Dearest Milton James by N.R. Walker

Chapter Seven

“Doyou have a pen and paper I could use?”

I was sitting across from him again, his desk between us, trying not to bring up the fact he wanted to ask me back to his place.

Don’t say anything, Malachi. Just let it go, play it cool.

It didn’t mean anything. It certainly didn’t mean what I wanted it to mean, that this sexy-AF grown-ass man doesn’t want to rearrange my intestines . . .

Oh great. Now I was thinking about that.

For the love of the old gods, Malachi, don’t bring it up.

“So, I wouldn’t find it inappropriate if you asked me back to your place.”

So glad you didn’t just say that out loud. Real slick, idiot.

Julian slid a notepad and pen toward me, and he smiled, his eyes alight. I was going to have to google brown-coloured gemstones because holy hell, they needed a name.

And because my stupid brain was still stuck on having my intestines rearranged via my arse and just didn’t know when to quit, I added, “And I have no problem with straightforward.”

Julian seemed to chew on his tongue for a few seconds while he got his response in order. Or maybe he was waiting for me to keep blabbering. Or maybe he was joking before. And oh god, what if he was joking?

Soooo I kept blabbering on. “Unless you were joking, that is. In any case, I said what I said and I have zero regrets. I mean, I’ve already twice called you attractive, I said it right to your attractive face, so we both know I have no filter.”

“You’re nervous,” he noted casually.

“I feel like I’m in trouble. Like I’m in the principal’s office.” I put my hand to my forehead. “Which is kinda hot, not gonna lie.”

He laughed and shook his head. “Should we read the letters?”

The letters . . .

The letters?

He glanced at the pile of Dearest Milton James letters, amused.

“Oh right, yes, the letters. The sole reason we’re still here. Yes, reading those would be a great idea.”

Ignoring his smug smile, I took the next letter in the pile, opened it, took a deep breath and began to read.

Dearest Milton James

I’ve seen you these last three days and every time my heart falls more in love with you. Every day we’ve found a place to be alone, kissing, touching, holding hands.

Feeling how much you enjoyed being pressed against me set me on fire in ways I’ve never known. I long to touch you there, for you to touch me there.

Perhaps tomorrow I’ll muster the courage to ask permission.

Your leaving looms like dark storm clouds on the horizon. I know its arrival is inevitable, yet I fear the turmoil it brings more with every passing breath.

I read the next part out loud.

“I cherish every moment with you, though every touch is bittersweet knowing they are numbered.”

I looked up at Julian, who was watching my every reaction.

“I think reading this is going to kill me,” I admitted. “Either heartbreak or sexual frustration. Whichever happens first, I guess. Maybe both together. At the same time.”

Julian smiled. “Just keep reading.”

The next letter told of how they’d had to take Milton’s father’s car to the next town to go see his grandparents before he left for the army. They’d also spent a day with his sister and walked along the railway tracks. There was no mention of asking permission to touch certain places and no mention of any kissing.

He’d missed it, and he selfishly cursed the sister for needing babysitting when they could have spent alone time doing better things.

The next letter made my heart race.

Dearest Milton James,

Finally, after two long days, we were alone again. Your sister was at her friend’s place, your parents at work, and we had the house to ourselves. You wasted no time at all taking me straight to your room.

You fixed my nerves when you pushed me onto your bed and lay down beside me. I knew then you were as desperate as I was. The passion and the urgency in your touch, your kiss.

You took me to heaven with a few strokes of your hand.

Then I did the same to you.

Nothing had ever felt so right. The way you held onto me, the way you whispered my name, how you felt in my hand.

I will never forget what we shared that day.

I looked up at Julian. “This is very personal.”

He nodded slowly.

“Thank you,” I said. “For wanting to keep these letters private.”

He smiled, his eyes soft. “I’m surprised they weren’t destroyed or archived. And I’m grateful that you encouraged me to search for the rightful owner.”

“I didn’t really encourage you.”

His smile became a smirk. “Just keep reading.”

So I did.

The letter after that spoke of a job prospect in the town council offices. The guy who wrote the letters, whose name we still didn’t know, his aunty was hoping to line up a desk job for him. He wasn’t overly enthused for it but he said, and I quote, “It was better than some of their old classmates from school who had to move to get work in the quarries or on sheep farms.”

So I began to make notes of all the little clues, hoping it would help paint a bigger picture.

The next letter said they almost got caught by Mr Killian behind his hardware store. They weren’t really doing anything, maybe walking a little too close to each other, but it was a swift and bitter reminder that being together in that way, what they were, was not acceptable.

They both went home after that, each to their own place, sad and a little scared.

“‘What I feel for you isn’t wrong.’” I read the letter out loud, my voice soft. “‘What we are when we’re together isn’t a sin. Love isn’t a sin, Milton James. You tried to hide the shame in your eyes, but I saw it. I hated how such a thing could mar the light in your eyes.’”

I sighed, my heart heavy. “Bloody hell.”

Julian was staring at something across his office that I couldn’t see. Nothing physical, but a memory, a dark thought, a moment of uncertainty perhaps. “It feels personal to read his account of it, doesn’t it? Intimate, somehow.”

“Like we’re invading something very private and deeply personal. He’s baring his heart, writing all the things he couldn’t say out loud.”

He smiled sadly. “There’s an innocence there too. First love and teenage hormones is like a poetic catastrophe. It almost always ends badly, doesn’t it?”

I considered that for a second. “I dunno about badly. Probably. I think people grow and start on different paths, and that’s not a bad thing. If they grow apart because of fundamental differences, then taking different paths is a good thing.”

He made a thoughtful face. “That’s very insightful.”

