“You better be kidding,” he warned, patting my ass as I climbed off him.

“I am,” I promised. “I’ll take care of it.”

“And I’ll take care of you later,” Cal decided, sitting up to watch me change into my street clothes.

“A little show of temper turns you on, huh?”

“I think the term you’re looking for is temper tantrum,” he corrected, “and don’t get any thoughts in your head. We only have three bowls now.”

“There are three of us, so it works out fine,” I reasoned, much to Cal’s chagrin.

“Our food groups are soup and cereal. Bowls are gold.”

“I’ll get a few more today,” I promised, pecking him on his lips, “and I’ll clean up my mess as soon as I get back from Ricky’s.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“Sometimes you have to let someone else pick up the pieces, Vik. I’ll show you I can.” Cal gave me a patient smile and I grinned back at him, wondering why I was so worried about milk when I lived with the cream.

Nodding my ‘goodbye,’ I made my way out of the apartment, down the stairs, and onto the uncharacteristically busy block. As I walked, I felt lucky. It was good to know I had Cal at home, waiting for me, rooting for me. It provided me with a sense of purpose I had sorely lacked in the past. I wondered what my youth would have been like if I had had someone in my corner rather than feeling perpetually cornered. Would I be a different man? For better or for worse? Perhaps I would be weaker, more willing to lean on someone when I should have been concerned with holding my head high.