The Unsinkable Greta James(20)

But there’s something undeniably charming about him too, and Greta is aware that she’s spending as much energy wondering why she’s still talking to him as she usually does coming up with an excuse to leave in these situations.

“She’s…” Ben begins, shifting in his seat. Everything about him has tensed up, from his shoulders to his jaw. “We’re not…I don’t know. We officially separated about six months ago. She stayed with the girls in New Jersey, and I moved back into the city. But things were bad long before that.” He rubs at his beard and blows out a sigh. “We met in high school.”

“Ah,” Greta says, as if this explains everything.

“I mean, we broke up for a couple years in college, so it’s not like she’s the only—” He stops and shakes his head, then starts again. “When you’ve known someone that long, the way you are together sort of sets, like paint drying or cement hardening. It doesn’t leave a lot of room for change. And then you have kids, and that’s the best part in some ways, but it’s also the hardest, and it brings all these other issues to the surface, things that were easier to ignore before there were a couple of little people who depended on you, and it breaks your heart to think of ruining your family just because you’re not as happy as you think you could be, so you keep at it. But it turns out there are other ways to ruin things too, slower ways, and…” He looks up at Greta. “God, sorry. I don’t mean to treat you like a therapist.”

“You’re not,” she says. “It’s fine.”

“Anyway, we’re separated now. And things are better. But harder too.”

“Is it the kind of separation that’s a prologue to divorce?” she asks. “Or the kind that’s more of a break?”

“Honestly? I have no idea.”

Greta nods. “What do you want it to be?”

“Honestly?” Ben says again, giving her a weary smile. “I have no idea.”

An announcement comes over the loudspeaker that they’re nearing the colony of sea lions and so they finish their drinks and then wind their way through the ship, both a little unsteady. When they pass the open entrance to the jazz club, Ben stops abruptly.

“Look,” he says, taking a few steps in, surveying the empty seats and the quiet stage. A row of colorful electric guitars hangs above the rest of the equipment, and Greta stares at them longingly; it’s like spotting an old friend in a sea of unfamiliar faces. “You should play something.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t just take one.”

“C’mon,” he says. “That’s not very rock ’n’ roll of you.”

“I guess I’m not feeling very rock ’n’ roll these days,” she says with a rueful smile.

They make it out to the starboard deck, where they both stand blinking into the sudden daylight. Earlier this morning, everything had been misty and pale, the silvery water stretching as far as Greta could see. But now they’ve come across a different landscape altogether, motionless blue water flanked by hulking gray mountains. The passage is dotted with small chunks of floating ice, and there’s an eerie stillness to the place, the rush of the wind making the world seem full of static.

All at once, Greta feels astonishingly sober. She looks around for her dad and the rest of the group but doesn’t see them in the crowds lined up along the rails.

“Wow,” Ben says quietly, almost reverently, and she follows his gaze.

Ahead, there’s a cluster of hunched gray rocks, and when the ship glides close enough, a collective murmur goes up from the passengers gathered on the deck. At first, the sea lions are nothing more than a series of brown shapes, dozens of them, maybe even more. But soon they can see each one distinctly, their pointed noses and powerful flippers. Most of them are sleeping, or at least lounging, their bodies a series of commas and dashes across the rocks. Others lift their heads to yawn or let out a roar, and a few slip into the water with a splash.

Greta glances over at Ben, who is staring in awe. She has a feeling that he’d look the same way even if he were sober, but for her, everything has taken on a slightly surreal quality.

“Last year I had this speaking gig in San Francisco,” he says, “and we decided to take the kids along. I had the whole thing planned out. Golden Gate Bridge, Lombard Street, Alcatraz, the works. But it all went off the rails when we got to Pier 39. They took one look at those sea lions and refused to leave. They were completely transfixed. We stayed there for hours, just watching them sleep in the sun. It was a good day.”

Greta smiles, but she’s thinking back on her own childhood vacations, which were mostly spent camping up in Michigan. Asher would complain about the bugs and Greta would moan about the weight of her backpack; Helen, who had grown up traveling to Europe, would wrinkle her nose at the pot of beans over the portable stove; and Conrad would grumble as he struggled to set up the tent on his own. But later, they’d all sit around the fire, hands sticky from the s’mores, faces flickering in the dark, and there was a warmth to it that Greta would carry back with her to the old patched-up tent, where the four of them slept in a row, she and Asher wedged between their parents. Sometimes, Conrad would reach over the top of their heads for Helen’s hand, and Greta would fall asleep like that, the knot of their hands like a crown above her as the wind rattled the sides of the little tent.