The Unsinkable Greta James(17)

“Like I said, I play the guitar,” she says with a shrug, but something about the encounter with Preeti has made her wobbly. She thinks about Gov Ball next weekend, and her hand closes around the phone in her pocket. She feels a sudden urge to call her manager, Howie, and tell him to forget the whole thing. That she’s not ready yet. That it’s too risky to go back out there before she is.

But she hasn’t even told him she’s on this trip. She hasn’t told anyone: not her publicist, not the label, not her agent, not even her best friend, Yara, a keyboardist who is out touring with Bruce Springsteen and would understand better than anyone why she’s avoiding them all.

For several days now, there’s been a steady drumbeat of emails and text messages about the festival and the launch of the new single. The subject lines include requests for local radio appearances and sit-downs with music journalists. Strategies for how to frame what happened in March and “reset her image.” Suggested talking points and timelines.

Greta hasn’t read any of it.

It’s so unlike her. She’s not usually the stereotypical version of a rock star her dad seems to think she is: consumed by the lifestyle and leaving the business part to others. She cares too much for that. She writes her own tracks and handles her own licensing, shows up early for sound check and spends hours and hours in the studio. When she’s onstage, it’s supposed to look effortless. Not just the way she plays—the massive guitar riffs and thrilling crescendos—but also the way she appears to the audience: powerful, incendiary, captivating. All those things are true. But they’re fueled by a relentless work ethic and a deep desire to keep getting better, to keep making music, to keep people listening and showing up and buying albums.

Now, of course, that’s all gone out the window. Both the image and the work ethic.

Now all she wants to do is get a drink and pretend none of this is happening.

Inside, they find seats at the bar. There are brightly colored flowers everywhere, and the bartenders are wearing Hawaiian shirts. A blue surfboard leans up against the wall.

“All very Alaskan,” Ben says once they’ve ordered their drinks: a margarita for him and a strawberry daiquiri for her, because what else do you order in a place like this?

“Yeah,” Greta says, looking around, “this is definitely getting me in the mood to visit a frozen tundra.”

Ben looks amused. “It’s hardly a tundra. We’re going to be seeing some of the most interesting landscapes in Alaska. In the world, really.”

Their drinks arrive, and she plucks the small paper umbrella out of hers. “You’ve clearly done your homework.”

“You haven’t?”

“This was sort of a last-minute decision for me.”

“A last-minute Alaskan cruise?”

Greta hesitates a second, debating whether to be honest, then says, “It was supposed to be my mom here with my dad and their friends—not me.” She takes a sip of her daiquiri, which is much too sweet. When she lifts her eyes again, Ben’s smile has fallen. “It’s okay,” she says quickly, even though it’s not. Not at all. “It happened a few months ago.”

“That’s not very long.”

“No,” she agrees, “it’s not.”

He taps a finger against his glass. She can see the faint line where his wedding band had once been.

“It’s nice you can be with your dad,” he says, and she nods.

“They’d been planning this trip for ages, and he still wanted to come. So my brother asked me to keep him company.”

“Why you?”

She shrugs. “Because he has three kids and a day job.”

“And you…”

“Have very few daily responsibilities and a zillion frequent-flier miles.” She takes a long swig of her drink. “It’s fine. I wouldn’t even mind it, honestly, if it didn’t mean a whole week with my dad.”

“You guys don’t get along?”

“Not really.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t have three kids and a day job.”

He stares at her. “Seriously?”

“That’s part of it.”

“What’s the other part?”

“Let’s just say I’m not exactly the favorite.”

Ben opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again.

“What?”

“Nothing,” he says. “It’s just…I have so many questions for you. I’m not sure what to ask first. I don’t want to overwhelm you.”

Greta smiles. “I’m not easily overwhelmed.”

“Okay. So your dad—”

“Wait,” she says, lifting her glass, which is now empty. “I do need another drink first. In fact, I may need several.”

“Fair enough.”

She swivels in her seat, facing him more fully. Their knees are almost touching, but not quite. “Do you have another lecture today?” she asks, and he shakes his head. “So you don’t have anywhere else to be?”

“No,” he says. “Why?”

“I think we should get drunk then.”

Ben laughs. “I don’t think so.”

“Why not?”