“It won’t,” he says. “But if it does, well…that’s just part of it.”
“Part of what?”
“Making art. You know that better than anyone. And the worst thing you could do right now is pull your punches. Fuck the suits. Take another pass at it. Double down. Get it right. Then get up there and play it true.”
“Next you’re going to tell me to sing my heart out,” she jokes, but he doesn’t laugh.
“Pretty much,” he says. “Listen, if you’re not ready on Sunday, you’re not ready. But just make sure it’s your decision. Not theirs. And whatever you decide, you’ve got to pick up the goddamn guitar again, okay? As soon as possible. Just play.”
“Okay,” she says, and right then, she realizes she misses him. Really misses him. She remembers when they landed back in New York, still foggy from the funeral and the muddled days that followed it. At the airport, Luke had automatically started to get into the same cab as her, but Greta shook her head. “I think I need to be alone right now,” she said, and he nodded, leaning in to give her a kiss before closing the door.
She couldn’t sleep that night, and around four a.m., she finally gave up and went for a walk, tracing a path down through Nolita and then Chinatown, the streets empty and the storefronts covered by grates. Eventually, she wound her way to the river, where she stood looking out at the Brooklyn Bridge, the lights from the cars twinkling as they streamed into the city.
She stopped only once to gaze up at the towering stone arches as she crossed. Ahead of her, the sun was rising in slices between the buildings, yellow and then orange and then pink, and by the time she made it to Luke’s apartment in Dumbo, it was fully light out. His voice over the intercom was groggy, and he was waiting in the hallway—barefoot and bleary-eyed—when she got to the top of the stairs.
As soon as she saw him, she knew for sure. They both did.
“Don’t do anything hasty,” he said, but it didn’t feel that way to her. It felt like something that had been coming for a long time. She and Luke were like a wave that had crested too soon. There was the early madness of falling in love, and when that burned off, they still had the music, which seemed like enough. But Greta had been in the world for six days without her mom by then, and already she knew she needed something more.
“Thanks, Luke,” she says into the phone now. It’s not just for the call, but for everything.
“See,” he says, and she can hear the smile in his voice, “I’m not the worst person to be fake-engaged to.”
“Not the worst,” she agrees.
“Good luck this weekend,” he says. “Burn it all down, okay?”
“I’ll try,” she says, and then she ends the call.
It’s getting late now, so she takes one last sip of beer, pays her bill, and walks back up the main street of the tiny town. Her mind is a jumble, her thoughts too scattered to parse. All she knows is that for the first time in a while, she’s itchy to play, and that’s no small thing.
When she makes it back to the ship, the same officer is standing at the door.
“Glad you decided to keep going,” she says, like she knows something Greta doesn’t, like she’s managed to peer directly into her brain.
“Keep going?” Greta asks as she passes over her key card.
“With the cruise,” the woman says, as if this should be obvious. “You know. Instead of moving here.”
Greta half-turns to take one more look at the little town and the great mountain behind it, then, once the card is scanned, she slips it into her pocket and hurries onto the elevator. She’s about to press 7, then thinks of her tiny room with its thin walls and hits 2 instead.
When she gets out, she looks left and then right down the corridor, trying to remember where it is, the jazz club they’d passed that first full day at sea. She wanders by the piano bar and the casino before she finds it tucked back beside the nightclub. There’s no door, no rope, just an easel advertising tonight’s shows, one at eight and one at ten. For now, the tables are bare and the lights are dim.
Up on the stage, there’s a keyboard and a drum set, surrounded by various speakers and microphones and wires. Above those, just as there’d been last time, six electric guitars hang in a row. Before she can think better of it, Greta walks up the aisle, steps onto the stage, and peers up at the first one, a red-and-white Yamaha. She looks around before lifting it gently from the hook near the lighting bar. There are several amps behind her, but she doesn’t plug it in. Instead, she runs her fingers over the strings, her heart giving a little skip.
When that first chord fades out, she stares out over the room.
There’s no audience. Just dozens of empty seats.
She looks down at the guitar again.
Then she takes a deep breath.
And begins to play.
She doesn’t bother with the words; those will have to come later. For now, it’s just the music, and it’s different this time, fuller somehow. She closes her eyes as she plays, and when she reaches the end, when the last notes fade out, it’s like emerging from a dream. She comes out of it slowly, and as she does, she notices Preeti standing uncertainly by the door. The room falls silent again as she lays a hand on the still-vibrating strings of the guitar.
Greta has been playing in front of people since she was twelve. She’s headlined festivals with tens of thousands of fans, recorded in some of the most famous venues in the world, jammed with some of her childhood heroes, and enjoyed more encores and ovations than she can count.
But right now, nothing—nothing—can match the look of awe on this one girl’s face.
“Wow,” Preeti says softly, and Greta smiles, because the guitar could use some tuning, and the bridge didn’t really work without someone on keys, and she still needs to come up with the words to match whatever it was she just played. But even so, it was good. She could feel it.
Preeti takes a few steps into the room. “That song is…” She shakes her head, not finding the words. “Do you think you’ll ever try it again? In public, I mean.”
“I don’t know,” Greta admits, taking the guitar off. “It didn’t go so well the last time.”
“Yeah, but it might be my new favorite,” Preeti says so earnestly that Greta has to swallow the lump in her throat before speaking.
“Thank you,” she manages.
“Those chord changes in the middle—how did you do them?”
“Here,” Greta says, holding out the guitar. “I’ll show you.”
Preeti looks momentarily dumbstruck. Then she hurries up the steps to the stage, loops the strap over her head, and places her fingers carefully on the strings. She’s wearing a Blondie T-shirt and jeans that are torn at the knees and her dark hair is pulled back into a messy bun and it nearly takes Greta’s breath away, how much it’s like seeing her former self, right down to the way her tongue is sticking out in concentration.