“I’m not nearly cool enough to hang out with a rock star on a regular basis,” Jason continued, all dimples and charm. “I imagine there aren’t a lot of suits at your shows.”
Greta raised her eyebrows. “You’d know if you came to one.”
“They’re always sold out,” he said with a grin.
“Lucky you know someone then.”
Their eyes were locked now, and Greta nearly forgot her dad was standing there until he lifted his bottle of beer. “Oh,” he said, turning to her. “Luke called a little while ago. He finally managed to get a flight, so he’ll be here tomorrow morning.”
Greta dropped her eyes to the floor, though she could feel Jason watching her. “Great,” she managed to say, her voice very small, and then her dad headed off to help Asher with the food, and it was just the two of them again. She braced herself for whatever it was he might say, but he only reached out and took her hand in an overly formal way.
“I’m really sorry about your mom,” he said, pressing her fingers tightly for a beat, and then he turned around and walked into the next room, leaving her alone in the kitchen.
That was the last time they spoke. For the rest of the day, he avoided her, and when Luke finally showed up the next morning—bleary-eyed from his long trip—Jason had already flown back to New York.
Greta sets her phone down, then picks it up again. It’s after six in Ohio, which means her brother will be up with the kids. She starts to call him, then remembers she’s at sea with limited service and types out a text instead: SOS. Twelve hours down. A million to go.
It only takes a few seconds for his reply to arrive: Four out of five of us have strep throat. Wanna trade?
Greta writes back, It’s not easy being the favorite, which is what she says whenever he complains about his life, the life her dad so desperately wishes she had too. But her heart isn’t really in it right now because, honestly, strep throat sounds only marginally worse than her own situation.
Another text comes through: How’s Dad?
Same as always, she replies.
I’m glad you’re there.
Me too, Greta types, then deletes it. The truth is, she’s glad he has someone. But she suspects they both wish that someone wasn’t her. Instead, she writes: Hope you guys feel better soon.
He signs off with a Bon voyage!, and Greta swings her feet off the bed. She sits there in the dark for a few minutes, listening to the sounds of the ship, and then she reaches for her guitar, hoping her neighbors are asleep this time.
Quietly, she begins to play, her fingers moving quickly from string to string. When she was younger, her teachers always tried to steer her back to the melody when she veered off course, not realizing that—for her—the experimentation was in fact the point. Even now, critics often struggle to describe exactly what her music is: indie or rock, pop or folk. The truth is, it’s a little bit of all of them, and also nothing like any of them. It’s a sound all her own.
Her eyelids begin to grow heavy again. A lullaby, she thinks, pressing her palm flat against the still-vibrating strings so that the music ends with a quiet thump. Then she places the guitar carefully into its case and crawls back under the covers.
When she wakes again, the clock says 9:21 a.m. She was supposed to meet her dad at the Overboard Buffet twenty minutes ago, so she ties her hair into a messy knot at the top of her head and dresses in a hurry, throwing on leggings and black boots and a jean jacket over the Pink Floyd T-shirt she slept in. Before leaving the room, she grabs a pair of sunglasses out of habit, slipping them on as she steps out into the hallway.
She rides the elevator up with a couple so old they both have to hang on to the gold bar that runs along the inside. The woman—who is small and stooped, with brown skin and deep wrinkles and a wispy halo of silvery hair—stares at her hard, then raises a finger to point at Greta’s face. “You’re very pale,” she says with a frown.
Greta nods, because this is true enough. She takes after her mother, whose parents were both from Scotland. She has the same dark hair as Helen did, the same scattered freckles across the bridge of her nose, and the same pale complexion that’s been described as porcelain in so many magazines, her brother jokes that people must think at least one of their ancestors was a toilet.
“Make sure you wear sunblock,” the woman continues. “Just because the sky is gray doesn’t mean it can’t get you.”
“Will do,” Greta says as they come to a stop on the lido deck and the couple starts to shuffle out of the elevator. “Thanks for the tip.”
“You don’t want to look like me when you’re eighty-nine,” the woman calls back over her shoulder, and Greta smiles.
“I should be so lucky.”
At the restaurant, she spots her dad and the rest of the crew across the buffet. They’re sitting at a table in the corner beneath a painting of a grizzly bear, their plates already empty. Her dad holds up a champagne flute when he sees her, and Todd slides another in her direction as she pulls out a chair. He’s already got his binoculars around his neck, ready for the day.
Greta frowns at the glass. “Isn’t it a little early?”
“I thought you were a rock star,” Davis teases, and when Greta takes a sip, she can feel it fizz all the way down her throat.
“What’s the occasion?” she asks.
“Well,” Mary says, beaming, “we got an email from Jason this morning.”
“Which is an occasion in and of itself,” Davis jokes, and Mary looks so excited she doesn’t even bother to roll her eyes at this. Instead, she lets out a happy laugh.
“They got engaged last night!” she says, and when it’s clear that Greta still isn’t sure what’s happening, Mary widens her eyes. “Jason and Olivia.”
For a moment, Greta just stares at her. She’s never even heard of Olivia. Beneath them, the ship lists, and she can feel the champagne sloshing around in her empty stomach. She has to concentrate to keep it from coming back up again.
“Wow,” she says finally, trying to arrange her face into something resembling a smile. “That’s…wow. Congrats. To both of you.”
“Mother and father of the groom,” Mary says, smiling at Davis, who grins back at her. “It has a nice ring to it.”
“Speaking of rings,” Eleanor says, her face brightening at the thought, “did they send a photo?”
“I couldn’t get it to download,” Mary tells her. “But apparently he bought it at a flea market, so who knows…”
“Well, she said yes,” Conrad says. “Which is the important thing.”