“You can have a banana or some peanut butter,” I say, going to the bedroom and grabbing my sneakers. “Ready?” I ask him when I come back and see him finishing off a banana. He nods and follows me out to the next apartment that I have. An apartment I didn’t tell Caroline about. It holds my home gym, and it also has extra bedrooms for when my family visits. I run on the treadmill while I set Dylan up with two-pound weights, and for the next hour, we work out side by side. “You did good, buddy,” I say while he drinks water. I look at my phone and see that she hasn’t called yet.

“Let’s go back and take a shower, and then we can get started on the game,” I say. When he gets into his shower, I call the number, but she doesn’t answer. I don’t want to worry, but I do anyway, and when I’m about to dial her again, I get a text.

Caroline: I’m fine. I got to work five minutes ago, and I’m late. I’ll explain later. Is everything okay?

Me: Everything is fine. Just worried.

She doesn’t answer me, and when I finally shower and get out, Dylan is waiting for me in the kitchen. “I had a snack,” he says. I laugh and make a protein shake, then I make him a fruit smoothie.

We spend the afternoon playing the game, and at the end of three hours, he has schooled me in seven games. “Okay, buddy,” I say, turning it off. “Let’s go.”

“Where are we going?” he asks, getting up and placing the remote next to mine.

“We are going to go pick up things for dinner and then get your mom some flowers,” I say. He holds my hand as we go downstairs, and I take out the BMW.

“What are we going to eat?” he asks, and I look at him in the back seat.

“Your mom said she likes Italian, so let’s get stuff to make spaghetti,” I say, and he nods eagerly.

We make it to the grocery store, and I’ve already googled a recipe, so we walk in and grab a cart. He walks next to me as I tell him what we need, and he picks up the items and puts them in the basket. He holds back at first, and when I tell him to go pick out dessert, I see him looking at the prices. “Whatcha doing?” I ask, standing next to him.

“That’s ten dollars,” he says, pointing at the fruit pie. “That’s a lot of money for a pie.”

I try not to grab all the pies and show him that he doesn’t have to worry about it. “It is,” I tell him, “but I’m lucky I have a really good job, and it’s not that much money for me.”