Ben smooths his tie as he stands up. “Hi, I’m—”
“Jack London,” Eleanor says, beaming. She winks at him, and Greta realizes she’s a little drunk. They all are. “We know.”
“Oh, well—” he begins, but Davis cuts him off.
“This looks mighty romantic,” he says, surveying the half-filled wine glasses and the two place settings arranged side by side. “Anything you care to tell—”
Mary thumps him in the stomach, and Davis coughs. Greta takes the opportunity to hand back his phone, which he tucks into his jacket pocket with a grin.
“I’m glad you’re having fun,” Mary says to Greta. “Did you try the duck?”
“I did,” Ben says cheerfully. “It was just ducky.”
Greta lets out a sudden laugh at this and promptly realizes she’s drunk too. She glances over at Conrad, who has been standing behind the others, his eyes bouncing from the floor to the window to the table in an effort to avoid her, and she can’t help feeling a little disappointed after their breakthrough this afternoon. But at last he looks at her and—with a strained casualness—asks, “Anything new with you?” and it clicks.
If she’d thought the rumor might reach him, she would’ve headed it off. But he doesn’t exactly pay attention to the types of news outlets that would have a story about the engagement between an indie musician and a well-known music producer. She has no idea how he saw it. He didn’t even buy a data package for this trip.
A waiter sweeps by with a tray of empty plates. Around them, the room is buzzing with laughter and conversation. But here in this little scrum, everyone is quiet.
Conrad stares at Greta. And Greta stares back at him.
“If you’re talking about—” she begins, but he cuts her off.
“Your engagement?”
Ben looks from one to the other, and then, slowed by the bottles of wine they’d just finished, takes it upon himself to helpfully interject. “Oh, she’s not actually engaged,” he says, “if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Eleanor’s eyebrows shoot up on her forehead. “What?” she says, her voice rising above the din. “You two are engaged?”
Ben—who had been looking pretty pleased with himself—now scuttles backward a step, glancing at Greta, who says, as calmly as she can, “I’m not engaged to anyone.”
Conrad frowns, but he doesn’t seem angry. To her surprise, Greta realizes he looks hurt. “That’s not what I heard,” he says. “Your aunt Wendy saw the news on Twitter.”
His sister—the most excitable member of their family—was always reading up on Greta’s life, tracking it like a reality show. “Tell her she shouldn’t believe stuff like that,” Greta says, then adds, “You shouldn’t either.”
“I don’t have much choice. It’s not like you bother to keep us informed.”
If he notices the us, he doesn’t show it. But it takes the edge off Greta’s impatience. “Well, now you know,” she says, “so you don’t have to worry about—”
“You marrying that Australian jackass?”
“Dad,” Greta says, exasperated. “Come on. You can either be upset about the possibility of me getting married or upset about the fact that I’m not. Pick a lane.”
He grunts. “All I’m saying is that it would be nice to hear the news before Aunt Wendy. And Twitter.”
“I told you, there isn’t any news.”
“Well, clearly there was.”
“But it wasn’t true.”
“Still.”
They scowl at each other for a second, both frustrated.
After a moment, Mary clears her throat. “We were on our way down to the piano bar,” she says, seizing the opening to escape. “Maybe we’ll see you guys there?”
“Maybe,” Ben says a little too brightly.
Conrad gives Greta one last look, unreadable as always, then turns and starts walking toward the exit. Eleanor hurries after him, giving his arm a comforting pat. Greta watches him go, her mouth screwed up to one side.
“Don’t worry about him,” Davis tells her. “It’s a tough day.”
“I know,” Greta says. “But he doesn’t have to take it out on me.”
“And you don’t have to take it out on him either,” Mary says, her voice firm in a way that reminds Greta of her mom. “He loves you. You know that.”
“Yeah,” Greta mutters. “It’s just that he doesn’t always like me very much.”
Mary hesitates for a moment, then walks over and kisses the side of her head. “The love part,” she says, so quietly that only Greta can hear, “is more important.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Afterward, Ben suggests they go to the casino.
“You don’t strike me as a gambler,” Greta says, looking at him doubtfully.
“I’m not,” he says with a grin. “But I’m feeling lucky tonight.”
They start with blackjack, and each manages to lose fifty bucks by the time their drinks even arrive. Greta knocks hers back and suggests they quit while they’re behind. But then her phone rings.
“Be right back,” she tells Ben, weaving through tables and slot machines, trying to find an exit amid all the mirrors and flashing lights.
“Where are you?” Asher asks when she picks up. “It sounds like Vegas.”
“It feels like Vegas. What’s up?”
“Oh, nothing much,” he says. “Just calling to see if I should be picking out a tux for your upcoming nuptials. Thanks for writing me back, by the way.”
Greta ducks into the hallway. “Sorry, it’s been a long day.”
“Sure,” he says, his voice full of mirth. “Wedding planning can be stressful.”
“Asher.”
“What?”
“You know it’s not true.”
“Well, it’s nice to hear it straight from the source,” he says, relenting. “I bet Dad was excited about the possibility.”
She can’t tell whether he’s kidding or not, and she doesn’t bother to ask. “Have you talked to him?”
“Not today.”
A ship’s officer walks past, and Greta returns his crisp nod before shifting to face the wall. “Did you know?” she says to her brother. “About the ashes?”