Larkin wanted his partner to know only love.
Yet he had somehow, inadvertently, just broken Doyle’s heart.
“Ira?”
Doyle looked up from the folder.He was the epitome of picturesque despair.“I think I have to recuse myself from this case.”
“What?”
And like a man drowning, Doyle said, “Bridget Cohen is my mother.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Doyle wiped his cheek with the heel of his hand.He turned his back to Larkin and took a few steps before his shoulders shuddered, hunched, the same hand came up to his mouth, and he dropped into a squat.
Doyle began to cry.
First a crack, a tear, then a fissure opened, and everything ugly poured out of him in one great big heartbreaking sob.
Larkin’s immediate panic kept him frozen on the spot.Doyle’s love language was touch.He craved physical affection.Hugs, kisses, fingertips following a path pebbled with gooseflesh.He wanted it when he was awake, when he was falling asleep, after a long day, a hard day, a good day, and he freely offered that affection in return—even when he must have known Larkin would turn it down—because Doyle’s love language was touch, and his hug meant:I’m here.
But Larkin didn’t move.
Because this wasn’t a long day or a hard day.This was a wound Doyle had been inflicted with at too young an age, a wound that had been poisoning him for decades, and now it’d ruptured, and Larkin didn’t know what to do.Doyle had seen him at some of his worst and weakest moments.He’d seen Larkin’s suicide ideation, the near overdose, the out-of-control addiction.He’d seen Larkin’s tics when compulsions flared into overdrive, and he’d seen violent reactions to memories relived.But what had Larkin seen of Doyle?
A man who weaponized his own empathy.
Who atoned for the sins of others.
Who was ashamed of his inner child.
Larkin had only ever seen a man who knew how to heal everyone but himself.
Who betrayed your trust and broke your heart.Who made such a gentle man so angry inside.
Your mother.
Spurred into motion, Larkin first went to the door, shutting and then locking it, before cautiously approaching his partner.Doyle was still in a low crouch, the manila folder crushed between his chest and arms.Larkin got down on one knee.He tried to reach for the file, to simply get it out of the way, but Doyle tightened his hold, needing something, anything, to protect him as his world crumbled.
Larkin went back to the table and returned with his coat.Carefully, he draped it over Doyle’s shoulders, waited, and then breathed a sigh of considerable relief as Doyle’s gut-wrenching sobs began to wane.Doyle slowly dropped to the floor, crossed his legs, and pulled the coat around to his chest, discarding the file in the process, which Larkin quickly moved out of sight.Taking a seat on the floor beside him, Larkin watched Doyle bury his face into the coat.
His shoulders shook.He was still crying.
“I lie awake and try to pinpoint the exact moment that our trajectories intertwined,” Larkin began.“Surely it’s something less than fate but more than chance.But I end up somewhere around the Big Bang and realize the thought is too enormous.It’s an existential crisis.”He was thoughtful for a moment before continuing.“You are everything quiet and beautiful in this world.You’re a field of sunflowers and the iridescence on a soap bubble.You’re sunlight refracting on water and fog settled deep in a valley.
“I love you more than you’ll ever really understand.And I’ve come to accept that my difficulty in articulating these emotions might not be the fault of my TBI, but is instead because this love is ineffable.For me, you transcend words—you exist in a place of nature and emotion.”
Doyle lowered the suit coat.It was spotted with tear stains.His mouth trembled, but the crying had come to a slow and uneasy rest.
Larkin said, “For the first time in eighteen years, I’ve been able to associate death not with guilt, but with love.Because of you.And if an old dog like me can still learn new tricks, then someday you’ll see yourself the way I see you.You’ll see you’ve become the adult you needed as a child.And the day you believe it is the day you begin healing.”
Doyle didn’t move, didn’t speak.
Larkin hesitantly asked, “Do you want a hug.”
Doyle nodded without looking up.
Larkin moved onto one knee and loosely wrapped his arms around Doyle’s shoulders, but then Doyle pulled him closer—gripped him so tight around the waist that Larkin didn’t think a pry bar could separate them—so he pressed Doyle’s head to his chest and stroked the mess of dark hair.
