Dearest Milton James by N.R. Walker

Chapter Five

“I do appreciate this,”I said, trying not to feel awkward.

He gave me a sweet smile as he backed the car out of the parking spot. “I don’t mind one bit.”

“So, about Paul,” I began. “With the whole serial-killer vibe he has going on. I don’t think he’s actually a serial killer. I think he’s weird. But not creepy. I mean, he is a bit creepy. But not creepy creepy. And if he were a real serial killer, I think I’d get the creepy-creepy vibes, ya know?”

Julian chuckled. “I’m glad you no longer think of him like that. He’s a little weird, granted. I can imagine him watching X-Files marathons or secretly having government conspiracy theories, perhaps? But not a serial killer.” He drove so smoothly, so confidently, and I found that very attractive. “He’s actually a nice guy.”

Nice guy? “Uh. The Silence of the Lambs impression was a little too real for him to fall under the nice category. I’ve lessened the likelihood of him being a serial killer, but I think nice might be subjective. Helpful, maybe. Polite or agreeable, yes. But nice?”

He shot me a smile. “He was just messing with you. I think he likes you.”

My voice came out two octaves higher. “Likes me?”

“Not like that.”

“Good. I mean, yes, good.” I patted my hair down. “I am a total catch though.” Then I remembered my conversation in the breakroom this morning. “Oh, about what I said this morning when we were having coffee and I said that thing . . . about the tops being two for one, I’m sorry if that was out of line. I tend to say stuff that I realise I shouldn’t have said, generally right after I’ve said them.”

He looked at me with a slow-spreading smile. “It probably wasn’t work-appropriate.” Then he shrugged. “But it was funny.”

“Just so you know, I didn’t actually call the store to ask about a raincheck. As well as saying inappropriately timed things, I tend to try and make people laugh when I’m nervous.” I made a face. “I’m sure there’s a whole section of psychological journals written on using humour for deflection of vulnerability, or whatever. It’s just easier than being awkward, and knowing you’re awkward, and knowing you make other people awkward.”

He frowned. “Are you nervous now? You’re doing that nervous rambling thing. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable by offering you a lift home.”

Oh shit.

“No, no. God. That’s not why I’m nervous. I mean, I’m not nervous.” Why couldn’t I just shut my mouth? “Well, I am a bit. But you make me nervous. Being around attractive people makes me nervous. It always has. Which probably explains my disastrous attempt at dating anyone I actually like. I just can’t stop myself from putting my foot in it. Like now.”

Christ, Malachi, stop talking.

Stop. Talking.

Stop.

Julian barked out a disbelieving laugh. “Attractive people? I’m not attractive people.”

I stared at him. Did I call him attractive? Again? Fuck. I think I did.

Dear brain,

Please disengage all talking operations. Actually, just shut down all mouth functionality. Cease all operations. Error 404, file not found, something to make it stop. I’d even take a fatal error, blue screen of death right now . . .

“You okay?” he asked. “You look kinda green.”

I put my hand to my forehead. “I’m trying not to talk. Because when I open my mouth, stupid shit comes out. As I’m sure you just witnessed. Exhibit A in all its glory.”

He surprised me by laughing. And not laughing at me. His eyes were warm, as though he found me endearing.

Great.

“I’m sorry,” I said, wiping my hands down my thighs, trying not to be as awkward as I felt. I realised then that we hadn’t moved in a while. “Wow, traffic’s bad today.”

“I think there’s roadwork ahead,” he offered.

Fucking awesome. The trip home was not only painfully uncomfortable but also the longest of my life.

I wracked my brain trying to think of something to change the subject with . . .

“Oh, those letters in your office,” I said. “The ones addressed to Milton James.”

“Dearest Milton James.”

“Yeah, those. You said you tried to find the owners?”

He pursed his lips and his hand on the steering wheel tightened. “I did.”

“But you had no luck?”

He shook his head and offered a sad smile. “No.”

“Maybe we could try?” I said. “I mean, all of us. At the office. Cherry’s good at obscure things, and I’ve had some luck. Even though I’ve only been there a week. But maybe we could have another go and see what we can come up with.”

