Which was why it puzzled her that Malcolm now wanted to disrupt all their routines for some grand romantic experiment. They’d been developing an idea for an animated short using figures Malcolm would make, about a little boy struggling to stay awake in church. Phoebe had been excited about the idea at first—how well she knew that particular torture, Umma pinching the soft flesh of her arm whenever her head lolled off its perch—but now everything was moving so fast. Malcolm wanted a bigger studio that the two of them could share. Phoebe hadn’t said no, but now that he was meeting with brokers she was going to have to say something. Something like: What if this all blows up in our faces? What if I have to build a new life all over again, for the second time? It had been hard enough before, but she was forty-eight now.

Phoebe picked up the tube of paint Malcolm was working with, a garish shade of red for the football jersey. “There’s always CSVA. They’d give you whatever you asked for if they thought you’d come.”

Malcolm raised one eyebrow. He had more command over his eyebrows than Phoebe had over her entire face, and that eyebrow was telling her that he had no interest in the California School of Visual Arts, no interest in leaving the East Bay for LA, and that Phoebe already knew all of this.

“Okay, okay,” she said, holding up her hands in surrender. “You’re right, it’s not your scene.”

She stepped closer, in between Malcolm’s legs, so that they were too close to look each other in the eye.

“I’m gonna be late if I don’t get a move on. Wish me luck?”

He kissed her, brushing his thumb across her cheek. “You don’t need luck. You got this.”