by Rick R. Reed
He suddenly realized he always appreciated Billy too, and the pleasure he found, if he let himself, in simply gazing at him. Today his tan skin and blond hair had a glow about them. The white shorts and sky-blue tank top emphasized his luminance, making his eyes look even bluer. It wasn’t a new thought, but one Milt had had over and over. Billy was a beautiful man. The difference was that this morning, for the first time, Milt allowed himself the feeling.
He appreciated and admired without guilt, minus a nagging sense of betrayal.
He felt liberated.
Yet aside from how Milt felt, he sensed something different about Billy too. There was a quality Milt couldn’t quite put his finger on. Perhaps it was a sense of ease, of joy, of being comfortable in his own skin that hadn’t always been there. Or if it had, Milt hadn’t witnessed it.
Whatever was going on, there was a new comfort with the two of them being together on an ordinary day in Milt’s kitchen. Even Ruby seemed more at ease, not jumping on Billy for once but calmly regarding him from her bed in the corner of the living room. It was almost as though Billy belonged here. It was like Ruby felt Billy was home.
Milt washed his hands and then dried them on a dish towel. He turned to Billy. “You come scrounging around for breakfast?”
“Hey! That’s not nice.”
Milt chuckled. “Well, the timing is right.”
“What did you have in mind?” Billy’s gaze roamed the counter, the range. They were both empty.
“We could go out,” Milt suggested. “Elmer’s on Palm Canyon? I like their omelets.”
Billy moved close. “I don’t want to go out.”
Milt edged closer. “I don’t either. Not really.” He smiled. “And anyway, I need to get to Trader Joe’s.” He turned to open his refrigerator. It was embarrassingly bare. “All out of eggs.” He shrugged, slammed shut the refrigerator. “Scrambled eggs are about all I do for breakfast.” He had a flash of an orange Fiesta plate with a stack of banana pecan pancakes on it. They were Corky’s specialty and were always light, fluffy, and mouthwateringly delicious. In his mind’s eye, he could see steam rising from the stack, a big pat of butter melting, sliding off to the side.
Milt forced the image out of his mind.
“I could, uh, pour you a bowl of cereal. I’ve got Lucky Charms.” Milt allowed himself to stare at Billy with undisguised desire. Sexual tension thrummed in the air. Milt wanted to draw the conclusion that its arrival was sudden, but he knew, intuitively, that it had been there from the moment Billy boldly opened the door without knocking. And maybe, if he was being honest, much longer ago than that. Perhaps it had begun on that one disastrous yet magical day when Billy had cast himself as Milt’s true-life hero….
Or perhaps it was simply because Milt was letting his true feelings out to play for the first time in a long, long time. He felt like years had been stripped away from his age—he could be a kid again, teens, early twenties.
He tried to reach down to discreetly adjust his dick, which had gotten hard.
Billy noticed. He pressed close to Milt, shoving his hand aside. He gave Milt’s basket a squeeze. “Are these your Lucky Charms? If so, I’d consider myself very lucky indeed if I could get myself a serving.” He squeezed again and let go. “A big serving.” Billy’s voice came out almost breathless, a croak.
Milt’s jaw dropped. But he didn’t move away.
Milt knew that once upon a time, maybe even as recently as a few days ago, his impulse would have been to back away from Billy with a mumble of apology. To perhaps blush and laugh—and then go to the pantry and pull out the real Lucky Charms. And yes, there was a box there, right next to the box of Count Chocula. In some ways, Milt never did grow up.
But that was another day, another time. Another Milt.
Today simply felt different, washed new.
Milt thrust his hips outward and up a little, more fully into Billy’s hand. Just that movement caused his heart to race, his knees to weaken, and his focus to blur just a little. There seemed no recourse for the moment other than to lean in and kiss Billy.
Their lips came together awkwardly, laughably. In his head Milt had a strange thought. I want him to sing “My Funny Valentine” for me sometime. It seemed, for just one moment, neither of them knew what to do. Open lips or closed? A peck or a lingering, full-throttle kiss?
