“I’m asking that you respect my boundaries and get out.”

Doyle pulled the handle, popped the door open, and climbed out. He collected his portfolio bag, shut the door, and walked toward the Honda without a glance back.

Larkin put his hazards on and sat there—shaking. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!” He punched the passenger seat several times before leaning back, breathing hard. Fumbling one-handed, Larkin opened the center console and removed a prescription bottle with his name on it. His hands continued to shake as he fought to get the cap off and then poured the contents into his palm.

It’d be easy. It’d be so easy. No more Grim. No more faggot. No more thunderstorms or sugar-and-smoke kisses or the city’s unwanted dead. No more whiskey voice talking about a fit, like he had a single fucking clue what a monumental achievement it was to get out of bed some days. No more feeling as if being alive were akin to a hospital flatline.

People don’t want to know what makes them uncomfortable.

Larkin clenched his fist around the pills, a few spilling between the seat and console, another into the footwell. He managed his phone free with his other hand and dialed Noah.

His husband’s wary voice answered on the third ring. “Hi.”

“Hey,” Larkin breathed.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Larkin lied. “I had a minute. Wanted to hear your voice.”

“Liar,” Noah said, but there was a smile somewhere in there.

Larkin let out a quiet, shaky laugh. “It’s just been one of those days, honey. I’m sorry about this morning.”

“It’s all right. I know some of those cases get to you more than others.”

Larkin squeezed his eyes shut. More pills spilled from his clutch. He laughed again, more brittle, and shook his head. “Right.”

“Do you want to go out tonight after you see Dr. Myers?”

He cleared his throat and managed to say, “I’m usually tired after my appointments.”

“We haven’t had a date night in, like, a month, Everett.”

Larkin opened his hand and the Xanax fell across his lap and between his legs. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he said obediently, “Yes, honey.”

“But I guess I can order delivery… have it here by the time you get home.”

“That sounds good.”

“We can finish Broad City.”

Larkin shook his head again.

“That new Indian place on Eighty-Ninth finally opened. Did you want try it?”

“Okay.”

“Seven thirty, then?”

“Yes.”

“Have a good afternoon.” Noah disconnected.

Larkin dropped his phone in his lap. He wiped his cheeks for a second time that day, picked up one of the Xanax, and dry swallowed it. A moment later, he swallowed a second.

People don’t want to know.