Larkin opened his eyes. “Red Nikes.”
Walsh looked excited again. “That’s incredible.”
“Not really,” Larkin said dully.
“There’s only about sixty confirmed cases,worldwide, of Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory. And of those sixty, the studies you’ve been a part of, Mr. Larkin, show that you’re in the top percentile. I hesitate to use the word, but your ability to recall details is extraordinary. You don’t think that’s a gift?”
“My short-term memory is terrible,” Larkin answered. “I miss appointments without reminders because I’m just… unable to recall a plan on its own that exists outside a strict routine. I misplaced my wedding ring today. Forgot about it entirely. Gun to my head, I wouldn’t have been able to tell you where I’d put it because I was so immersed in a past event that I was running on autopilot in the here and now. It’s not a gift when my husband confronts me about the missing ring. It’s not a gift that I can’t control intrusive memories because a date, a time, a voice, a crack of thunder is an association and now the past has to play itself out in full like a film projector with no controls. It’s not a gift that I’ve developed obsessive-compulsive traits as a method of coping. It’s not a gift that I can barely hold a regular conversation, because I’m too busy automatically cataloging every mundane and minute detail, and that if I focus—really focus on the other person—there’s a constant fear that the conversation will take a negative turn and I’ll have invested energy into something I now can’t forget, a pain that doesn’t diminish with time.” Larkin wiped his cheeks and took a wet breath. “Noneof that is a gift.”
Larkin quietly shut the front door to 3C, threw the deadbolt, and hung his ring of keys on a hook they’d installed after one too many times of Larkin misplacing the set. The apartment was a one-bedroom in a hundred-and-twenty-year-old walk-up on the Upper East Side. Furnishings were modern and simplistic, ornamentation kept to a minimum, lighting low and warm, curtains pulled shut across the windows overlooking Eightieth Street. The television was on in the front room, the murmur of a commercial barely audible. Noah was in the kitchen off to the left, rustling through a bag, setting plates on the counter—the takeout had beaten Larkin by a minute at best.
Walking across the room, Larkin dropped his library book on the couch and kept moving into the adjoining bedroom. He went through the motions: hang up suit coat, fold pocket square, store weapon and shoulder holster in the safe, watch, cuff links, and phone on the nightstand. He’d tugged his tie free as the old floor creaked, announcing Noah’s presence in the doorway.
“Hey.”
Larkin turned. “Hi.”
Seemingly fine now, after Larkin had been the one to apologize earlier, Noah came forward, leaned down, and kissed him. “How was your appointment?”
Larkin caught Noah by the back of the neck, drew him into a second kiss, then said, “It could have been better.” He let go and unbuttoned his shirt.
“What happened?”
Larkin considered, pulled a T-shirt over his head, then said, “Just an interview with a new intern.”
Noah laughed lightly. “Did this one call you superhuman? Like the last guy?”
“Almost.” He dragged pajama pants on, and when Noah draped his arms over Larkin’s shoulders, he instinctively pulled his husband closer by the hips.
“They treat you like an oddity.”
“I am an oddity.”
Noah raised a hand, tilted Larkin’s head, and kissed his right temple. “Where your noggin got knocked loose.”
“Don’t joke about that.”
“I’m not joking.”
—Boom. Squish. Crack—
A quake shook Larkin from the inside out—rattled bones, warped muscles, flipped organs. He stepped back from Noah, scrubbed his face with both hands, and said, “Let’s sit down and eat.”
“Everett—”
“I’d like to sit down.”
The petulant jut of Noah’s jaw returned, but he bit back whatever venom he had ready to spit, turned, and walked out of the bedroom, saying something about the chicken vindaloo, vegetable curry, and naan in the kitchen.
Larkin shook his head.Like walking on eggshells. He collected his phone and stepped into the front room when he noticed a text message notification that’d come in over an hour ago. He swiped and opened the rarely used app (he was one of the few Millennials to prefer phone calls), tapped the message, and a gif loaded of a woman—was Larkin supposed to know who she was?—giving finger guns with a subtitle that read:Don’t worry about it, babe.
Underneath the gif was a text:It’s Doyle, by the way.
Larkin furrowed his brow before the voicemail he’d left earlier automatically replayed in his head:—so that I might… apologize for my tone with you….
“What’re you smiling about?”
Larkin looked up. Noah stood at the couch with a plate in either hand. “A message from work.” He quickly added Doyle’s cell number to his phone, moved his book to the end table, placed his phone on top, then took the meal from Noah’s hand.
