“Sure,” Greta says, glancing over at Ben, who looks understandably baffled by this.
He nods at the phone in Preeti’s hand. “Want me to take it?”
“Um, no thank you,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him. “I mean, it’s a selfie, so…”
“So we’ve got it,” Greta says, trying not to laugh at the look on his face. Preeti punches a few buttons, then holds the phone out, and Greta bends so their faces are close together. She gives a practiced smile just before the flash goes off, then straightens again.
“Proof,” she says as they examine the photo. Greta’s eyes look greener in the light, and her dark hair is wavy and loose. She’s not wearing any makeup, and her face is characteristically pale. Beside her, Preeti is grinning and flashing a peace sign.
“I was always trying to get her to listen to your stuff,” Preeti says as she sends it off, “but she’s basically only into, like, Taylor Swift—which is fine, if that’s your thing—but after that video of you went viral, she finally…” She stops, and her eyes, which have been on her phone, flick up to meet Greta’s with a slightly panicked expression. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” Greta says lightly, though her face is warm. She shouldn’t feel as thrown as she does. Just because she’s on a boat in the middle of nowhere doesn’t mean anything has changed. It doesn’t mean people aren’t still talking about it. But this is the first time anyone she doesn’t know—anyone outside her team—has talked about it to her. And now, suddenly, here it is. Right out in the open.
Preeti’s eyes are still wide. “I wasn’t—”
“I know,” Greta says, trying not to look at either one of them: Preeti, who is mortified, and Ben, who is deeply confused. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”
“Okay,” Preeti says after a moment. She looks like she wants to say more, but instead she holds up the phone a little awkwardly. “Well, thanks for the selfie.”
“Of course,” Greta says in a too-bright voice. “I’ll see you around, okay?”
When she’s gone, Greta begins to walk again, and Ben trots to catch up to her. “What was that about?”
“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head. “Which bar do you want to try?”
He’s still looking at her sideways. “So you’re, like, someone people know.”
“Don’t be too impressed. I’m pretty sure she’s the only one on this whole ship.”
“Yeah, but you have fans.”
“So do you,” Greta says as she heads toward the first bar she sees, which—inexplicably—has a tropical island theme. There’s a Jimmy Buffett song drifting from inside, and the entrance is lined with fake palm trees. She starts to head in but turns when she realizes Ben isn’t following her. “What?”
“Who are you, really?”
“I told you,” she says. “I’m a musician.”
“Like a pop star or something?”
She frowns. “Do I look like a pop star to you?”
“I guess not.”
“Like I said, I play the guitar,” she says with a shrug, but something about the encounter with Preeti has made her wobbly. She thinks about Gov Ball next weekend, and her hand closes around the phone in her pocket. She feels a sudden urge to call her manager, Howie, and tell him to forget the whole thing. That she’s not ready yet. That it’s too risky to go back out there before she is.
But she hasn’t even told him she’s on this trip. She hasn’t told anyone: not her publicist, not the label, not her agent, not even her best friend, Yara, a keyboardist who is out touring with Bruce Springsteen and would understand better than anyone why she’s avoiding them all.
For several days now, there’s been a steady drumbeat of emails and text messages about the festival and the launch of the new single. The subject lines include requests for local radio appearances and sit-downs with music journalists. Strategies for how to frame what happened in March and “reset her image.” Suggested talking points and timelines.
Greta hasn’t read any of it.
It’s so unlike her. She’s not usually the stereotypical version of a rock star her dad seems to think she is: consumed by the lifestyle and leaving the business part to others. She cares too much for that. She writes her own tracks and handles her own licensing, shows up early for sound check and spends hours and hours in the studio. When she’s onstage, it’s supposed to look effortless. Not just the way she plays—the massive guitar riffs and thrilling crescendos—but also the way she appears to the audience: powerful, incendiary, captivating. All those things are true. But they’re fueled by a relentless work ethic and a deep desire to keep getting better, to keep making music, to keep people listening and showing up and buying albums.
Now, of course, that’s all gone out the window. Both the image and the work ethic.
Now all she wants to do is get a drink and pretend none of this is happening.
Inside, they find seats at the bar. There are brightly colored flowers everywhere, and the bartenders are wearing Hawaiian shirts. A blue surfboard leans up against the wall.
“All very Alaskan,” Ben says once they’ve ordered their drinks: a margarita for him and a strawberry daiquiri for her, because what else do you order in a place like this?
“Yeah,” Greta says, looking around, “this is definitely getting me in the mood to visit a frozen tundra.”
Ben looks amused. “It’s hardly a tundra. We’re going to be seeing some of the most interesting landscapes in Alaska. In the world, really.”
Their drinks arrive, and she plucks the small paper umbrella out of hers. “You’ve clearly done your homework.”
“You haven’t?”
“This was sort of a last-minute decision for me.”
“A last-minute Alaskan cruise?”
Greta hesitates a second, debating whether to be honest, then says, “It was supposed to be my mom here with my dad and their friends—not me.” She takes a sip of her daiquiri, which is much too sweet. When she lifts her eyes again, Ben’s smile has fallen. “It’s okay,” she says quickly, even though it’s not. Not at all. “It happened a few months ago.”
“That’s not very long.”
“No,” she agrees, “it’s not.”
He taps a finger against his glass. She can see the faint line where his wedding band had once been.