Doyle smiled as he accepted. “Thank you.”
Larkin waved him out of the room. Once alone, Larkin set out his clothes for the day, trudged into the bathroom, where he showered, shaved, combed his hair, and spritzed an almond, vanilla, lavender, and honey Eau de Toilette on both his wrists and neck. Larkin dressed in the bedroom—his gray glen plaid suit, white button-down, a solid goldenrod-yellow tie paired with a paisley pocket square of green, black, and gold, and magenta-purple derbies with an elongated toe. (He was very excited about the new shoes.) Larkin strapped his shoulder holster on, picked up his suit coat, and pulled his arms through the sleeves while stepping out of the room.
He joined Doyle at the kitchen counter, splashed cream into an awaiting mug that read:Are You a Detective?with three boxes underneath:Yes,No, and the third, with a checkmark,Bitch I Might Be, and considered Doyle’s future career in comedy as he poured coffee next. Larkin opened an overhead cupboard, grabbed a protein bar from a box, and had hardly closed the door before Doyle plucked the easy but unappealing breakfast from his hand and, without a word, slid the bowl he’d been fussing over sideways before taking a seat at the table behind them.
Larkin studied the offering of greek yogurt, blackberries, granola, a drizzle of honey, and his mouth twitched. He brought the bowl and mug to the table, set them down, gave the back of Doyle’s neck a quick squeeze, then sat across from his partner, who was smiling while diligently working on his morning sudoku puzzle. Larkin ate, drank his coffee, and asked only after finishing both and now feeling mildly alert, “Why were you talking to Craig.”
Doyle glanced up. He set his pen with the chewed cap aside. “To tell him I was back a day early and to warn him I was playing hooky.”
“Isn’t the point of hooky tonotask permission.”
“You never skipped class, did you?” Doyle segued.
“No. And you wouldn’t either if you had my parents.”
“That bad?”
Larkin parroted in a sort of aloof, parental tone, “We’re not angry, Everett. We’re just disappointed.”
“When my four-foot-nine grandmother had it up to here,” Doyle began, in commiseration, “she’d point a wooden spoon at me and invoke the middle name.”
“Which is.”
Doyle laughed, shook his head, and got to his feet. “Not on your life.”
Larkin asked, “Why won’t you tell me.”
“Because I hate my middle name.” Doyle leaned across the table, collected Larkin’s bowl and mug, and brought them to the sink.
“A great many do,” Larkin noted. “Whether due to a middle name’s familial connection, perceived age, spelling, pronunciation, attitude…. Mine is Cecil.”
Doyle looked over his shoulder. “No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is,” Larkin replied.
“EverettCecilLarkin?”
“That’s right. And yours begins with anO.” To Doyle’s raised eyebrow, Larkin added, “Sometimes your mail is addressed to Ira O. Doyle. Your grandmother sounds as if she was a force to be reckoned with.”
Doyle’s expression softened. “She was.”
“Irish. Catholic. Traditional. If she had any input in your naming, the middle is likely in honor of a relative—someone who’d already passed by the time of your birth—and Irish, although whether its pronunciation has been anglicized, I can’t hazard a guess.” Larkin considered Doyle a moment, tapped his index finger against the tabletop once, twice…. “Owen.”
“No.”
“Oscar.”
“We’re gonna be here a while—”
“Oisín.”
Doyle looked startled. “You saw my driver’s license.”
Larkin rose from his seat and pushed it in. “There are only a few male Gaelic names that begin withO.” He moved to stand beside Doyle at the sink. “I think it’s nice.”
“It was my grandfather’s name,” Doyle replied. “I never met him.”
After a moment, Larkin stated, “I’ve overstepped again.”