The one thing Milt knew for certain—even though it had been a long time since he’d found himself in such a situation with a man—was don’t ask, just do.
So he opened his mouth and went in for a kiss of the full-throttle variety. Billy’s mouth, even this early in the morning, was clean, delightfully sweet, tasting faintly of mint. Their tongues dueled, and the dance was graceful. Billy’s blond whiskers, not all that visible, were, however, tactile, feeling rough, sexy against Milt’s face. Milt thought he could almost—almost—be satisfied with simply standing here and kissing him. Holding him close. There was a discreet kind of magic in simply holding him, feeling this solidity of another human being close.
It had been so long! He felt like a man who’d been dying of thirst suddenly getting water. The slaking of his need approached the province of miracle. Milt thought, for these past several months, that he’d never have this again. And yet here the gift of Billy had been, not so patiently waiting, all along. All Milt had to do was open his arms and accept.
He pulled away for a moment to stare into Billy’s crystalline gaze. “You’ve been here the whole time, haven’t you?” Milt felt a rush of emotion he couldn’t quite label. Was he feeling joy? Hope? Desire?
In the end, labels didn’t matter. The electric happiness coursing through him was enough. It didn’t need a name, did it?
“What do you mean?” Billy asked.
“Never mind. I think I was asking that question more of myself.” He took Billy’s face in his hands. “Do you want to go in the bedroom?”
“Do you think we’re moving too fast?” Billy wondered.
“Too fast? Too fast?” Milt laughed. “Are you kidding? I think we’ve maybe been moving too slow.” He sighed. “I’ve been so caught up in grief, in mourning, in wondering if I could ever feel anything again, if I was even allowed to feel anything again, that I failed to see the wonderful thing that was right before my eyes. That wonderful thing is you, Billy Blue. It’s you.” Milt didn’t know if he wanted to laugh or cry. Could he dare to do both?
He was free to do whatever he pleased! He was his own man.
Billy pulled away slightly, letting Milt’s caressing hands drop away. He looked up at Milt shyly. His voice was soft, gentle when he spoke. “No. We haven’t been moving too slow. Although I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought that same thing many, many times. But Milt, honey, you needed that time to process your pain.” Billy shook his head. “And you may never get over that pain, not completely. I accept that. And you have to as well. I think you’re beginning to—and that fills my heart with joy. But no to the too slow. Just right. Just absolutely right. Things come to us when we’re ready.”
Milt smiled. “How did you get to be so wise?”
“Ah. I don’t know about that.” Billy looked a little abashed—the reddish glow at his cheeks making him look even more handsome. He cocked his head. “Is that trip to the bedroom still on offer?”
Milt smiled and wrapped his arms around Billy, pulling him close once more so that their bodies were almost one—in alignment. Milt nodded and then pressed his forehead to Billy’s. “What about breakfast?”
“Hmmm. I think I need to work up a little more appetite first.” And Billy broke away, took Milt’s hand, and led him back to the bedroom.
Chapter 20
IT HAD only been a couple of weeks, yet Billy felt like he’d been with Milt for a long, long time. When he stood next to him, there was something solid there, a sense that Milt wasn’t going anywhere.
And neither was Billy.
Since that morning two weeks and two days ago, when Billy had emboldened h
imself to simply enter Milt’s trailer without knocking, they’d seldom been apart. Billy’s own trailer had an air of neglect—the only movement dust motes floating in shafts of sunlight. The bed, unmade, stayed unmade. The dishes, stacked neatly in the drainer on the counter next to the sink, remained there. The jute window shade above Billy’s bed remained at half-mast—forever.
Other than to pick up clothes and toiletries, Billy hadn’t been back. It simply no longer felt like home, because Milt and Ruby weren’t there. Home wasn’t a place, Billy reasoned, but where the things and people you loved were. He suddenly felt, maybe for the first time, that he had a place to be. And that was a very good thing.
