The Unsinkable Greta James(27)

“Except,” Greta says, “it was my brother who suggested I come.”

Ben smiles like a lawyer about to rest his case. “But if your dad really didn’t want you on this ship, I doubt you’d actually be here.”

This hadn’t ever occurred to Greta. When she’d finally called Conrad to suggest joining him—a few days after she’d promised Asher she would—he’d been quick to dismiss the offer. “I don’t need a babysitter,” he’d said, much to her relief, and her halfhearted insistence had done little to change his mind.

But the next day, she woke up feeling guilty. It was something about the way he’d answered the phone, his voice less gruff than usual, more plaintive. She pulled up the website for the cruise line to see if they still had any available cabins, and when she saw that they did, she sighed. The second time her dad picked up, she didn’t ask him. “I’m all booked,” she said, and a few beats passed before he replied: “Okay.”

She and Ben continue to walk in silence, Greta deep in thought as they trudge up a slope leading back to the visitors’ center. After a while, the rain starts up again, falling in fat drops now, and Ben glances over at her apologetically.

“We should’ve turned back sooner,” he says, squinting at the sky. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she says. “I don’t mind walking.”

“Me neither. That’s my favorite thing about being back in the city, actually. I can wander for hours.”

“Me too. Especially when I’m writing. It helps me think.”

“Same. Where do you live?”

“East Village.”

He nods, as if he expected as much. “I bet you’re one of those people who never goes above Fourteenth Street.”

“Depends on what’s above Fourteenth Street,” she says, and he smiles. “Remember that huge storm in February? The one where they shut down the subway? I walked all the way up to Central Park in that. Took me ages. There was a foot and a half of snow by the time I got there, and I had to take a cab back home because I couldn’t feel my toes. But I worked out a whole song that day.”

Ben is looking at her with a strange expression. “So did I.”

She frowns at him. “You wrote a song?”

“No,” he says. “I trekked down to Central Park in that storm.”

“You did?”

He nods. “I love walking in the snow.”

“Me too,” she says. “The streets get so quiet.”

“And it feels like the city is all yours.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t believe you were there too.”

“It was pretty surreal,” he says with a faraway look, and she knows exactly what he’s talking about: the way the swirling snow had started to quiet just as it got dark, how—after hours of wind and noise—the world felt suddenly like the volume had been turned down. The lampposts were capped in white and gave off an otherworldly glow, and everyone she passed moved slowly through the heavy drifts, as if in a dream. It’s so strange to think now that one of them could’ve been Ben.

“Imagine if we’d run into each other,” he says as if he can read her thoughts.

“I don’t know. It’s a pretty big park.”

“Yeah, but that’s the thing about New York. It’s always bringing people together at unexpected moments. That’s part of its magic. I once ran into my best friend from second grade in the middle of the Great Lawn.”

She smiles. “Well, I was all the way down near Central Park South.”

“And I was all the way up near the top,” he says with a shrug. “Ships in the night, I guess.”

“Ships in the night,” she agrees.





Chapter Twelve


They ride the bus back to Juneau in their wet clothes, then linger on the boardwalk, watching the floatplanes take off from the harbor. It’s only five p.m., which means they still have four hours until their ship leaves. Ben attempts to leaf through his guidebook again, but the pages are so soggy it’s nearly impossible to turn them. The rain starts coming down harder, and they give up entirely.

“Let’s go find a bar,” he says, and they head up one of the main streets.

They pass up the first couple of places because they’re too crowded with tourists. The third one is emptier and looks straight out of an old western, with a fireplace in the corner and wood-paneled walls, antique mirrors with blurry reflections, and a bartender with a mustache so long it curls at the edges.

They order a couple of beers and carry their glasses to a table in the corner. It’s small and a little wobbly but close enough to the fire that Greta can feel the warmth starting to creep back from the outside in, first in her fingers and toes, then her arms and legs.

“What would you be doing on a normal Monday afternoon?” Ben asks as the door opens and a large group of men in fishing gear walk in, bringing the smell of rain and the sound of laughter.

“There’s no such thing for me,” she says with a smile. “That’s the best part.”

“Okay, but…what if you were in New York right now?”

Greta considers this. “Is it five o’clock in New York too?”