He made a face, almost pained. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Why not? You’ve read the letters, right? To try and find information.”

He gave a small nod. “The letters are . . . the letters are very personal. And given their sensitive nature and the time in which they were written, I just think maybe we’re best to leave them be.”

I frowned at that. “Oh. Are they sad?”

Julian inhaled slowly and shook his head. “No, they’re actually lovely. Beautiful, even.”

“They’re love letters?”

He smiled, brown eyes shining, and he nodded. “Love letters. From one man to another.”

I put my hand to my heart. “They’re gay love letters?”

Julian met my gaze and his smile was as sweet as it was sad. “Yes.”

“Oh my god,” I said, my excitement getting the better of me. “That’s awesome!”

Julian stared out at the stopped traffic for a while, and we finally began to drive forward. But he didn’t say anything and I thought back to what he’d said earlier.

‘Given their sensitive nature and the time in which they were written, I just think maybe we’re best to leave them be.’

Oh.

“The time in which they were written,” I repeated. “It was the early seventies, right? It was a forbidden love.”

Julian nodded. “Very much so.”

My heart sank. “That’s so sad.”

“It is sad.” He sighed but ended it with a smile. “They’re very beautifully written though.”

I understood then. “And you think maybe they’re not supposed to ever find their way home.”

Julian met my gaze and his stare burned into me, intense and honest. He shook his head, as if breaking some trance, then let out a breath and focused on the traffic for a while. “A lot of time has passed. I wonder if they surfaced now if they’d do more harm than good.” He swallowed, his voice rough. “Imagine finding an elderly man who then has to explain to his wife of fifty years why he wrote that kind of letter to a man.”

“You’re worried it might out him?”

Julian nodded. “I’d never be able to forgive myself.”

I shrank back in my seat, feeling a sadness and regret for all those gay folks who paved the way for my generation. For how hard life must have been for them. It wasn’t easy for us now, and for some it would never be. But at least we were no longer illegal. It made my heart hurt.

It also gave me a new appreciation for Julian.

“You’re very kind,” I offered. “For thinking of them over your duty to see the mail delivered.”

“I did look for them. I did search,” he added. “It’s not like I didn’t try. But there really wasn’t much to go by, and I wasn’t too sad when I came up empty.”

I sighed. “I can appreciate that.”

Traffic was moving a bit faster now, and from as awkward as it was before, I didn’t want this car ride to be over. “What was the name of the guy who wrote the letters? Did he sign them?”

Julian shook his head. “In one letter he signs off with a name, but I don’t know if it’s a real name or completely fictional.”

“But you know it was a man?”

“Oh, yes. He writes of stolen kisses in the dark, of feeling stubble against his own, of his rough hands. Of having to go through the pretence of dating a girl when all he wants is to be with him.”

I put my hand to my cheek and swooned a little. “Oh, my heart! How romantic!”

Julian finally smiled. “Very.”

He turned onto my street and I wished we had more time. “I really do appreciate the lift,” I said as he slowed down at my apartment building.

“I don’t mind at all. I enjoy the company.” His cheeks tinted pink as if admitting that was embarrassing.

“I enjoy your company too,” I said, probably misreading the situation completely. He said the company, I said his company. But it wasn’t a lie. “And thank you for telling me about the letters. I hope Milton and his secret man found some happiness. But like you said, sometimes it is best to let sleeping dogs lie.” I unbuckled my seatbelt and put my hand on the door handle. “And sometimes our truths are best kept quiet. Especially when it’s not our secret to tell.”

He didn’t say anything to that, so I took it as my cue to leave. “Have a good night, Julian. See you tomorrow.” Then because my brain was my brain, it offloaded another round of embarrassment. “And tomorrow, we can just pretend that I never said you were attractive again. Totally never happened. Even if it is true, we’re just gonna pretend I never said it out loud.”

He smiled as I got out of his car. “See you tomorrow.”

