The Unsinkable Greta James(65)

Anna and Miguel are both publicists, one for the label, one hired independently. The fact that they’re all on the phone together means this is serious.

A quote, she thinks. What would she even say? Luke and I are thrilled to start the next chapter of our lives together?

It was one thing not to correct it. It would be entirely another to lie about it.

When she glances up again, Ben is watching her. She sets the phone down.

“My manager,” she says, by way of explanation. “The story is apparently everywhere.”

“And he’s getting it fixed?”

“Sort of,” she says, and Ben raises his eyebrows. “It’s just an issue of timing.”

“What does that mean?”

She picks up her fork, then sets it down again, avoiding his gaze. Her stomach is churning. “I think the idea is to wait a few days.”

“What for?”

“It’s a strategic thing.”

“What, like for publicity?”

“No,” she says, then shrugs. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

Another text comes through from Howie. We need to either give them something or kill the story. What do you want to do?

Ben stares at her. “Please tell me you’re not serious.”

She glances back up at him, suddenly annoyed. “Please tell me you’re not going to be a jerk about this because you’re currently sleeping with me.”

“That’s not why—” He stops and shakes his head. “It’s because you’re better than this. Pretending to be engaged to some guy just to—what? Get some press? Some extra likes? That’s not you.”

“You hardly know me. It’s only been a few days.”

“Well, it doesn’t feel that way. At least not to me.” He picks up his wine glass and takes a swig. “Anyway, time is just a construct.”

In spite of herself, Greta laughs. But Ben is still serious.

“Look, I’m sure it’s more complicated than it seems,” he says, leaning toward her again. “And it’s not like you owe me an explanation. But I can’t help thinking you don’t want to deny it because you’re still in love with the guy.”

“I’m not,” Greta says flatly.

“Then what?”

“You just said I don’t owe you an explanation.”

He opens his mouth, then closes it again, looking caught out. “Well, I guess I lied. Can you at least tell me more about Luke? Why’d you end things with him?”

She sighs. “Why do you want to know?”

“I just do.”

“This isn’t a relationship. We don’t have to do the thing where we talk about our exes. Especially when yours isn’t quite so ex.”

“Okay, fine. What do you want to know about her?” he asks, looking like someone about to submit to a drug test. He downs the rest of his wine, then pours himself some more. “I’ll tell you anything.”

Greta gives him an exasperated look. “I said we don’t have to do that.”

“Come on,” he says, and then he actually claps his hands. “Give me your best shot.”

“Fine. What was her least favorite thing about being married to you?”

He looks surprised, then he laughs. “Okay, I changed my mind. This is a terrible idea.”

“I told you,” she says, smiling at him. His eyes are shiny in the light, and he looks younger in his shirtsleeves, undeniably attractive, but also so unassuming it’s easy to miss it.

Greta thinks about what he’d said earlier, about what would happen if they’d met in New York. She’d gone straight to picturing him at one of her shows, a fish out of water, but now a new image starts to assemble itself in her mind: Ben making a pot of tea at her stove, the two of them reading in bed together, walking through Tompkins Square Park with ice cream on one of those perfect New York days.

The fact that she’s never done—or even wanted—any of this before doesn’t strike her as odd. It wouldn’t have made sense with any of the other guys she’s dated. Jason, because he was always working. And Luke, because he thought he was too cool. Her college boyfriend, Wesley, existed almost entirely in his dorm room, smoking pot or playing videogames. And the few minor relationships she’d had in her twenties—Ryan the digital ad guy, and Pablo the coder, and Ian the hedge fund manager—hadn’t lasted long enough to reach that phase where even the most mundane things feel special in the right company.

But with Ben, she can somehow imagine it. And though she knows it’s less a personal fantasy than an amalgamation of every romantic comedy she’s ever seen, every love story she’s ever been told, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t come from someplace hopeful or wistful or true. Maybe even someplace genuine.

Underneath the table, she bumps her knee lightly against his, a conciliatory gesture. “It’s not about Luke,” she says. “This whole thing. It’s about me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m in kind of a weird moment. It’s hard to explain. Or maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just embarrassing.” She sighs. “I hate this part.”

“What?” Ben asks. “Being embarrassed? If it makes you feel any better, right before you got here, I realized I had toilet paper stuck to my shoe.”