Plunk. Plunk. Plunk.
“It’s rhetorical, but are you all right?”
Larkin moved to the paper towel dispenser, grabbed a wad, and pressed the recycled paper to his face. He leaned back against the far wall, lowered his hands, and wadded the papers into a ball. “People don’t want to know,” he whispered, not looking up.
“Know what?”
“What makes them uncomfortable,” Larkin specified. “Sometimes they don’t know what to say, don’t want to make a bad situation worse. Other times, they only pretend to not know because the empathy required is too big a burden. They pull back. They become distant. They ask how you are the same way they ask if it looks like rain or if you watched that Mets game on TV. People don’t really want to know.”
The bathroom door opened.
Larkin raised his head.
Doyle turned. “Sorry, but can you use the other bathroom?”
A man in a suit, sweating despite the cool day, jutted a thumb to his right, saying, “It’s the ladies’ room.”
“A toilet is a toilet,” Doyle corrected. “Just knock first.”
Suit rolled his eyes as he left.
Doyle went to the door, threw the deadbolt, then walked across the bathroom. He leaned against the wall beside Larkin—close enough that their shoulders were a breath apart. “People don’t want to know.” He was quiet, so absolute in his agreeance. Doyle cast Larkin a sideways glance. “But I do.”
Larkin put a hand over his mouth as one very big and very heartbroken sob tore through him, wracking his entire body like a leaf battling a hurricane. Huge hot tears spilled down his cheeks and he considered: Had anyone ever said that to him?
Not his parents.
Not Dr. Myers.
Not Noah.
None of them.
They wanted Larkin to keep quiet becauseIt’s been a year of this, Everett, you’re upsetting your father and he needs to focus on making partner.
They wanted Larkin to talk about the resulting change in his memory becauseEverett, research like this might one day help us discover a cure for Alzheimer’s.
They wanted Larkin to stop being sad becauseWhen you talk about him, Everett, I feel like you don’t want me.
Larkin was not okay. And people didn’t want to know.
“I’m a world-class hugger, if you—” Doyle didn’t have a chance to finish before Larkin turned into him and grabbed the other detective in a back-breaking embrace. Doyle let out awhooshof air, choked out, “—want one,” and then wrapped his arms around Larkin.
Doyle smelled nice. He was warm. He was strong, all lean muscle under the cut of his suit. Best of all, he really did give an exceptional hug.
Larkin couldn’t remember when he’d allowed himself to be touched like this. Noah, of course, but when was the last time it’d felt like acceptance and not a means to an end? It wasn’t a hug that conveyed apology or jealousy or lust. Doyle’s hug was simply a hug, and Larkin was so fucking traumatized that—that sometimes—even his aversion to touch couldn’t overpower that single-most desire all humans craved.
To be loved.
After a moment, Larkin peeled his arms free from around Doyle’s neck and took a step back. He wiped his face dry with the paper towels still clutched in one hand, cleared his throat, and said, “I have a memory condition. HSAM.” He looked at Doyle. “Highly Superior Autobiographical Memory.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Most haven’t. It’s rare. Fewer than one hundred cases worldwide. I know what you’re thinking: a cop with memory problems. I should be on disability, not employed with the city.”
Doyle gave a small microshake of his head. “I wasn’t thinking that.”
Larkin wiped his nose on the paper wad, then threw it away. “Having HSAM as a detective is beneficial. Every interview, every location, every case file—I never forget any of it.” Larkin felt restless, his hands so awkward at his sides. He put them on his hips. “The problem is that I really have very little by way of short-term memory. Everything that your brain promptly forgets once it’s no longer a necessity—what you wore, what you ate, the weather, a phone number, a name—that all goes in the long-term for me. And it’s overwhelming. So I do what I can to manage sensory input, and I employ habitual routines so that I don’t misplace my keys or wallet or overlook some mundane errand or appointment.