* * *

He keptup his end of the bargain. The next day, he did pretend that I’d never said he was attractive. And the day after that. He never mentioned it at all. He smiled at me, was polite, but there was no conversation and no offers for a lift home. He was ever the professional.

I kept my head down at work. I got through my long lists of work to do, and I still enjoyed it. In fact, I think I enjoyed it a little more every day.

Paul was still weird. He made no more Silence of the Lambs jokes, thankfully. Theo was still nice as hell, and every time I heard Denise’s rough bark of laughter from somewhere in the warehouse, I would smile.

But Cherry was my favourite. Her introverted goth matched my extroverted rainbow like two sides of one coin. I found myself drawn to her more than the others, and I could be so bold as to say we were becoming friends. We would walk to the bus stop together after work, even sit together if the seating allowed.

I got the feeling she didn’t friend anyone too easily. Much like I didn’t. But when we did find someone that appreciated our quirkiness, it was a real thing.

But Julian . . .

I found myself looking for him and being hyperaware when he came out of his office. And when he joined us in the breakroom for lunch. I sat with Cherry, and every time Julian looked my way, it felt like a laser of intense heat.

Like it tore up everything in its path to find me.

But he never offered me another lift home.

Which was fine. I could catch the bus like a normal person. Like I’d done all my life. It was no big deal.

I couldn’t deny it made me sad. Did my awkwardness repel him? Probably. Did me telling him I found him attractive cross a professional line? Most likely. Did it make him uneasy around me? Obviously, yes. And it shouldn’t have surprised me because this was usually how things went for me.

I should have been used to it, but it still stung.

On Thursday, three days after he drove me home, I got to work ten minutes early like I always did. Just like everyone did. As I was making my first coffee, Paul came in with a cake.

“Is it someone’s birthday?” I asked brightly. Cake was always a reason to be excited.

He put the cake on the table underneath the shrine to Glenda. It was a cat-shaped cake, I realised. “It’s Glenda’s birthday,” Paul replied.

Oh.

Denise helped with the candles, Cherry got some plates and a knife from the cupboard, and Julian walked in just as Theo counted us all in to sing the ‘Happy Birthday’ song like he was conducting an orchestra.

The whole thing was weird.

But everyone here was some kind of weird so I went with it like it was completely normal.

“Happy birthday, Glenda!” they all toasted in various manners, lifting their coffees and cake to the shrine on the wall.

“Glenda always brought in a cat cake,” Theo told me as he handed me a plate with a slice of the cat’s arse on it.

“Thanks,” I said with a befuddled smile. The cat’s arse? What was that supposed to mean?

“I was gonna make it red velvet,” Paul said way too cheerfully. “So it looked like it bled when we cut into it.”

Oh god.

“But,” he continued, “I figured after the ‘it rubs the lotion’ comment, I probably shouldn’t.”

I sighed. He really was taking the piss. “Just so you know, that movie freaked me out so much. Almost as much as Grease 2.”

Paul tilted his head. “Grease 2?”

“Yes, the movie.” I shuddered as I stuck my fork into the cat’s arse and shovelled it into my mouth before I could tell them that I almost considered heterosexuality because of Michelle Pfeiffer singing on the back of a motorbike. “Let me just say. It was not the experience I was expecting. John Travolta as Danny Zuko in the first Grease, on the other hand . . .”

Julian shot me a look, so I shovelled more cake into my stupid face hole while he made himself a coffee. He took the plate of cake Theo offered him and made his way back to the door. He stopped and looked at me. “Malachi, do you have a moment?”

Well, this is going to be good.

“Sure,” I said brightly despite the sense of dread in my belly. “One sec. I’ll just . . .” shove in the last of my cake.

If he was impressed by my ability to unhinge my jaw, open wide, and take in an obscene amount of food, he hid it well.

I could also open my throat and swallow at the same time, but I figured now was not the time to bring that up . . .

I quickly scrubbed my coffee cup, wondering if it’d be the last time I’d ever use it. I was beginning to like the puce colour and I didn’t want to get fired from this job.

I loved this job.

And I’d never loved any job.

“Do you think he’s gonna fire me?” I asked Cherry, who was making herself a second coffee.

