I didn’t tell Freya and Max that I was spending most of my nights on their property. On some level, I must have known that setting up my sleeping bag and pillow in her studio space without permission was crossing boundaries. They might resent the lack of privacy, might think that spending my entire day at the studio and then the entire night in the attic justified them asking for some sort of rent. Part of me thought they’d be fine with it, might even offer me a piece of foam to sleep on or a bedside lamp. But I couldn’t risk it. So, around seven o’clock each evening, I went home for dinner and a shower. And then, at around eleven, when Eckhart’s nightly screamfest was well underway, I parked my truck on the side of the main road and slipped silently into my newfound attic bedroom. In the mornings, I rose early, ate a bagel or a doughnut or a croissant from a stash of breakfast food I’d left there, and cleaned up in the studio bathroom. Then I went straight to work building my pinch-pot empire.

Freya usually joined me around ten, after her yoga class or power walk with Jamie. We puttered around the studio, throwing, firing, glazing, trimming . . . Now that she was so comfortable with me, Freya didn’t keep up her constant stream of chatter. In fact, some days, she barely said a word, seeming morose, or introspective. On others, she was crabby, stomping around, slamming down pieces, then cursing aloud when they chipped or broke. Seeing her vulnerability, her anger, her realness, didn’t make me adore her any less.

One morning, her disposition seemed darker than usual. There were circles under her eyes and her shiny hair was dull and lank. She muttered hey and then disappeared into the kiln room. I was getting used to her moods by now. It was best to stay quiet, keep my head down, and let her work through her emotions. Eventually, my lovely, charming Freya would return. But that day, as I was staining the veins on a butterfly’s wings, she stormed toward me.

“You got glaze all over the kiln shelves, you moron! Your stupid fucking pots are fused to them!”

Freya had been cranky and snappish toward me, but she had never verbally assaulted me before. I was shocked by the intensity of her anger. Setting down my brush, I managed to croak out a response. “They can’t be. I waxed the bottoms.”

“Oh, okay . . .” Sarcasm dripped off her words. “I guess I just imagined the fucking mess in there.”

“I-I’ll take care of it,” I stammered. “I’ll buy you a new shelf.”

“This is a specialized gas kiln! Where are you going to buy a shelf for it on this godforsaken island?” She was falling apart, and it wasn’t over a kiln shelf. Something else was wrong. Very wrong.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

“No! No, I’m fucking not.” She turned away and dropped her head into her hands.