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“There isn’t a finish line in this race. It’s not about sprinting—it’s about stamina to keep going.”
“Have a beer, eat some meat, catch the game, see some tits.” “Never say tits again.”
“Evie….” Doyle said in a desperate tone. Larkin turned, smiling just a little. “Yes, Ira?” And saying Doyle’s first name was… it felt right. Doyle’s face softened. He met Larkin’s gaze. “I like when you call me that—Evie.”
“Then they’re not dead, Evie.” And then Doyle kissed him. Whether he meant to or not, it was happening now—and it was nothing like their other kisses, which had been gentle, tentative, affectionate. This was hard and aggressive, like Doyle wanted to fight the demons Larkin carried inside by literal tooth and nail. Lips and tongue and hot breath, hands grabbing at suits, chests bumping, middles touching—all of it sparking a flame, a rebirth inside Larkin.
This wasn’t how it’d been at the lake, on the dock, with Patrick. There was no hesitation, no shakes, no shivers. This wasn’t Larkin’s first kiss, and Doyle wasn’t a boy; he was confidence, intelligence, and devotion, coalescing in the body of a man whose outer appearance was that of downplayed attraction. A suggestion that he hadn’t wanted to be noticed too much. Hadn’t wanted to be taken too seriously. But Larkin noticed. And Larkin had eventually seen through the ploy.
For eighteen years, Larkin had been dressing in blues and pinks and greens and golds that no average man would touch with a ten-foot pole, because it seemed like a last-ditch effort to add color to a world that had robbed him of such pleasure. Left in a void after the boom, the squish, the crack—and gray had no home on a color wheel. Then he’d met an artist named Ira Doyle and everything had erupted in a blinding white, a composite of all the colors. And the storm began to move in reverse, the rain and thunder and lightning backtracking into the sky, restor...
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“Oh!” called the startled voice of a young woman from behind Doyle. “Geez. I’m sor—hang on—it’s Stabler and Benson!”
“If you call me when you’re ready to leave tomorrow, I won’t ask you any questions. You don’t need to say anything. I’ll be here to pick you up and we’ll… figure this out together.”
Larkin studied Doyle’s face for a long time, but for the first time in maybe eighteen years, his brain was paralyzed. No cataloguing, no memorizing. Larkin just had one simple thought repeating over and over as they stared at each other: He’s such a good man.
