“Really?”
“Marco Garcia was pushed in front of a Qtrain at Fifty-Seventh Street on this date, twenty-three years ago. He was eighteen years old.”
Doyle said, “That’s a hell of a coincidence.”
“One worth looking into,” Larkin answered. “I have to try his mother tomorrow.”
“You don’t sound happy about that.”
“I don’t sound any way,” Larkin corrected. “I speak in a monotone.”
“You’re not as monotone as you’d like to think.”
Larkin looked up, studied Doyle intently, then said, “Please expound.”
Doyle shifted, crossing one leg and bringing the other up so as to rest an elbow on his knee. He leaned forward, threaded fingers through Larkin’s hair a second time, and gently held the back of his head. “You don’t exist in the binary, Evie. You’re part of the human condition too. Just because you express that experience differently from the majority doesn’t mean you don’t feel the same ways. Anyone who thinks you’re monotone isn’t actually listening when you speak.”
Larkin’s skin tingled, like from a little static shock, as Doyle drew his fingers along Larkin’s throat. He latched onto that sensation, that reminder he was still alive, even when the drugs made him feel like he wasn’t, shifted onto his knees so that he was taller than Doyle, and took his face into both hands. Larkin rubbed the pads of his thumbs against the grain of Doyle’s stubble, leaned down, and kissed him. With a tender mouth and lips still tart from lemonade, Doyle’s kiss was live and in full technicolor. Larkin allowed Doyle to wrap his arms around his waist, allowed himself to be drawn close enough to straddle one leg, allowed the unhurried and curious exploration of tongues.
Doyle had selflessly opened his home and his heart to Larkin, with the expectation of nothing in return. He’d given Larkin a copy of his key. He’d made room for Larkin’s belongings. He kissed Larkin like this—like he waseverything.
What kind of man did that?
A good one.
Larkin broke the kiss. His breath was a little unsteady.
Doyle stared at him, his face a mess of hopeful uncertainty.
All Larkin had to do was sayyes.
Abruptly, Larkin said, “I’m going to go to bed.”
Doyle’s expression flickered, like an old television caught between channels, but then he nodded and smiled softly, lowered his hands from Larkin’s waist, said, “Sure.”
Larkin got to his feet. “Goodnight, Ira.”
“Sleep well, Evie.”
But even with twice the recommended dosage of ZzzQuil rushing through his veins, Larkin lay wide awake in the dark bedroom, his back to the french doors. He listened to every minute sound Doyle made on the other side of the glass—the shift of jean-clad legs on the hardwood floor, the low murmur of the television cutting off when the game finally ended, the collection of takeout containers, the thump of the garbage bin lid, kitchen sink, bathroom door. Doyle entered the bedroom a few minutes later, quiet but for the rustle of undressing and pulling on a pair of pajama pants. The twinkle of fairy lights that’d reached all the way into the room, their glow like fireflies in a mason jar, clicked off, and the studio was swallowed whole by New York City darkness. The mattress dipped, and Larkin rolled onto his back. He might have still been working to establish new habitual routines, but this one had been easy, had been welcomed. Larkin stretched an arm out and Doyle accepted the invitation, drawing up against him and pillowing his head on Larkin’s chest.
Because even though Larkin wasn’t certain what they were together, what they were hoping to become, he at least knew that Doyle was his friend.
And sometimes, a hug from a friend was the only drug that helped him sleep at night.
It was 6:58a.m. and Larkin stood in the bedroom, knotting his red floral-pattern tie and adjusting the collar of his crisp white shirt in the mirror hanging above the dresser. He tested the way the SIG P226 sat under his right arm in its shoulder holster, a weight he’d worn as a detective for seven years and that had long since become a part of him, before reaching for his charcoal-gray suit coat. He gave a black, white, and red houndstooth pocket square a quick Dunaway fold, tucked it into his breast pocket, and twisted it a few times to sit more artfully. Larkin had chosen green derbies with an elongated toe in a shade he’d thought to himself as split pea soup, until Doyle had made a passing comment one day about liking “those chartreuse shoes,” because of course the artist would saychartreusein an everyday conversation without any trace of sarcasm.
Stepping out of the bedroom, Larkin studied Doyle seated at the kitchen table.
It’d turned out he wasn’t the only one with a routine.
Every morning—every single morning—Doyle took a run, returned home and practiced yoga, showered, dressed, made breakfast (he was partial to yogurt with granola and fruit), and then worked on his sudoku puzzles until it was time to head to 1PP.
Erroneously, Larkin had suspected Doyle was one of those chipper early-risers, much like Noah, and had braced for conversation before coffee stabilized his mood. But much to his surprise and delight, Doyle was rather quiet. Reflective, almost. For the first few days, Larkin had actually felt as if he’d intruded on something personal, intimate, and had stayed in the bedroom until Doyle left for work. Doyle had caught on, of course, and said he’d be only more than happy to see Larkin’s smile in the mornings, which was presumptuous of Doyle, except that he’d been able to coax one out of Larkin forty days running so far.
At the sound of Larkin’s heels on hardwood, Doyle raised his head and looked across the studio. His face had this way of lighting up whenever Larkin walked into a room, like the first rays of sunshine to reach over the horizon at dawn, that always made Larkin want to check over his shoulder, because no one had ever stared at him quite like that before.
“Good morning,” Doyle said in that soft, whiskey voice. He wore a dark teal three-piece suit with a very subtle windowpane pattern, the coat thrown over the back of his chair, white shirt with the cuffs rolled back, and a simple black tie. The blue flattered his skin tone and dark eyes and always had a way of making Larkin feel short of breath.
