She looked down at her skirt (to the knee), her calves (shaved), her feet (toe cleavage bared in black pumps). She looked up at Ted, arms limp at his side, his Stones shirt now on its third day. Once again, he was no help, and she had to go.

Walking to the door, she felt exposed, as if the wind had blown her skirt up hours ago and Ted had only just thought to mention it.

As she stood here now outside the motel, waiting for a car to take her to Ted in his mansion, she felt just as vulnerable and uncertain. On the map on her phone, a little car was driving around Santa Monica in circles. She called Malcolm.

“Hey,” he said. “You okay?”

“Mmm-hmm,” Phoebe said.

“How was the conference?”

“Fine.” But she didn’t want to talk about herself, she wanted a distraction. “How’s your day going?”

“Okay. Meeting the broker in an hour, then heading over to school to fire a couple more forms.”

“How many will that make?” Phoebe asked.

“Six down, six to go.” The deadline for the Guggenheim Fellowship was in September. Malcolm had given himself three months to make a dozen jockeys and, as usual, he was on track to demolish the deadline.

“Wow! You’re amazing.”

“So, listen,” Malcolm said. “I think we could put in a couple of different workstations on your side of this place I’m looking at.”

“Why?”

“So Callie and Beth can work there, too.”

“Callie and Beth?” Her coproducer and her DP.

“Yeah. And then some temporary walls to make a conference room. We need a place to make private calls.”

“Malcolm, stop. This isn’t like riding a motorcycle. You can’t just give me a helmet and expect me to jump on.” Their second date. You know what you need? he’d asked, as he’d handed her the shiny new helmet with a stick-on bow pressed on top. Speed. And he’d been right. For a runner like Phoebe, speeding across the Sacramento River Delta on the back of his Suzuki was a revelation.

“Is that what I’m doing?” Malcolm asked.

“Yes.”

“Because I thought I was helping. Fuck me for trying that again.”

But he couldn’t help her, at least not with this. The Lyft driver pulled into the tiny parking lot of the Sea Breeze and, with it, a cold ball of panic formed in Phoebe’s chest.

“I gotta go,” she said, her throat dry. She hung up and there, filling the screen, was a text from Rona: Shit. I’m so sorry.