The Unsinkable Greta James(80)

“She’s pretty good,” Mary whispers, and all Greta can do is nod, unable to tear her eyes away. It’s odd to see someone else take such simple pleasure in something you conjured out of thin air, and Greta’s heart is lodged in her throat as she watches Preeti make her way across the too-thin tightrope of the song, her fingers moving fast on the strings, her head bent over the instrument.

It’s not until the second verse that it starts to get away from her.

At first, it’s just a wrong note.

She pauses. Readjusts. Plays a few chords, then pauses again, gears grinding.

It’s strange to watch it happen in real time, to know exactly what it is the girl’s heart is doing in her chest up there, to feel the sudden hollow where her nerve had only just been. It’s one mistake, then another, and then—just like that—the hesitation has moved in like a fog, and it’s hard to see past it. You start to overthink it, every piece of it, from the drilled-down elements of the song all the way to the energy in the room, which is falling flat all around you like the wind after a storm. And your fingers, which had just been flying, have now gone numb.

Preeti looks up. It’s only for a moment, not long enough to focus on anything, but Greta knows exactly what she’s looking for.

She’s looking for help.

She’s looking for her.

“Poor thing,” says a woman behind her, and someone else murmurs in agreement. The whole audience has begun to fidget. There’s nothing more uncomfortable than watching someone fail right in front of you. Greta understands this better than anyone.

She doesn’t know what she plans to do when she stands up. She only knows she has to do something. Onstage, Preeti is completely frozen, and a stillness hangs over the auditorium, awkward and interminable.

Greta slides out of the row, ignoring the baffled looks from Conrad and Mary and the others, and the muffled grunt from the woman whose toe she steps on a bit farther down. As she hurries up the aisle, she pauses only to grab a ukulele straight off the lap of the man from the Christian duo. “Hey,” he says, startled, but she doesn’t stop. Instead, she bounds up the steps and makes her way across the stage to Preeti, who is standing wide-eyed and entirely motionless.

Greta’s footsteps sound much too loud.

But not nearly as loud as her heart.

“You okay?” she asks when she gets there, putting a hand over the microphone, and Preeti manages a nod.

“Okay,” Greta says, with more certainty than she feels. She glances out at the audience, a sea of people, each of them with a phone in their lap, hundreds of tiny cameras ready to capture this moment.

She swallows hard.

Just play the fucking guitar, she thinks.

The ukulele feels tiny in her hands, more toy than instrument, and there are fewer strings, but her fingers still find the right places. She glances over at Preeti, who looks close to tears. The room is still completely silent. Greta manages a grin.

“Let’s do it,” she says, and then she begins to play. The song sounds all wrong on the ukulele, too high-pitched and jangly, and there aren’t enough strings to match the notes, though it doesn’t matter because then Preeti joins in, picking up right where she left off, a little wobbly, a little stilted, and not nearly worthy of the applause that immediately starts up, but it’s enough to get them through it, which is sometimes all that matters.

When they’re done, the crowd gets to their feet, and Greta lets out a breath. Beside her, Preeti is laughing, her face slack from relief.

“Holy shit,” she says, which pretty much sums it up.

Greta grabs her hand and they take a bow together, and then she steps back and motions to Preeti and the cheering intensifies as someone yells, “Encore!” and for some reason, it makes her feel like crying. But she doesn’t. Instead, to her surprise, she finds herself saying, “One more?” and Preeti bobs her head and places her hands on the guitar again—carefully, carefully—and plays the opening notes to “Done and Done,” and Greta laughs and joins in, and the audience stays on their feet, clapping along, and—impossibly, unexpectedly—it’s pure joy, all of it.

Afterward, Preeti gives her a hug and says, “I owe you big-time,” which is exactly what Greta had been thinking about her.

“I’ve been there too,” she says. “You’ll be better now that you’ve been through it.”

“You think?”

Greta nods. “It’s not supposed to be easy.”

“Right,” Preeti says. “It’s supposed to be fun.”

She grins and gives the girl one more hug, then returns the ukulele to the Christian singer—who is too impressed to be annoyed—and sidles back along the row to her seat, where she’s greeted with a second standing ovation from Mary and Eleanor and Todd and Davis and even her dad. Especially her dad, who is smiling and shaking his head as she slides in next to him to watch the last few acts with a slightly sheepish grin.

Afterward, they all head to the piano bar to celebrate. Mary and Eleanor laugh over drinks, and Todd nods off in the corner, and Davis looks over the shoulder of the piano player with raised eyebrows.

“He’s got nothing on you,” Greta says when she joins him, and he roars with laughter and heads off to the bar to get the next round of drinks. The first of many.

At some point, Greta reaches for her phone to send Howie a text: Kill the story, okay? He writes back immediately: You got it.