The Unsinkable Greta James(64)

Things change. So do people, apparently.

He’s still watching her from the other end of the video, his eyebrows slightly raised, and she realizes the panic she’s been feeling—it’s not about losing Jason, who is no more hers than she was ever his. What she’s lost, really, is her closest ally: someone just as fiercely independent, just as passionate about his work, someone who—not that long ago—would’ve shuddered at the thought of wedding registries filled with fancy china and fondue sets.

It’s a smaller loss. But it’s still a loss.

“I’m sorry,” he says, his face a bit pixelated now. Outside, the wind is whistling past the window, and a group of people in evening wear walk by in a cloud of perfume.

“It’s okay,” she tells him, though she’s not exactly sure what he’s apologizing for. “We’re okay.”

“I’m glad,” he says with a smile. “Let me know when you’re back in the city. Maybe we can all get brunch sometime.”

“I’d love that,” Greta says, trying to imagine making conversation with her ex-something-or-other’s new fiancée over avocado toast at some trendy Tribeca hotspot.

Jason laughs. “No, you wouldn’t.”

“No, I wouldn’t,” she agrees. “But we’ll do it anyway.”

He starts to say something else, but the picture is frozen now, capturing him there in profile, his handsome face tipped to one side.

“Jason?” she says, moving the phone around. But nothing changes. She waits a second, then another, then says, “Jason, I think I’ve lost you,” and to her surprise, her eyes prick with tears. But once she’s said it, once it’s out there, the next part is somehow easier. “Goodbye,” she says, and then she ends the call.





Chapter Twenty-Five


When she gets to the dining room, Ben is waiting at the entrance in a sports coat. He’s trimmed his beard, and his hair is neatly combed, and suddenly—improbably—this feels like an actual date.

He looks oddly amused as she walks over to him.

“What?” she asks, glancing down at her outfit. She’d thrown a bomber jacket on over her dress, but looking around at the other passengers, most of them wearing more formal attire—floor-length gowns and expensive-looking suits—she wonders if she should take it off.

Ben shakes his head. “I was literally just thinking about what might’ve happened if I’d met you in New York.” He gestures at her outfit. “And then I realized you probably wouldn’t have given me the time of day.”

Greta smiles. “You never know.”

“Maybe not,” he says, leaning to kiss her on the cheek. He lingers a moment, his mouth close to her ear, and adds, “I’m gonna try not to overthink it.”

They’re seated at a table near the window. It’s supposed to be for four, but Ben convinced the ma?tre d’ to let them have it to themselves, and they sit looking out over the water and the gray scroll of shore.

Once they’ve ordered, Greta lets out a yawn, which makes Ben laugh. “You’re worse than my students.”

“Sorry,” she says, rubbing her eyes. “It’s been a really long day.”

“How did it go with your dad?”

“I don’t even know how to answer that,” she tells him. “It was…a lot. A lot of fighting. A lot of emotion. Maybe even a lot of progress. But it was exhausting. I don’t think we’re built to spend that much time together. At least not without my mom.”

He nods. “She was your translator.”

“She was,” Greta says. “Now it’s like we’re yelling at each other in two completely different languages.” She twists her napkin in her hands. “I’ve spent so much of my life sparring with him. That’s just always been the dynamic between us, even when I was younger and we got along better. He and my brother—they watch baseball for fun. He and I—we argue. But it feels different now.”

“How so?”

She shrugs. “He’s old. And sad. I am too. Honestly, I just didn’t feel like fighting with him today. I didn’t have the heart for it. Don’t get me wrong—I still think most of this is his fault. He’s the parent. But I’m obviously not blameless either. And this morning it was like…I don’t know. For the first time maybe ever, I guess I wished things were easier between us.”

“You should tell him that.”

“I can’t,” she says, shaking her head. “There’s way too much water under that particular bridge. And we’re both much too stubborn.”

“People change.”

Greta looks over at him. Not even an hour ago, Jason had said pretty much the same thing, and she wonders if she’s the only one who hasn’t changed, if she’s the only one who can’t.

Her phone buzzes on the table and she flips it over to see Howie’s name. She ignores it, taking a sip of her wine. “Tell me about your fishing trip,” she says to Ben. “Did you catch anything?”

“Yeah, I got a sockeye,” he says proudly. “I was the only one. It was big too.”

“Wow,” she says as her phone begins to jitter again. This time, when she looks, she sees it’s from Charles, Howie’s husband, a trick he uses whenever a client is ignoring him. But she still doesn’t answer. It doesn’t matter anyway; a moment later, he texts her a link to an article in People. The headline reads: GRETA JAMES ENGAGED TO MUSIC PRODUCER. Beneath it, Howie has written: It’s getting a lot of pickup. Everyone wants a quote from you. I’m on now with Cleo and Anna and Miguel. They said we need something by tomorrow at the latest.