I shrugged. “We don’t feel that way at the time though. I mean, being a hormonal teen with a broken heart is apocalyptic. But in hindsight, could you imagine still being with your first love?”

His eyes met mine and I wondered briefly if I’d overstepped. I remembered Cherry telling me Julian had broken up with his long-term boyfriend a few years ago, and I immediately regretted asking the question.

But then Julian smiled. “God, no. I was fourteen, and I fell in love with Robbie Moss. He was my high school crush for two years. He loved cars and that was so cool, you know, to a fourteen-year-old boy. He had slicked-back hair and grease-stained hands, and I sat next to him in science. I let him copy my work because it meant he’d sit closer to me.” Julian laughed at the memory. “But then I went on to years eleven and twelve, and he dropped out after year ten to be a mechanic. Which he got fired from not long after. And last I heard he and his brothers did time for illegal street drag racing and stripping down stolen cars.”

“Nice.”

“What about you?”

“My first love?” I sighed. “Alex from McLeod’s Daughters. My older sister used to watch it and I was kinda young, so I didn’t really understand what attraction was, but I knew I didn’t care when the girls showed some skin. But when that guy was on-screen, shirtless and all hot and sweaty and dirty, lifting bales of hay . . .” I let out a breath. “Well, I knew which I preferred to look at.”

Julian laughed. “You like the cowboys?”

“In real life? No. Not that I’ve met any real ones, to be honest. Don’t get many of those in Newtown. Get plenty of the wannabe cowboys, and I’ve seen enough leather chaps in my life. But my real first love was my best friend in high school.”

“Really?”

“Yep. Ended tragically. And when I say tragically, I mean that I helplessly pined after him while he slept his way through three netball teams and the senior girls basketball team.”

“Ouch.”

“It was all rather awful, but I was going for the full teen-angst experience and he really helped with that.”

He smiled. “Are you still friends?”

“Not really. We just drifted. You know how that is.”

He studied me for a second. “I do, yes.”

“Anyway, my best friend now is Moni and she’s very much a lesbian, and we decided both of us being gay is much less complicated all ’round. Well, that, and our love of dumplings and our mutual dislike for the same people was a strong foundation. So basically, we bitched about the same cliquey circles, ate a lot of food, and now we’ve been best friends for years.”

“She sounds fun.” Julian smiled. “I have two best friends. I guess you’d call them that. Curtis and Mitch. We’ve been friends since uni. We were in the same dorm. Real life and adulthood keeps us busy now, but we play racquetball some Tuesday nights and catch up when we can. Usually for dinner and a few too many wines every so often.”

“Racquetball? I never would have guessed that.”

“Why, what did you think I would play?”

“I have no clue. Maybe lawn bowls. How old are you?”

His mouth fell open and I laughed. “I’m just kidding! But I don’t know . . . I hadn’t thought of you playing any sport. Maybe something quieter than racquetball. Like swimming or tennis.”

He inhaled deeply, somewhat amused from the look on his face. At least I hoped that’s what it was. Then he looked at the letters in front of me. “How about we pack these up for tomorrow. I better get you home.”

“Oh, sure,” I said, carefully sliding a folded letter back into its envelope. “I didn’t mean to offend you. Did I offend you? I’m sorry if I did.”

“I’m not offended. I’m also not that old. How old do you think I am?”

I looked at him, horrified. “I absolutely will not answer that question. I know entrapment when I see it. I don’t care how old you are. In fact, I like older guys. Never really explored the whole daddy concept before, but I’m not opposed. I have the whole twink vibe going on, whether I like it or not. Given I’m twenty-seven but I look young and I have weirdos legit disappointed when they find out I’m not sixteen. I mean, honestly, how many sixteen-year-old boys have the beginning of crow’s feet.” I pointed at the corner of my eye, desperately wishing my mouth would shut the fuck up.

Did I really just tell him I’d never explored the daddy scene? And that I’m a twink?

Fucking hell, Malachi.

I met his eyes, horrified. “I’m just going to take the liberty of pretending I never said any of that, and I’d really appreciate it if you didn’t hear it either.”

He chuckled, a deep throaty sound that stirred the butterflies in my belly. “I’m thirty-four, by the way. Not really a daddy concept, unless you were sixteen, which if you were, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” He leaned in and inspected my face. “Though the crow’s feet really are a dead giveaway that you’re not sixteen.”

I gasped, duly offended. I covered the sides of my eyes with my hands. “I do not have crow’s feet.”

He laughed louder this time, a genuine sound. “I’m just kidding. Payback for the lawn bowls comment.”

I liked this side of him. Like, I really liked it. He was funny and flirty, and so god help me, he was sexy.

I sat back in my seat, and while I aimed for sultry, I had no delusions of grandeur that it was probably more of an I-have-indigestion look. “Thirty-four isn’t old. And yes, while you might have a tinge of grey in your hair, you’re not a silver fox. Yet. Maybe a baby silver fox. Is there a gay term for that? I’m not up to speed. But being a daddy is more of a mindset than an age, don’t you think?”

He stared at me, unblinking, smouldering, filthy-sexy. It set my blood on fire and everything inside me tightened and yearned . . .  I was half a second away from sprawling myself on his desk and telling him just to fuck me right here.

But then he looked away. “I should get you home.”

“Yes, for sure,” I agreed, both relieved and disappointed that he wasn’t ripping my clothes off or ordering me to my knees. Okay, so more disappointed than relieved. But still . . .

Things were shifting between us. There was electricity, a spark just waiting to catch fire. I wasn’t imagining it.

I just didn’t know which one of us would be brave enough to light the match.