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Doc Holliday was in love once. For a long long time, too.
He'd had a first cousin. And she, like anyone else on Earth who lives past the age of fourteen, had been fifteen for a period of time. She might've joined a convent, or a school board registry, or a brothel for all he knew. He seldom saw her. Only when his mama and her brother could bear to be in the same room as one another. She was pretty, he supposed he might remember. A waif of a thing, but easy to look at. Easy to love; easy to lose. Easy to talk about.
He probably loved Kate too, in a way. She was pretty, too, and fun to play with. She was right when she had said she'd been a good woman to him. She was a good woman: did everything a woman ought to in their position. She was the wrong woman, but she was good to him. Then again no matter how he liked to play, they would all have been the wrong woman.
Because Doc Holliday was in love. Had been since the moment he laid eyes on him: Wyatt Earp.
And he would take that secret with him to the grave.