So much sensory stimulation, and yet, it all had felt right. Like coming home after being lost in the dark woods for a very, very long time.
Larkin looked at Noah—his face red, eyes too bright. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re not forgiven!”
“No. I’m sorry that we’ve been unhappy for so long. I’m sorry I didn’t see the warning signs sooner. I’m sorry we let it get to this point, because it’s going to hurt so much more. But I’m not sorry I kissed him.”
Tears spilled down Noah’s cheeks, and he asked, “What the fuck are you talking about? Y-you’re… are you leaving me? Everett. You just met him! You’re throwing away everything we have for a bit of ass?”
Larkin pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. “I hope he’ll be my friend. I could really use one right now.”
“Are you drunk? Or high?”
“No.”
“Did you hit your goddamn head? You’re out of your mind.” Noah wasn’t crying anymore. He was incensed. “No, you’re fucking insane, is what you are. The years of shit I’ve had to put up with, and this is the thanks I get?”
Ah. There it was.
People don’t want to know.
But I do.
Of course Doyle did. He’d been there. Been to the bottom and kept digging deeper into that darkness. He knew profound loneliness, because what the fuck had people said to a parent mourning a child? They’d said nothing, Larkin was sure. They’d pulled away. Left Doyle devastated and alone. People hadn’t wanted to know about Abigail, just like they didn’t want to know about Patrick.
Doyle wasn’t okay. Larkin understood that now, because he used those same coping tricks. But Doyle had also seen the light. He wasn’t afraid of the extremes, of feeling happiness, of beingalive. He’d been standing in that deep dark hole and thought to look up.
And that was the kind of man Larkin wanted in his life—in whatever capacity Doyle was willing to share himself.
“He was here when I got in.” That voice belonged to Porter. “I figure he was working late. Let him sleep a few more minutes—before Connor shows up.”
Larkin smelled Doyle before he heard him. Neroli and sandalwood and cardamon.
“Evie?” Fingers touched the back of his head, combing his ash-blond hair into place.
Larkin rolled his chair backward with the momentum of raising his head from the desk. He winced as everything in his back, shoulders, and neck audibly cracked. He looked up, muttering, “Ouch.”
Doyle stood in front of his desk, balancing a blue-and-white We Are Happy To Serve You coffee cup and foil-wrapped breakfast sandwich in his other hand. His brows rose, but he set the drink and food where Larkin’s head had been just a second before and said, “Good morning.”
Larkin stared at the offering. The coffee smelled amazing. The egg and cheese even better. He looked at Doyle again, who smiled lopsidedly—uncertainly, even. Larkin opened the bottom drawer of his desk, removed a small pouch he’d learned after the fact was intended for cosmetics, but really was the perfect size for the handful of travel toiletries he kept on standby, and went downstairs without a word. He washed his face and underarms at the bathroom sink, slapped on fresh deodorant, brushed his teeth, and fixed his hair the best he could without a shower and product.
He returned to the second floor feeling a bit more coherent, put the toiletries away, then noticed that his forgotten suit coat from last night was draped over the back of his chair. He ignored Doyle standing beside Porter’s desk, laughing with the older detective and slowly winning over yet another member of Cold Cases with that Academy Award smile. Larkin walked all the way to the opposite end of the bullpen, down the hall with the two interview rooms, and pushed open the door to the Fuck It. He didn’t bother with the overheads—watery gray light was trickling in from the window opposite him. Larkin quietly shut the door, took a step to the right, and leaned against the wall. Big fat drops of rain started to splatter the glass. Another storm. He closed his eyes.
Larkin counted to eighty-seven before there was a quiet knock on the door. He glanced to his left as it opened and Doyle stepped inside. “Hi.”
“Hey.” Doyle shut the door. He took a few steps and sat on the wobbly desk, facing Larkin. He had his long legs stretched out, his hands planted on the desktop at his sides, assuming that now-familiar and welcome pose. “You slept here?”
“It wasn’t my intention.”
Doyle nodded, waited. No three-piece suit today, which was a real shame. More tweed, in an earthy green that would have washed out Larkin’s fair coloring, but suited Doyle surprisingly well.
“I told Noah. About last night.”
Again, Doyle nodded, but a cloud of shame darkened his features and lingered in his expression. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said any of those things—”
“Please don’t apologize. You did nothing wrong.”
Doyle was staring at his shoes. “Was Noah upset?”
