—woodsmoke in his hair, lips sticky from marshmallows, throat burning from too much whiskey, and that laugh, stuck in limbo between adolescence and adulthood, left behind as Larkin grew old without him, “You’re such a lightweight.”
“I won’t puke.”—
No one ever expected tragedy.
Larkin leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and closed his eyes. May 19 was the worst day of Camila Garcia’s life, and someone had made a mockery of her loss by presenting Larkin with this challenge, like death was some silly after-school game to be played. A photograph of an unknown dead girl, found on the body of a dead man discovered on the same date, and in the same location, as Marco Garcia’s gruesome murder in 1997….
This case was meant for Larkin all right.
—“I won’t puke.”—
Larkin got up, dropping his pocket square as he left the bedroom in a rush. He slammed open the bathroom door, squatted, and was sick into the toilet.
Doyle owned acouch.
It was a comfortable couch.
There was nothing wrong with the couch.
And yet, he had a propensity for sitting on the floor.
So Larkin was on the floor too, his head in Doyle’s lap, feet pointed toward the bedroom, hands folded on his stomach. He stared at the glowing arcs and halos the lights cast on the ceiling, and listened to the low murmur of the announcers on the television discuss the Mets being down two against the Phillies, but there was still plenty of time to turn this game around in favor of the home team.
Doyle had eaten his salad. Larkin had declined his. Once, while Doyle sipped his lemonade, a bead of condensation rolled off the base and splashed Larkin’s forehead. Doyle had wiped the wet away with the pad of his thumb before planting his big hand on Larkin’s chest, and like an anchor, kept him from being swept away in a current of nausea and survivor’s guilt without maybe realizing just how badly Larkin had needed it.
It was the start of the fifth inning when Doyle finally moved his hand, his warmth imprinted on Larkin’s skin like a fever. Doyle set the cardboard takeout of waffle fries on Larkin’s chest.
Larkin refocused his stare from the ceiling to Doyle’s brown eyes.
“Have something to eat.”
“French fries.”
“Sure. Potato and grease will settle your stomach.”
“That sounds like bad medical advice lifted from a mommy blog.”
Doyle laughed. “Your parents never gave you fries or plain potato chips when you had an upset stomach as a kid?”
“No. They sent me to the Hamptons for a weekend detox.”
Doyle said, “Grandma’s budget was skewed more toward Lay’s.”
Larkin fished a few waffle fries from the container and ate.
Unprompted, Doyle said, “There was a robbery in the Diamond District today.”
Larkin turned his head back toward Doyle, who was still staring down at him. “Okay.”
“I had to do a sketch of the suspect.”
Belatedly, Larkin realized, “I didn’t ask how your day was.”
Doyle smiled softly and stroked Larkin’s head, combing strands of ash-blond hair back into place. “I just want to get you out of your own head for a few minutes.”
Larkin held the container and sat up. He set it on the floor, turned his back to the television, and crossed his legs. “Tell me about it.”
Larkin had struggled with polite small talk his entire adulthood. It was only another form of sensory stimulation, another conversation he’d automatically catalogue, memorize, another opportunity to be hurt by words that’d be with him forever, like a wound that never scabbed over. And what made it worse was knowing he missed the subtle cues the rest of polite society picked up on without needing a nudge in the right direction. Larkin could remember the sensation of this process before August 2, 2002—it’d been so natural and so seamless. But now, it was like watching old home footage of his younger self speaking in tongues and Larkin simply couldn’t interpret those well-mannered speech patterns his parents had once been so proud of.