She blinked, stunned. “What for?”

“For being me. I say stupid shit. I need to stop saying stupid shit.”

She put her hand on my arm. “Don’t think like that. You being you is what makes you fit in here. But if you keep him waiting . . .”

“Oh, right.” I made a face. “Good point.”

With a sinking stomach and a sigh, I knocked on his door. “Hey. You wanted to see me?”

Julian nodded, finishing his mouthful of cake. He pushed his plate away, licked his lips, and smiled. “Come in.”

I was gonna need a minute to save that mental imagery masterpiece.

“Is everything okay?” I asked, sitting across from him. Then I leaned in and whispered. “Does this have anything to do with me thinking Grease 2 is an abomination? Because if you’re a fan . . .”

“What? No.”

“Thank god. Wait. Does this have anything to do with me calling you attractive twice now? Because I would apologise. Reluctantly, because I’m a firm believer in preaching the truth. But if it would make you feel better . . . and if it would help me keep this job because I actually really like working here. It’s the first job I’ve ever had that I think I love and I’d really appreciate not being fired, if that’s okay.”

He blinked. “Ah, no.” Then he laughed. “I’m glad you’re enjoying your work.”

“Yes, I am! Well, I ate the arse of a cat cake this morning and we toasted the birth of a dead woman whom I never met, and that wasn’t even the weirdest part of my morning.”

Julian met my eyes and laughed. “Do I want to know what the weirdest part of your morning was?” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “Considering it’s not even 9am.”

“I catch public transport.” I shrugged. “Weird is a given. Though this morning’s specialty was what I could only assume was the walk of shame for a guy wearing a silver sequin dress and dirty work boots. He had amazing calf and thigh muscles, and from his shoulders and hands, I think maybe he’s in construction. I was going to ask where he kept his wallet, but he smelled of bourbon and regret and I didn’t want to wear his vomit.”

Julian’s smile widened. “I see.”

“I’m trying not to say stupid shit,” I blurted out. “But again, with the handsome-nervous thing. God, I just said shit. Am I fired?”

“Fired? No, not at all.” He pursed his lips to hide his smile, though his eyes gave away a bit too much.

Holy shit.

He was looking at me like that. Like he was into me . . .  If we were in a bar, I’d bet a few vodka martinis sure I was getting some.

But we weren’t in a bar.

We were at work.

But those honey-brown eyes were shining at me some kind of way.

My belly swooped and fluttered with butterflies, and I let out a slow breath. “You wanted to see me about something? And if I’m not getting fired . . .”

“Oh, yes, right.” He cleared his throat and sat forward in his seat. “What you said the other day in the car. It struck a chord with me.”

I tried to think back.

“I said a lot, and I’m going to need you to narrow that down for me. I have a verbiage condition around attractive people. As we’ve discussed a few times now.”

His smile produced a dimple.

A fucking dimple.

Okay then.

Hang up my lilac boots and cover me in carnations. It’s all over for me.

Then, because I wasn’t dead enough, the fucker took off his glasses. He just took them off and slid them onto his desk like he took out a machete and cut me in half.

That’s how dead I was.

He mowed me down in my fucking seat.

“You said sometimes our truths are best kept quiet.” He bit his bottom lip and I died for the third time in two minutes. “Actually, you said sometimes our truths are best kept quiet, especially when it’s not our secret to tell.”

I blinked, surprised, to be honest, that my eyeballs still worked.

“I’m sorry, what?” My voice squeaked. Clearly my brain and my mouth were struggling.

Who knew? Who knew that I could fly past the word-vomit stage into the speechless idiot stage with a dimple and the removal of glasses?

Who fucking knew?

Julian rubbed his thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets and sighed. “I haven’t been able to stop thinking about that.”

“Okay.” I really wasn’t following. “And?”

He sighed. “The letters. The Dearest Milton James letters.”

“Oh.” I looked over to where the letters had sat to find them not there. Before I could ask where they were, he produced them like magic and sat them right in the middle of his desk.

“I think we should try and find Milton James.”