“I take it to be good news?” Noah asked, sitting beside Larkin.
Larkin’s mouth twitched. “Yeah.”
They ate dinner without talking, with only occasional comedic one-liners fromBroad Cityor commercials for auto insurance or the latest antidepression medication on the market penetrating Larkin’s thoughts. Not that his thoughts were terribly cohesive or properly organized at that point. He’d been rode hard and put away wet today, and that wasn’t taking into account the crash from the Xanax or the mental exhaustion that always lingered like a storm cloud after appointments with Dr. Myers. Mostly, Larkin felt fried. He’d have preferred to take the opportunity to turn in early, but that’d become another argument about how he didn’t pay enough attention to Noah. So Larkin remained on the couch, trying to read a bit more on the history of death masks, but he was turning pages and studying pictures without absorbing any of the information, merely as a way of looking busy so he’d be left alone.
Noah had curled up beside Larkin after dinner, and that’d been pleasant. Larkin didn’t enjoy physical contact from most people—it was just another sensory stimulation to fuck with him when his mental defenses were low. But Noah was different. Noah was okay. After all, they’d been together nearly seven years and married for four. Of course he liked it when Noah touched him. Except that lately—all the time—Noah wouldn’t leave it at that: a comforting snuggle. He’d want more, like he’d traded libidos with an eighteen-year-old boy who knew only two truths in life: eating and fucking. And the longer Larkin flatlined between heartbeats, the more difficult it became to keep up with Noah’s physical demands.
During a commercial break, Noah raised his head from Larkin’s chest and kissed his neck, the blond stubble on his husband’s chin like beach sand, gritty in a satisfying sort of way. A brief shock of physical interest popped inside Larkin, but as Noah kissed again, sucked Larkin’s skin, the sensation dissipated and he was left flaccid and disinterested.
Noah yanked the book from Larkin’s hand, tossed it to the floor, and straddled his lap. He kissed Larkin’s mouth like a man starving, murmured against his lips, “I need you to fuck me,” then reached between Larkin’s legs. Noah stopped, leaned back.
“Not tonight,” Larkin said quietly.
“What the fuck?”
“Noah—”
“Not even a semi?”
Larkin put his hands on Noah’s hips and drew them up his flanks in a sort of placating manner, but Noah swore again and climbed off. “Fuck,” Larkin muttered on an exhale.
Noah stood in front of the television, the flickering screen illuminating his form in a way that Larkin could only describe as hellish. Noah put his hands on his hips and asked, “Do I repulse you?”
“For God’s sake, Noah.”
“I have a right to know.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
“You want to know what ridiculous is?” Noah countered. “Ridiculous is your husband spurning your every advance for, oh, I don’t know, the entireyearthus far.”
“I’m exhausted—” Larkin began.
“This isn’t exhaustion.”
“The fuck it’s not,” Larkin argued. He got to his feet. “I spend every day chasing down people who’ve gotten away with cold-blooded murder. I spend every day with grieving families, angry families—I’ve had doors slammed in my face, I’ve been threatened, spit on, all because I’m trying to find out who killed their mother, their brother, their child. I spend every day carrying that emotional baggage on my shoulders, and today was a bad day, Itoldyou that. Youknowwhat thunderstorms do to me, Noah! You know it brings back Patrick—”
“I’m not having this argument again,” Noah spat. “I’m not going to sit here and let you guilt tripmeoveryourcareer choice and then have you bring him up as an easy out.”
“Easy out?” Larkin echoed. “You know what, Noah—I’ve been on Xanax for the last six months. I’ve been falling apart right in front of you. When was the last fucking time you asked if I was okay and actually meant it?”
Noah looked as if he’d been slapped—his eyes wide, jaw open. The silence crumbled inward as he asked, “Why the hell are you taking Xanax?”
Larkin snorted and shook his head. His chest was heaving, cheeks hot like a child had turned a magnifying glass into the sun and was trying to burn a hole right through him. Larkin wiped his eyes and said, “If the future of our marriage hinges on you getting a satisfying deep-dicking, go buy yourself a dildo.” He grabbed his phone, walked into the bedroom, and slammed the door.
ZzzQuil had been losing its potency over the years.
5:22 a.m. and Larkin was already wide-awake. He was alone in bed. A sanitation truck rumbled on the corner of Eightieth and First as it compacted garbage. The wind—strong enough to sway and rub the limbs of the gingko tree together outside the bedroom window—created a pleasant, if somewhat eerie, lullaby. Larkin’s phone buzzed, and the noise was like a missile launch in the stillness.
He rolled onto his side, picked it up from the nightstand, and winced when the screen lit up.
Text message from Ira Doyle.
Another gif. This one Larkin recognized. Marilyn Monroe fromHow to Marry a Millionaire, wearing chic ’50s glasses, holding a coffeepot, and looking startled. Text bubbles populated while Doyle typed, and a moment later came the message:Good morning, sunshine. Swing by 1PP when you’re up and at ’em.
Larkin glanced toward the closed bedroom door. Noah had slept on the couch and it didn’t sound as if he were awake yet. Usually he got up just as early as Larkin did, but with this week being spring break for the public school, he’d take the opportunity to sleep late. And Larkin would never admit it aloud and chance either a divorce or a beheading, but he loved Noah’s vacations because it meant he could get ready for work by himself. In silence. Larkin was a morning person by necessity, not nature. Noah, on the other hand, was like a Disney princess when he woke up—the forest animals were there to greet him in song, and he was chitchatting until they went separate ways for their respective jobs. Part of that, Larkin was certain, was because Noah spent his day with kids who could hold about a thirty-second meandering conversation about their poodle named Puddles and also, Mr. Rider, do you think grass cries when I step on it?
Noah wanted to have a conversation with an adult. Preferably the one he’d married.
