The Unsinkable Greta James(83)

She’s still dressed in street clothes—skinny black jeans and an old Metallica T-shirt—and facing nothing but an empty field, but as soon as she starts to play, some of the anxiety melts away. She always feels better with a guitar in hand, though she dives a bit too quickly into the opening of “Prologue,” then pauses to make some adjustments to her earpiece and to the pedals.

“That’s a hit for sure,” says Cleo as they head back to the greenroom, and her bosses—a couple of white guys in suits and sneakers whose names Greta can never remember—both smile at this.

When she gets her makeup done, Howie paces anxiously behind her chair in his crisp button-down, looking entirely out of place amid the neon tank tops and band T-shirts. But she knows that’s how he likes it. Howie is very good at what he does, which is managing overconfident rock stars with big egos. He hasn’t had as much practice picking up the pieces when things fall apart. But he’s been there for her anyway, his faith in her unwavering, even when it would’ve been understandable—maybe even sensible—for him to waver.

When the makeup artist steps away to get a different kind of eyeliner, he bends so that their faces are close together. “Don’t look now,” he says, “but I just found out who planted the story about you and Luke.”

In the mirror, Greta can see the two execs huddled near the food spread. One of them smiles and lifts a bagel when their eyes meet.

“I told you not to look,” Howie says, exasperated, but Greta doesn’t care. Because the full meaning of it is settling over her: that they thought she needed more publicity, a different story, a distraction in case things went south again.

That they thought her music wasn’t enough on its own.

That she wasn’t enough on her own.

“Listen,” Howie is saying, “we’ll deal with it all later. You can trust me on that. But for now, I just wanted to say…” He whispers this last part right into her ear: “Give ’em hell out there.”

Then he winks at her through the mirror before walking off with a grin.

After that, the makeup artist returns, and Greta raises her eyes to the ceiling while she finishes applying mascara, and then a tour assistant does a final inspection of her outfit, a red dress and black boots, before she’s joined by Atsuko and Nate. Outside, the festival is a shock to the system, a riot of color and noise. They’re escorted through the grounds by a scrum of organizers in headsets and security guards with dark sunglasses, and all the while, Greta’s heart is hammering so hard it feels like it’s trying to escape.

When it’s time, she hangs back in the wings while Atsuko and Nate walk out to take their places onstage behind their instruments. She can see them sitting there in the dark, waiting for her to join them, just like the rest of the crowd. Greta shifts from one foot to the other, the beat of this first song—this new song, this song that so much depends on—already thumping inside her.

Briefly, she thinks about that last disastrous performance, the feel of it never far away, and her face goes hot and prickly. It’s still something visceral, the memory of all that emptiness rushing in where there had only just been music. The way the space had been filled by murmurs and then horror. The numbness of her hands and the chalkiness of her mouth. The lifting of thousands of cameras in the audience, capturing a moment that has been chasing her like a wild animal ever since that night.

But then someone hands her the guitar, and she lifts the strap over her head and feels the reassuring weight of it, and she realizes that’s no longer her last performance. Not anymore. Her last performance was just a couple nights ago with Preeti, when she played a ukulele in front of hundreds of people on a cruise ship in Alaska. And they brought the house down.

On the stage, the lights begin to flash, changing from red to green to blue, and Greta can feel the anticipation like it’s something buzzing and alive. When she walks out, the audience goes absolutely wild, with a cheer so loud it sends a shiver through her. But she doesn’t show it. She makes her way to the center of the stage, lifts a hand, and then stands there, square to the crowd, her shoulders straight and her chin high as the music begins behind her, the first notes of a song she’s never played in public before, a song nobody here has ever heard.

First there’s the keyboard, then the drums, the tempo building as a roar goes up all around them, the energy moving from the crowd to the stage and back again like a closed circuit, like they’re all out here inventing electricity, like the point is to light up this whole damn stage.

And even right then, even as she prepares to come in on the beat, even as her fingers hover over the strings—waiting, waiting—she’s scanning the crowd, searching for a familiar face, wondering if he might be there.

Just before she begins, she sees him.

He’s standing toward the front, a still point amid all the movement, the people hopping and dancing and swaying all around him.

And he’s holding a sign.

It says GRETA’S DAD.

Behind her, the rhythm shifts, her cue to begin. But she doesn’t. Instead, she lifts a hand, and the others stop playing. She can feel the collective intake of breath from the crowd as they wonder if history is about to repeat itself. But she doesn’t pay any attention to that. She’s too busy mouthing something to her band.

A moment later, the music swells again, slower now, more haunting, and the place erupts with wild cheers at the opening notes of “Astronomy,” which had once been a song about hope, and then later sorrow, but underneath it all was always—always—about love.