The Unsinkable Greta James(60)

“I’ve seen you do it loads of times,” he says. “The way you go out there and play like you don’t give a fuck about anything. Like you’re all alone up there.”

Greta is silent for a moment. “But I should, shouldn’t I?”

“What?”

“Give a fuck. About all of it. This show. My career.” She waits for him to say something, but he doesn’t. “What if I can’t do it?”

“Jesus, Greta,” he says, and he seems genuinely distressed. “You don’t sound like yourself.”

“I don’t feel like myself.”

“The Greta I know is too stubborn to listen to what anyone else thinks.”

“Well,” she says, swirling the amber-colored beer around in her glass. “I’m listening now.”

“You don’t need me to tell you anything. You already know what you should do.”

“Play it faster?” she teases, and he laughs.

“Not this one,” he says, and then more somberly: “It was for your mom, wasn’t it?”

She nods, though he can’t see her. “I shouldn’t have tried it.”

“You took a swing.”

“It was reckless.”

“It was emotional,” he says. “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

She takes a sip of her beer, then sets it back down on the table. “They want to approve the set list. They want me to open with ‘Prologue.’?”

“And you don’t,” he says. It’s not a question.

“I hate leaving things unfinished,” she tells him, and they both know she’s not talking about “Prologue” anymore. She rests her forehead in her hand. “There’s a part of me that wants to try again, but it feels impossible to go back to it.”

“I know it was just a skeleton,” Luke says. “But from what I heard, it has good bones. You’d just have to be willing to take it the rest of the way.”

“They made me promise to leave it out.”

“Fuck ’em,” he says so quickly it makes her laugh. “I’m serious. That video didn’t make the rounds just because everyone was taking the piss. You made people feel something, even if it wasn’t what you intended. You were magnetic up there. You always are.”

Greta feels a knot form in her throat. “And if it happens again?”

“It won’t,” he says. “But if it does, well…that’s just part of it.”

“Part of what?”

“Making art. You know that better than anyone. And the worst thing you could do right now is pull your punches. Fuck the suits. Take another pass at it. Double down. Get it right. Then get up there and play it true.”

“Next you’re going to tell me to sing my heart out,” she jokes, but he doesn’t laugh.

“Pretty much,” he says. “Listen, if you’re not ready on Sunday, you’re not ready. But just make sure it’s your decision. Not theirs. And whatever you decide, you’ve got to pick up the goddamn guitar again, okay? As soon as possible. Just play.”

“Okay,” she says, and right then, she realizes she misses him. Really misses him. She remembers when they landed back in New York, still foggy from the funeral and the muddled days that followed it. At the airport, Luke had automatically started to get into the same cab as her, but Greta shook her head. “I think I need to be alone right now,” she said, and he nodded, leaning in to give her a kiss before closing the door.

She couldn’t sleep that night, and around four a.m., she finally gave up and went for a walk, tracing a path down through Nolita and then Chinatown, the streets empty and the storefronts covered by grates. Eventually, she wound her way to the river, where she stood looking out at the Brooklyn Bridge, the lights from the cars twinkling as they streamed into the city.

She stopped only once to gaze up at the towering stone arches as she crossed. Ahead of her, the sun was rising in slices between the buildings, yellow and then orange and then pink, and by the time she made it to Luke’s apartment in Dumbo, it was fully light out. His voice over the intercom was groggy, and he was waiting in the hallway—barefoot and bleary-eyed—when she got to the top of the stairs.

As soon as she saw him, she knew for sure. They both did.

“Don’t do anything hasty,” he said, but it didn’t feel that way to her. It felt like something that had been coming for a long time. She and Luke were like a wave that had crested too soon. There was the early madness of falling in love, and when that burned off, they still had the music, which seemed like enough. But Greta had been in the world for six days without her mom by then, and already she knew she needed something more.

“Thanks, Luke,” she says into the phone now. It’s not just for the call, but for everything.

“See,” he says, and she can hear the smile in his voice, “I’m not the worst person to be fake-engaged to.”

“Not the worst,” she agrees.

“Good luck this weekend,” he says. “Burn it all down, okay?”

“I’ll try,” she says, and then she ends the call.

It’s getting late now, so she takes one last sip of beer, pays her bill, and walks back up the main street of the tiny town. Her mind is a jumble, her thoughts too scattered to parse. All she knows is that for the first time in a while, she’s itchy to play, and that’s no small thing.