“Name and phone number,” Larkin prompted a third time.
O’Halloran snarled like a caged predator before barking the information loudly, and without taking a breath, then hung up.
Larkin lowered the phone and calmly tapped the newly obtained number on the dial pad.
“I can’t believe you made a ‘where is the clitoris’ joke,” Doyle said.
Larkin put the phone to his ear a second time, saying, “It’s healthy to humble straight men now and then.”
After Larkin had spoken with Tanisha Crowley, Station Manager of Fifty-Seventh Street, who agreed to bring Demetrius Armstrong, the track worker responsible for the 911 call, to meet Larkin at the station by 2:30 p.m., he opened his calendar and inputted the details of the appointment. “PS 51 at one o’clock,” Larkin stated. “MTA at 2:30. The kitchen at St. Jude’s Mission is open from noon to two o’clock, so we’ll speak with the staff and guests tomorrow, at the earliest….” Larkin raised his head. He watched the dark, choppy water of the East River pass in a blur. “I’m forgetting something.”
“Professional or personal?” Doyle asked.
“I’m not sure.” Larkin stared at the calendar again, scrolled to the beginning of the day, then back to the evening, before letting out a dissatisfied huff and tucking the phone in his pocket. He leaned his elbow against the passenger door and propped his head against his fist. Afternoon light gleamed off the glass and steel of towering skyscrapers. Larkin lowered the visor. A comfortable, companionable silence had settled between them, broken only by thethrumof the Audi’s tires and theslideof Doyle’s hand on the steering wheel, when Larkin said suddenly, like he hadn’t a chance to process the thought before verbalizing, “I’m very attracted to you. Also, thank you.”
“Are you thanking me for being hot?”
“No. I mean—those were two independent and unrelated concepts I thought at the same time, because my brain doesn’t turn off. And I attempted to condense them for the sake of efficiency and because my straightforwardness is usually awkward, but… I ended up making it worse.” Larkin tugged on his seat belt so he could better study Doyle. “I think you’re very striking. When driving, especially. Not specifically.”
Doyle’s smile exploded like a timelapse blooming rose. “Can this be a new out-in-the-field, rule? The tall and sexy will drive?”
“Don’t let one compliment inflate your ego. I bought the Audi for me.”
Doyle laughed, and it was like smoke skimming the surface of amber heat. “And what was the thank-you for?”
Larkin slowly leaned back in his seat. He fingered the latch on the center console where he’d hidden the Xanax prescription he’d filled without Doyle’s knowledge.
Click.
—dock planks rough and sun-kissed, their toes dipping in and out of the cool lake water as they swung their legs back and forth with the carefreeness of the children they still were, Patrick’s fingers working down Larkin’s bare arm with the tentativeness and novelty of first love—
Click.
—Doyle crawling into bed when Larkin couldn’t get out, pulling the sheet over their heads, his face haloed in white cotton and sunshine, his smile undeniable proof that there was still one thing in this fucking world that was beautiful—
Click.
—“Do you think we’ll be together forever, Everett?”—
—“Whenever you’re ready, you can talk to me.”—
Click. Click.
—“I love you.”—
—“People don’t want to know. But I do.”—
Clickclickclick.
“Hey.” Doyle switched hands on the wheel before taking Larkin’s into his own and pulling it away from the console. “Evie?”
Larkin blinked, letting out the breath he’d been holding. He stared at Doyle’s big hand wrapped around his own, the hair tie on his wrist. “Never mind.” He tugged his hand free from Doyle’s and turned to watch the sunlight sparkle and glitter atop the dark water until it made his eyes tear.
It was 1:06p.m. when Doyle parallel parked outside PS 51 in Inwood. He turned off the engine but hadn’t opened the driver’s side door before Larkin spoke.
“I need a Xanax.” Larkin held an expectant hand out. “I haven’t had one yet.”
Doyle had taken control of Larkin’s prescription a little over a week ago. He’d been limiting Larkin to his daily dose while at home, which had been… tolerable, since he’d still been on medical leave and could always depend on ZzzQuil if he needed something a little extra. But Larkin could already tell this new routine wouldnotbe successful, now that he had returned to active duty. Doyle kept the Xanax well-hidden at home, hence Larkin having to hide a backup prescription, but at least Doyle had taken to carrying two pills on his person at all times, because he’d admitted to not knowing when a panic attack would strike and Larkin would need medication.