They’d come together that morning a couple of weeks ago like two practiced souls. Or an old married couple. A couple that continued to take pleasure in each other’s bodies, knowing, comfortably, exactly which buttons to push (and lick and caress) to bring the other absolute joy. They’d simply merged. It was as though they’d already mapped and memorized the contours of each other’s bodies. Where with past lovers there had been gracelessness and awkwardness at first, taking time to get into the groove of wants and needs, Billy didn’t find that to be true with Milt. Their intimate choreography was flawless—maybe because the emotion backing it up allowed for no error. How could there be mistakes when you cared so much? When there existed so much passion?
They’d made love every night and every morning since Billy had moved in. Only once had this unspoken decision to be so totally together been brought up. Billy recalled the short conversation now, standing in biting cold and fluttering snowflakes on top of a hill, surrounded by tombstones.
“Do you think we’re being rash?” Milt had asked one sun-drenched morning, wrapped in sheets slightly damp with sweat.
It was maybe the third day of what Billy thought of as their union. Their bodies were close, slick with sweat and come. Billy’s head was on Milt’s chest. Milt’s arm was wrapped around him. Billy was just beginning to drift off into blessed early morning sleep with the thought There’s no place I’d rather be. In all the wonderful places of the world I could choose, this is where I’d pick. The best. “Rash? You don’t have a rash, do you? You didn’t get it from me!” Billy laughed, snuggling closer, smelling the clean scent on Milt’s neck.
“C’mon. I’m serious. I know what Dane would say.”
“What would Dane say?” Billy had a feeling, just from Milt making this statement, that Dane would say something very sensible. He wasn’t wrong in his guess.
“Dane would say that we should slow down. He’d say ‘act in haste, repent at leisure.’ He’d say that we should take our time and get to know each other before jumping into living together.”
“Living together? Is that what we’re doing?” Billy asked, mock wonder in his tone.
Milt tweaked his nipple. “You know we are. It’s only a matter of time before you give up that Airstream over there.”
“You think so, huh? Think you’re my forever guy? Because I got to tell you, Milt, I wouldn’t live with someone unless I believed he was my forever guy.”
Milt had been quiet for a long while in reaction, Billy thought, to his words about forever. Finally Milt sighed. “Yeah. I know this is something, what we have here. I know it not in my head so much, but in my heart. My head tells me all the things Dane would say. But my heart knows. The heart always knows what it wants, what it needs.” Milt turned a little to look into Billy’s eyes. “Who it needs. What matters.”
Those words had started their second, slow round of lovemaking. And when Billy had awakened from a long second sleep, he knew he was there to stay. The logistics only needed to be worked out.
Would he have taken this trip with Milt if he hadn’t been sure they were solid?
Yesterday morning they’d flown from Palm Springs to Pittsburgh, ostensibly so Milt could show Billy from where he came, but really to have the meeting they were having right now, this impossibly cold and snowy afternoon in early March.
They stood in front of a dark granite tombstone, polished, simple, rectangular. On it were the words Cornelius “Corky” Abbott, 1959-2017. Next to Corky’s name and dates were Milt’s: Milton Grabaur 1976- and a blank space.
Dark, bruised slate-gray clouds hung low on the horizon, promising more snow than the flakes already dancing in the wind. The tree-covered hills, naked, reached up to a dappled sky, hungry for the patches of sun that would occasionally appear, taunting.
“Does it bother you that I’ll be buried here? Next to Corky?”
Billy looked over at Milt, who hadn’t moved his gaze from the tombstone as he posed his question. Billy witnessed the tears standing in Milt’s eyes, waiting to fall. Or maybe they were frozen in place—it was cold enough.
And Billy wondered if it did bother him. He processed awhile before answering. “Honestly, a part of me thinks that it should. But it doesn’t. Corky was part of your history. Corky made you the kind, gentle, and caring man I’ve come to love. So I thank him. And the least I can do is let you lie next to him when your time comes. No, Milt, I’m not jealous. You loved him.”
“I love you.” Milt quickly glanced over at Billy.
“I know. And your being laid to rest here someday doesn’t change that, not one bit.” Deep in his heart, Billy never believed in things like final resting places and tombstones anyway. Those things were for the shells of stuff left behind. If there was an afterlife, there were no physical bodies, only the energy, light, and love that animated us.
