Despite my advice, I had known it was only a matter of time until Cal went to Abraham about Rosie’s assault. I was surprised he’d had the capacity to hold out until early March, though there was no significance in the delay. I would have much preferred if Cal had expedited the whole thing rather than leave me with the smallest sliver of hope that I was wrong about the inevitability of his actions. Anticipating the worst could be worse than the worst was, but in the circumstance of Cal, Rosie and Abe, I had no doubt the anticipation and outcome would be equally matched in their unpleasantness. Sadly, I was correct. Not only had Abe gotten defensive about the allegation, undoubtedly not allowing himself to believe his new man would want to be with a person like Rosie, he’d also become irritated that Cal had felt compelled to bring the lie to his attention. According to Cal, when he insisted it was the truth, Abraham retorted that even if it was, ‘Rosie is not a beacon of virtue. He’s a whore who gets paid to provide pleasure to men.’ That was when Cal told me he’d lost his patience and shouted that ‘it wasn’t a transaction.” Much to Cal’s dismay, Abe then offered to give Rosie a few dollars to compensate for the alleged attack, hoping to settle the ordeal amiably. When Cal told him that Rosie didn’t feel safe in The Studio any longer, Abe said: ‘Then he is welcome to find somewhere else to stay.’

To say Cal was seething when he recounted the conversation would have been a massive understatement. He was livid in a way only a man possessed by his anger could be. I was tentative to ask how he had replied, aware that whatever enraged statement Cal had made was the punctuation on their otherwise peachy relationship.

“I don’t remember exactly,” Cal stated. “I blacked out in rage. I think it was something along the lines of ‘I can’t believe I ever spent time with you’ and ‘we’ll both be finding a new place to live.’”

“And do you have any idea of where that will be?” I asked. Any of this could’ve been chalked up to his impulsive nature if it weren’t something he’d tiptoed around for months.

“You know the answer to that,” Cal had replied, sheepishly.

That was all it took for me to vow to help him: a slight bashfulness in his tone. In the past, it could have been André, Abraham or some other asshole looking out for him. I knew I wasn’t the first, but I wanted to be the last.