“Just think of it this way,” she says with a grin. “We’re that much closer to morning sex.”
“That definitely helps,” he says, looking at her the way he’s been looking at her all night—his face serious, his eyes intent on hers—and brushes a strand of her hair away from her forehead so gently that it makes her shiver.
“Are you cold?” he asks, already throwing back the covers and getting out of bed. He’s wearing only a pair of boxers covered in tiny penguins with scarves, and in the gray light of the room, she can see the muscles in his back as he fumbles through a drawer. He tosses her a gray sweatshirt that says COLUMBIA across the front. It’s frayed at the cuffs and impossibly soft and it smells just like him.
“Can I ask you a question?” she says as she pulls it over her head. When she emerges again, he’s wearing a T-shirt with the name of the cruise ship emblazoned on it.
“Where did I buy this?” he asks as he climbs back into bed and pulls her close.
“No—well, yes. I mean, I was going to ask about the penguins, but now I kind of want to know how many times you’ve been to the gift shop.”
“Only twice,” he says, and when she gives him a look, he shrugs. “Fine. Four times. But once was because I forgot my toothbrush. And as for the penguins, they felt thematically—if not scientifically—appropriate.”
She nods at his tie, which she’d tugged off the moment they crashed into the room, and which is now draped over his typewriter. “How do you explain the dinosaurs?”
“Who doesn’t like dinosaurs?”
“Asteroids?” she suggests, which makes him laugh. He kisses her, and the kiss ripples all the way down to her toes.
“I knew it,” he says when they break apart again.
“Knew what?”
“That you were a nerd at heart.”
Later, they open the curtains to watch the sun come up over the white-tipped mountains, the buttery light streaming in. Ben’s arms are around her, his beard scratchy against the back of her neck, their legs entwined. It’s strange to lie in bed while the landscape scrolls by, to be entirely still as the world comes to them.
“You’re so lucky you have a window,” she says, turning around to face him. He frowns at this, and she runs a finger over the lines on his forehead. Then—unable to help herself—she takes his face in her hands and kisses him.
“Wait,” he says, pulling back again, “you don’t?”
“Nope. There’s the beige wall with a picture of a bear, the beige wall with a picture of a mountain, the beige wall with a door to the bathroom, and the beige wall with the suspicious red stain.”
“Jeez,” he says, blinking at her.
“Don’t worry. I’m pretty sure it’s just wine.”
“No, I mean—that must be so claustrophobic.”
“It’s not ideal.”
“Then why—”
“Because,” she says, the words more clipped than intended, “by the time I booked, that was all they had left.”
Ben looks stricken. “Right. Your mom. I’m so sorry—”
“It’s okay,” Greta says, but he finds her hand underneath the covers anyway. The gesture makes her throat tight. “Let’s talk about something else.”
“Penguins?”
“Do you know anything about penguins?” she asks, managing a small smile. “Because I’ve got nothing.”
“How about dinosaurs then? Hannah went through a big dino phase last year, so I have a lot of good facts. Jokes too.” He clears his throat. “What does a triceratops sit on?”
“What?”
“Its tricera-bottom.”
She groans. “I refuse to dignify that with a laugh.”
“Yeah, but you kind of want to,” he says, lying back on his pillow with a satisfied grin. “I can tell.”
For a moment, she studies his face, the fine wrinkles around the corners of his eyes, the hint of gray in his beard, silvery in the early light. “I bet you’re a really good dad,” she says, and he looks surprised.
“I try to be. It’s harder now, obviously. But they’re awesome, and they deserve a great dad.” He hesitates, then asks, “What about you? Are you a kid person?”
Greta thinks of her nieces, a whirling scrum of tears and laughter and affection. Sometimes, when she’s visiting, she tries to imagine what it would be like if they were hers, if she were the one responsible not just for the day-to-day stuff—the changing of diapers and the negotiations over vegetables, the carpools and pajamas and bedtime stories—but also the larger work of shaping little human beings, making sure they value the things you do, like empathy and kindness and equality, while still having minds of their own; basically doing everything you can to keep them from turning into assholes one day.
It seems like an impossible job, being a parent, and a sad one too, watching them pinwheel further and further away and out into the world, so much more interesting and complicated than you imagined they might be, like a song that starts out as one thing and ends up something else—not necessarily better or worse, but different. And entirely out of your control.
“They’re okay,” she says to Ben.
“I know everyone says this, but it’s different when you have your own.”
Greta nods, noncommittal. “Yup. Everyone says that.”
“That’s because it’s true. Honestly. Other people’s kids are total monsters. They have sticky hands and snotty noses and they’re really, really loud.”
“And yours aren’t?”
He shrugs. “They are. But somehow it’s cuter when they’re your sticky, snot-nosed, noisy little monsters.”
“I get it,” Greta says. “I have three nieces, so it’s not like I’ve never spent any time with kids.”
“How old are they?”
“The twins are five and the little one is three.”
“Wow.”
“I know. My brother and sister-in-law have their hands full.”
“What are their names?”
“Asher and Zoe.”
“No, the kids.”
Greta hesitates. “Don’t laugh.”
“Why would I laugh?”
“Violet, Posey, and Marigold.”
Ben raises his eyebrows. “Oh. Wow.”