and he wasn’t prepared to part with it yet. Months ago, he’d started to sort through their belongings inside the house. He’d cleaned and imagined loading up and carrying big, bursting garbage bags to the Goodwill. But he hadn’t been able to go through with it. Hell, he could hardly enter his parents’ bedroom. It still smelled like chewing tobacco and antiseptic Bag Balm.

But the least he could do was make the yard seem hospitable. String twinkle lights from the trees and weed his mom’s flowerbeds. Make it the type of place where a nice man might want to spend time with him. The type of place he wouldn’t be embarrassed to point out to a stranger on the side of the road.

Oh, geez. Pathetic much? One kind, burly bear and Niles was planning their freaking wedding. He needed to get a grip.

Or get laid.

But holy Betsy, that sounded like too much work. Driving to Tulsa, hanging out at a bar where he felt like the country bumpkin, and pretending to know what the hell everyone was talking about, and for what? The privilege of blowing some young professional who wouldn’t even kiss him? No, thanks. Palmy Lee Jones and fancy lube—that would have to do.

Niles pulled himself up off the porch and went inside to change out of his work outfit. The pants bore patches of road filth, and he was going to have to handwash them, which served him right for buying authentic historical clothing.

Everything would be easier if he weren’t such a fucking nerd.

While he was changing in his childhood bedroom—which he should admit was just his adult bedroom—he thought back to Denny the Douche-canoe. His hurt feelings seemed almost silly now. The sick drop of shame. The sting of tears in his eyes at being made the butt of yet another joke. Inconsequential—the lot of ’em.

Because nothing, absolutely nothing, could compare to the mortification of a man as hot as Rusty seeing him in fringe.

Niles threw his dirty clothes on the floor and fell back onto his bed in his briefs. His gaze settled on the framed picture of his parents on his bedside table.

His mom, with her pale skin and light eyes and curly hair—Irish, through and through—and his dad, all commanding in full Cheyenne and Arapaho regalia before a Fancy Dance competition. They had been such beautiful people. Strong and sturdy and so young in the picture. Younger than him.

Niles had been a surprise. The best surprise, his mom used to say. She’d been almost forty when he was born, and his dad only a couple of years younger. His parents had been told a baby wasn’t in the cards.

He’d always worried he wasn’t the son they’d hoped for. Dreamed of. But Mom had been perfectly willing to smack that notion out of his head. When they found out he was gay—not like he’d hidden it well—neither had batted an eyelash, and his dad had given him a long lecture on the history of the Two-Spirit. So yeah, he was pretty lucky. His parents—his mom, now gone, and his dad, alive but gone in a totally different way—had been great.

But Niles, as much as he loved them, didn’t want to see them right now. He tipped the picture over, opened his toy drawer, and grabbed the lube.

Chapter Two

As Niles filled up a small horse trough with ice and free bottled water, he couldn’t help but imagine what it would be like to work at a museum where he didn’t have to spend lots of time outside in the heat. It was a Saturday and there was less staff, so he was on heat-exhaustion duty when a thirteen-year-old emo kid in all black had fainted right in front of her parents. It might have been the end of