The Unsinkable Greta James(11)

“You would never leave the city,” Greta said, still trying to get her head around the idea of it. “Would you?”

His brown eyes were intent on hers. “Maybe under the right circumstances,” he said. “What about you?”

“I don’t know,” she told him, unsure whether they were talking about geography or something more. Her mind was a muddle, with the reception carrying on below and the plastic stars glowing above. She felt like kissing him and she felt like running away. She felt like crying and she felt like escaping. She didn’t know what she felt. She hardly ever did.

“We should probably get back,” she said eventually, and he looked disappointed but rose up onto his elbows anyway.

“You’re probably right,” he said with a nod.

They made their way downstairs one at a time, after smoothing shirts and straightening hair and unmussing everything that had been mussed. Greta was only a few steps into the kitchen when her dad waved her over. He was already talking to Jason, who gave her a knowing smile.

“Did you see who’s here?” Conrad asked, clapping Jason on the shoulder. In only a few days without her mom, he already looked different—pale and grizzled—but she could tell he was trying to make an effort, to fill the role that Helen usually did when they had people over. “So nice of you to come in for this, son. I know it would’ve meant a lot to her.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it,” Jason said with a solemn nod. “She was one of my favorite people.”

“You’re still in banking, right?” Conrad asked. “I know you two run in pretty different circles, but do you ever see each other in the city?”

“Not for a while,” Jason said at the exact same moment Greta said, “Sometimes.”

“I’m not nearly cool enough to hang out with a rock star on a regular basis,” Jason continued, all dimples and charm. “I imagine there aren’t a lot of suits at your shows.”

Greta raised her eyebrows. “You’d know if you came to one.”

“They’re always sold out,” he said with a grin.

“Lucky you know someone then.”

Their eyes were locked now, and Greta nearly forgot her dad was standing there until he lifted his bottle of beer. “Oh,” he said, turning to her. “Luke called a little while ago. He finally managed to get a flight, so he’ll be here tomorrow morning.”

Greta dropped her eyes to the floor, though she could feel Jason watching her. “Great,” she managed to say, her voice very small, and then her dad headed off to help Asher with the food, and it was just the two of them again. She braced herself for whatever it was he might say, but he only reached out and took her hand in an overly formal way.

“I’m really sorry about your mom,” he said, pressing her fingers tightly for a beat, and then he turned around and walked into the next room, leaving her alone in the kitchen.

That was the last time they spoke. For the rest of the day, he avoided her, and when Luke finally showed up the next morning—bleary-eyed from his long trip—Jason had already flown back to New York.

Greta sets her phone down, then picks it up again. It’s after six in Ohio, which means her brother will be up with the kids. She starts to call him, then remembers she’s at sea with limited service and types out a text instead: SOS. Twelve hours down. A million to go.

It only takes a few seconds for his reply to arrive: Four out of five of us have strep throat. Wanna trade?

Greta writes back, It’s not easy being the favorite, which is what she says whenever he complains about his life, the life her dad so desperately wishes she had too. But her heart isn’t really in it right now because, honestly, strep throat sounds only marginally worse than her own situation.

Another text comes through: How’s Dad?

Same as always, she replies.

I’m glad you’re there.

Me too, Greta types, then deletes it. The truth is, she’s glad he has someone. But she suspects they both wish that someone wasn’t her. Instead, she writes: Hope you guys feel better soon.

He signs off with a Bon voyage!, and Greta swings her feet off the bed. She sits there in the dark for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of the ship, and then she reaches for her guitar, hoping her neighbors are asleep this time.

Quietly, she begins to play, her fingers moving quickly from string to string. When she was younger, her teachers always tried to steer her back to the melody when she veered off course, not realizing that—for her—the experimentation was in fact the point. Even now, critics often struggle to describe exactly what her music is: indie or rock, pop or folk. The truth is, it’s a little bit of all of them, and also nothing like any of them. It’s a sound all her own.

Her eyelids begin to grow heavy again. A lullaby, she thinks, pressing her palm flat against the still-vibrating strings so that the music ends with a quiet thump. Then she places the guitar carefully into its case and crawls back under the covers.

When she wakes again, the clock says 9:21 a.m. She was supposed to meet her dad at the Overboard Buffet twenty minutes ago, so she ties her hair into a messy knot at the top of her head and dresses in a hurry, throwing on leggings and black boots and a jean jacket over the Pink Floyd T-shirt she slept in. Before leaving the room, she grabs a pair of sunglasses out of habit, slipping them on as she steps out into the hallway.