“Uh...” he said, taking in the baggy track pants and the misshapen T-shirt and the beloved flannel with the button missing. The only person Zanne had ever seen him dress up for—slacks, a button-down shirt, and a cashmere sweater—was the president (the last one, not the current embarrassment), who’d stopped by on his way to a Democratic fundraiser.

“There’s a fresh white button-down in your closet,” Zanne said. “Maybe you could change out of your sweatpants and put on some...cargo shorts?”

“Oh, I...” He combed his hair forward again. He took off his flannel shirt, then put it back on again. “That’s a good idea. Where are they?”

“In your closet. In your office. I’ll show you.”

Zanne was so used to Ted’s helplessness that she usually didn’t feel one way or the other about it, but this was pitiful. She could be a bossy kind of friend when she needed to be. She’d once taught a girlfriend how to use a tampon by inserting it for her. She could pick out Ted’s clothes and tell him where to stand. After that, if he embarrassed himself with Phoebe, that was on him.

As they passed through the parlor, she saw him search out the window for Phoebe, but all you could see were emanations of pink, as if the Adirondack chair were an exploding nebula. Ted hurried after Zanne into his office. She shut the door and then handed him the clean shirt and some shorts.

“Put what you’re wearing now in here,” she said, showing him the hamper. “Buzz me when you’re ready.”

But Ted surprised her a couple minutes later by opening the door himself and heading straight for Phoebe.

18

Phoebe