“How did you figure it out.”
“He traveled a lot for work,” Doyle began, “but was vague about when and where. It’d always bothered me. And you know how you just… hand me your unlocked phone?”
“Yes.”
“He never did that. Which isn’t strange, but he wouldn’t even leave it on the nightstand when we went to bed. He kept it under his pillow. Anyway. He’d returned from one of those ‘business trips,’ and when he got to my apartment, he was wearing a wedding ring. He forgot to take it off.” Doyle laughed at that, a sort of disbelieving chuckle directed not only at the devious behavior, but inwardly, too, at his own gullibility. “I asked him what it was about, and he didn’t skip a beat, saying, ‘This is what our future looks like.’ And he asked me to marry him.”
“Right then,” Larkin asked.
“Right then,” Doyle echoed. “In retrospect, I realize that the reason I’d been feeling off about his emotional intensity was because it was classic manipulation.”
Larkin immediately nodded in agreement.
“But at the time, the only thing I could think was: You proposed tome, but boughtyourselfa ring? I told him I had to think about it, because I needed to make the best decision, not only for myself, but for Abigail. I spent the entire night digging through any social media presence I could find, messaging friends and family, and that’s how I found out about the side hustles.” Doyle glanced to his left as their waitress approached with two plates, and concluded, “That’s the story of how I almost got married.”
Larkin took a sip of his lukewarm coffee, waited until their meals had been deposited, then said, “I’m sorry you went through that.”
Doyle shrugged and cut into his eggs, letting the yolk mix into the hash. “Part of growing up, I guess.”
“Having your emotions exploited for someone else’s sexual gratification isn’t part of growing up, Ira.”
Doyle stabbed at the corned beef for another moment before setting his fork down and saying, “I had a sympathy bouquet delivered to his office—the kind with a card that’s tucked into the arrangement, so everyone in the office could read it. And I’d written: My deepest condolences for the premature ejaculation of your two-inch dick.”
Larkin choked on a bite of salad. He grabbed his napkin and coughed into it several times before erupting into boisterous laughter.
Doyle bit his lower lip but snorted and then started laughing as well. “Shh… everyone’s staring at us!” he mock-whispered.
Larkin couldn’t stop laughing. In fact, he was practically crying.
“I know it was childish,” Doyle managed in between gasping breaths. “And I’d never do that today as an almost forty-year-old man.”
Larkin sucked in a deep lungful of air. His cheeks still hurt from the face-splitting laugh. “That was some very creative revenge.”
“Yeah, well… he did break four hearts overnight.” Doyle finally took a bite of his meal.
Larkin picked up his own fork. “I wasn’t laughing at you.”
“I know.”
“Did he really have a gherkin,” Larkin asked.
“Hm-hm.”
“Unfortunate.”
“I bet you can’t top that story.”
Larkin took another bite of his salad—the kitchen had gone overboard with the blue cheese dressing—then said, “I slept with a guy sophomore year of college, and afterward, when I was taking the condom off, he asked if he could keep it.”
“Please, God, tell me you didn’t…,” Doyle murmured around a bite.
“Absolutely not. Although, I did have to walk back to my dorm with a knotted condom in my pocket, because I wasn’t convinced he wouldn’t dumpster dive for it.”
Doyle smiled—soft and tender—an expression Larkin hadn’t expected, given the subject matter of their current conversation. Crow’s feet were visible at the corners of Doyle’s brown eyes, and he radiated an energy—unscientific description though it may be—that was just…. “The more you let me in,” Doyle started, shifting in his seat to lean forward, “the more head over heels I am about you.”
Larkin blurted out, “My pocket had a lube stain.”
Doyle’s smile only grew. “Yeah. That’s gross, but I still like you an awful lot.”
