“I would say they all have unattractive mustaches, but that’s only two of the three,” he joked.

“You’re always focused on the important shit aren’t you, Connolly?”

“You know me,” Cal winked. “So, what do they have in common?”

“They hate Jews and homosexuals.”

“That’s confirmation they have bad taste,” he said easily.

“They’re not the only ones,” I added, wondering how he could not feel persecuted by their opinions.

“And this bothers you?”

“Should it not?”

“I mean, it bothers me for the people who are living under their rule, they don’t deserve that, but does it make me feel a certain way about myself? No,” Cal explained. “America may be struggling right now, but look around,” he waved his hand toward the bohemian crowd, “we’re good here, accepted, thriving.”

“Thriving is a stretch,” I interjected, floored by Cal’s capacity to remain positive through the hardships the country and its citizens faced.

“It could be worse,” he reminded, “you gave me two ways how and there are a hell of a lot more.”

“I’ll give you that.”

“Is admitting I’m right supposed to be a gift for me?” Cal chuckled. “I think it’s more a gift for you to be with a person who’s right as often as me.”

Though I often doubted everything would end up on the sunny side the way Cal thought it would, I wished for him to be right. Life would be markedly better if he was.

“You’re right again,” I said, resting a palm on his narrow hip. “You are a gift.”

He smiled wide, happy to have my hand on him for all the trees to see. It was the best I could do in terms of public displays of affection, but it was something.

“You’re alright too, handsome,” he crooned. I had been told I was attractive for most of my life and never gave the compliment much thought until it was given by Cal. Words held more weight when they were spoken by someone who looked at you the way he looked at me when he said them.

“Yeah, well, I don’t know,” I laughed, too flustered to formulate a meaningful reply. “You should focus your correctness streak on the Cubs. Tell me they’ll finish in first rather than third next year and be right about it, Mr. Right.”

“I’m not a wizard,” he exclaimed, his green eyes glittering with amusement. “I can’t wave a wand and make things happen.”

“Do wizards have wands?” I wondered aloud.

“I think so. They need them to do all their magic.”

“We should go to New Orleans and bring your Voodoo queen back to Chicago to mix the guys some potions.”

“Now you’re talking,” Cal grinned. “I want to try to mix you that cure-all for your neck. I know we can get the herbs, but we have to find a black cat.”