Milt nodded but seemed uncertain.
A harsh wind, icy, blew out of the north, making them shiver. Billy had grown so used to the weather of the desert and Southern California that he’d forgotten how biting and bone-chilling temperatures like this could be. The cold actually hurt. He’d quickly revised his notion of hell from blistering, fiery heat to cold like this for eternity. He rubbed his arms up and down, trying to stimulate warmth, circulation. “Can we go? I’m freezing. You said there was a diner downtown that served french fries with gravy. That sounds awesome.” Billy was trying not to plead.
“Sure. Can you just give me a moment here alone? You can go back to the rental, crank up the heat, check your Facebook.” Milt smiled.
“You sure?”
“Yeah. I’d like a moment here.” Milt’s gaze went back to the tombstone, yet it was faraway, as though he was seeing something that wasn’t there.
“Okay.” Billy bit his tongue to prevent himself from exhorting Milt not to take too long. Not because he was jealous, but because it was so cold. Frostbite and hypothermia were real things. And neither of them had appropriate outerwear for this. Billy wore only a hoodie, over which he’d added a denim jacket. He had no gloves, hat, or scarf.
He trudged back up the hill, passing tombstones and markers and looking down over one shoulder at the little town of Summitville below him. Chimneys belched smoke. Traffic moved slowly on the main arteries, taking care. The Ohio River curved just beyond the edge of the town, brown/green and glinting now and then when the sun deigned to put in an appearance. On its banks bare-limbed trees reached up to the sky, their branches skeletal fingers.
He got in the rental, a black Hyundai Sonata, started it up, and cranked the heat to high, even though all that accomplished at the moment was for the fan to blow even more cold air on him.
Ah well, Billy had learned to be both patient and to live in hope.
As the car gradually, too slowly in Billy’s humble opinion, heated up, he turned to watch Milt at the grave. His broad shoulders tested the seams of the long black coat he wore. Even though his back was to Billy, Billy could detect the movement of his jaw. He’s talking to Corky. I wonder what he’s saying. Is he talking about me? Billy laughed to himself at the absurdity and selfishness of his thoughts.
Billy knew that whatever Milt was saying was none of his business. Milt had a history. So did Billy. And what lay in those former days and years made them the men they were now. Billy wouldn’t have h
ad it any other way.
He brought his iPhone to life, checked to see if he had internet, and opened his browser. The closest AA meeting was late afternoon, near Pittsburgh. Billy would have to get himself there. It had been a long time since he’d been to a meeting anywhere other than Palm Springs, so it might be a little weird, but probably not. Wherever you went, Billy thought, there you were. And meetings were the same everywhere, although peopled by different characters. Essentially they were about folks who’d discovered a miracle generously sharing it with others with the same affliction. Nah, it wouldn’t be weird at all.
He had not let sobriety lose its priority. He wouldn’t. He couldn’t. He wanted to be his best self not only for Milt but also for himself.
He set the phone in his lap, reclined the seat, and closed his eyes as heat, blessed heat, washed over him.
Chapter 21
CORKY SAT on the tombstone in front of Milt, his legs stretched out in front of him. Although dressed in a pair of gray wool slacks, a pressed button-down white cotton shirt, and a black-and-white checkered sweater vest, he didn’t appear cold. No, he looked relaxed, arms folded across his chest. His bare head was covered with a black fedora, rakishly angled. Corky always was a bit of a dandy when it came to clothes. His dark eyes twinkled, even though the sun, when it deigned to come out, was behind him.
Milt knew, of course, that Corky wasn’t really there, sitting atop his own tombstone at the Hilltop Cemetery in Summitville, Ohio.
And yet he was, because Milt was certain of one thing—Corky still existed; a piece of his loving energy would always be intertwined in Milt’s heart and soul. So Corky couldn’t really be dead. No, not ever.
Mystical musings aside, Milt had come all this way, spending far more than he could afford, because he had a few things to say to Corky. Milt felt the only way to convey them was in person.