Phoebe put everything back like she’d found it. A film of embarrassment covered her, like the time she found a Playboy under the lift-out tray in one of Apa’s toolboxes. She moved back to the other chair and closed her eyes. She wanted to go into the center of herself and feel anchored. She wanted to remember why coming down here had ever seemed like a good idea. She opened her eyes and took her phone from her purse.

She worried that he wouldn’t pick up, that she’d have to leave a voice mail that left her feeling disembodied, theoretical, the voice of a person instead of a whole being. But then Malcolm answered.

“Hey,” he said.

“Hey,” she said back.

And then she said nothing for a while. She listened to him working, knowing that she was tucked in the crook of his neck.

“Where are you?” she asked.

“At school, putting another one of these little guys in the kiln. I miss you.”

“Liar.”

“I’m serious.”

“I’ll be home tomorrow night after work.”

“You promise you’re not gonna run off with some billionaire before then?”

“What?”

Phoebe hadn’t told Malcolm she was going to see Ted. She hadn’t even been completely sure that she would until she was sitting on his porch. Now her confrontation with Ted seemed inevitable.

“I know I can’t give you that kind of life. We’re never gonna live on Easy Street.”

Phoebe would tell Malcolm about Ted later. For now, it was enough to feel this connection with him. Somehow, he had sensed what she’d been up against this afternoon. When she couldn’t sleep at night, he often woke up then, too, sensing her discomfort. In his own quiet way, he knew her.

“The only easy thing about Easy Street is the money,” Phoebe said. “The rest of it, they can keep.”

“Where are you?”

“At a party. Hiding.”

“You wearing the dress?”

“Yeah. If I fill it with helium, I can fly to Hawaii. Did you check out the studio?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“How’d it look?”

“Good. We can talk about it later. You need to hustle right now. You don’t need to be thinking about anything else.”

“I’m sorry about before.”

Malcolm sighed. “I just wanted to give you something to hold on to while you’re down there, something you’d know you could come back to no matter what. I thought the studio—a place for you to collaborate on your art, whether it’s with me, or Callie or Beth, or whoever—could be that thing.”

Ever since Umma had gotten sick, he’d been worried about Phoebe. Malcolm understood the shape of her grief better than she did. He’d been talking about the studio for months. This was why.