And Doyle hadn’t been okay for a long time.
At 104th Street, Larkin turned east and crossed Lexington Avenue. He slowed, checking either side of the crowded one-way for available parking. East Harlem was an old neighborhood, once on the frontlines of abject poverty and hard drugs, now fighting the good fight against the gentrification threatening families who’d calledEl Barriohome for generations.
Chinese elm and pin oak trees older than Larkin loomed overhead, offering reprieve from the summer sun, their shadows casting abstract art along the pavement. To the right, three sticker-laden newspaper boxes—red, green, and yellow—lined the curb. The yellow rack, either not properly weighed down or intentionally knocked over, lay on its side. Publications spilled out of its self-serve door and into the gutter. Along the row of railroad-style walk-ups to the left, a super was slapping a fresh coat of glossy black paint over a handrail. An elderly woman in a floral-print house dress, with a dark complexion and rollers in her hair, stood at the base of the steps watching his every brush stroke.
Ahead, a bright yellow SUV with Indiana plates was shimmying free from its parking spot outside of a hair-and-nail salon. On the left of the back window was a stick-figure family—dad, mom, two sons, daughter, two dogs—arranged in a very patriarchal manner, and a “Blessed” decal on the right. Larkin counted a further five outdated political bumper stickers for unfamiliar candidates and two “I heart my honor roll student” stickers, complete with an elementary school alligator mascot.
Doyle, never far off from Larkin’s own thoughts, murmured, “All they’re missing is the ‘This car climbed Mt. Washington’ decal.”
After Indiana managed to get free and started for Third Avenue, Larkin pulled ahead, spun the wheel, and backed into the space. He straightened out, shifted into Park, and shut off the Audi.
Doyle unbuckled his seat belt, took off his sunglasses, and tucked them into his inner coat pocket. He put his hand on the door. “Ready?”
“Ira.”
Doyle paused.
Simple and to the point, Larkin said, “I listen to what you say. And don’t say.”
Very slowly, Doyle sat back in his seat and waited.
But Larkin didn’t say anything else.
The engine ticked as it cooled, counting the seconds between them.
Doyle eventually let out a breath like an avalanche—silent and devastating. “I know you’re figuring it out, Evie. You’re too smart not to.” Then he opened the passenger door and climbed out.
Larkin knew trauma—had known it intimately and without relief since August 2, 2002. He understood the longing to release that wounded animal from its gilded cage, but also the embarrassment, the shame of others seeing its emaciated form, the fear that they’d laugh at how awful you were at caring for a living creature—at caring for yourself. And because he’d studied trauma processing in college, Larkin knew that festering pool of pain and damage didn’t magically become potable once addressed. Treatment took time and energy, and only when the work had been put in did the chance to move forward present itself.
Not for Larkin, of course. His brain damage was too severe, his resulting HSAM too extreme. At best, he could only ever hope for management.
Doyle was different, though.
Doyle had a chance to heal.
And Larkin wanted him to know that. He needed Doyle to know the cycle of recovery wasn’t too unlike that of the stages of grief, and how, like now-outdated mourning tradition, Doyle wouldn’t be alone for the process. He would be surrounded by those who would keep him safe. By those who would listen.
Larkin’s hand was shaking as he opened the center console and removed the spare bottle of Xanax. He was completely overcome again with the sudden and intense need to reach that old high, to slam back three pills and float far out on the stratosphere of not giving a fuck about anything anymore. How many of these, with their reduced milligram count, would he have to swallow to relive that out-of-body sensation? Five? Six? Would he overdose trying to figure it out? Larkin pressed down on the lid and tried to turn it, but his palms were beginning to sweat and the childproof cap was quickly becoming detrimental to a man on the cusp of an anxiety attack.
The passenger door opened and Doyle leaned down. His brown eyes were soft as he said, “Hey.”
Larkin stopped fighting the pill bottle and looked up. “I haven’t taken any today,” he immediately explained.
Doyle nodded.
Larkin’s breathing was shallow as he held out the bottle. “I can’t open it.”
Doyle accepted it without hesitation, unscrewed the top, and handed over one pill. He leaned farther into the car to replace the prescription as Larkin swallowed the medicine. “Come stand on the sidewalk with me.”
Larkin waited until he was able to take a deep, full-bodied breath, then checked the driver’s side mirror, opened the door, and climbed out. He moved around the front bumper, and because his knees were shaking a little, leaned against the body of the Audi on the passenger side.
Doyle moved to stand in front of Larkin, absently unwrapping one of his hard lemon candies and popping it in his mouth. He reached back into his suit coat pocket and held out a second. “Want one?” he asked, the candy clicking against his teeth as he spoke around it.
It took approximately five minutes for those particular candies to dissolve. Larkin had timed it enough since April. And because Larkin knew thatDoyleknew he’d never speak to a victim’s family withcandyin his mouth, Larkin would opt to stand in the too-warm sunshine, serenaded by an urban orchestra of honking cars and thrumming window units and that almost subaudible singing unique to summer breezes until the candy was a memory of sweet and sticky citrus, and the unexpected attack on his nerves was well on its way to being managed by the Xanax.
Doyle was offering him an easy cover, a believable excuse.
Larkin took the candy and unwrapped it. It was exactly like what he’d so often tasted on Doyle’s lips. He said, unprompted, “I don’t want you to think you upset me. Because you didn’t.” Larkin folded the wrapper until it was a tight little ball. “The start of a relationship is as difficult as it is exciting for me.”
