Doyle stared at him, his chest rising and falling out of sync. “You have permission to kiss me like that, literally, whenever you want. I’m talking Mets at the World Series, bases loaded at the bottom of the ninth, and if you want to kiss me, I’ve already forgotten what baseball is.”

Larkin smiled.

Doyle gave the hair tie around Larkin’s wrist a tug.

“Yeah,” he answered, before starting the engine.

It was 1:22 p.m. when Larkin parked on the corner of Sixty-Second and Lexington. St. Jude’s Church was a gothic revival structure heralding from 1842, with original stone walls, a seventy-foot spire, and later incorporated Tiffany stained glass—all information that Larkin possessed because he’d been married here on Saturday, March 12, 2016, and prior to reserving space for the ceremony, he and Noah had been given an expansive and passionate tour by the building manager.

Larkin shut the driver’s side door before he pointed to a newer addition built toward the rear of the church. “That’s the community hall where they hold meal services.” He pocketed his keys before adding stiffly, “I was married here.”

Doyle met his gaze. “Really?”

“’Til death do us part.”

Larkin said, “They’re welcoming of LGBT, and it was a concession to my in-laws, who’d have no part in their son’s marriage if it didn’t take place in a church.”

The afternoon sun bore down overhead as they crossed the street. It was nothing like the oppressive heat that made a steel-and-concrete jungle absolutely unbearable during the months of July and August, but it was enough to remind Larkin he was very fair-skinned and hadn’t ever known a tan. He passed the church proper and led the way to the front doors of the community hall. To the left was a wall-mounted sign that displayed a welcome message, a relatable Bible verse, and the days and times the kitchen was open to those in need. Larkin grabbed the handle, pulled the door open, and motioned Doyle to step inside.