“You don’t know what?”
“It’s just—there’s a lot at stake.”
“And I make you nervous?”
This is clearly meant to be a joke. It’s meant to sound preposterous. But Greta nods. “Sort of,” she says, though when she tries to imagine what it would be like to see his face in the crowd, she feels more reassured than anything. It’s the rest of it that makes her nervous.
Ben looks amused now, maybe even a little pleased. “Another time then, maybe.”
“Another time,” she agrees.
He takes her hand, and they continue down the hall, winding along the edge of the ship. Outside, it’s fully dark now, and all she can see in the windows is their reflection, Ben in his sports coat and Greta in her dress. She pauses for a second to look at the blurry image, but then Ben steps forward and cups his hands against the glass.
“Wow,” he says, and Greta does the same, peering out at the wash of stars, glinting above the darkened water. He turns to her, just slightly, and puts a hand on her hip, and she takes a handful of his shirt and pulls him closer. When they kiss, it’s long and slow and hungry, the two of them leaning there against the cool of the window, pressed up against the world, and it isn’t until someone lets out a whistle that they break apart again.
“Steamy,” says the old lady with a mischievous grin, and when Greta glances back at the glass, sure enough it is.
Eventually, they end up at the ship’s only real nightclub, a black box of a bar that’s pulsing with pink and purple lights and playing mostly disco music. There are a few intrepid couples on the dance floor, none of them younger than sixty, including one duo that’s somehow managing to execute proper ballroom moves to “I Will Survive.” When the next song comes on, they’re joined by two men she recognizes from the other night’s ill-fated musical; they gaze deeply into each other’s eyes as they sway, arms around each other.
Ben’s shoulder is pressed against Greta’s on the velvet banquette, and his breath smells like cherries from the cocktail he ordered. She’s busy studying his profile, the way his head bobs to the beat of the music, when he turns to her.
“What?” he asks with a little frown. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I was just thinking that my mom would’ve loved you.”
“I’ve always been extremely popular with moms,” he jokes, but she can tell he’s happy.
“She read your book, you know.”
His face brightens. “She did?”
“Mary told me at your lecture. They were in a book club together.”
“Did she like it?”
Greta smiles. “Apparently, she did.”
“Isn’t it funny, the way you make a thing and put it out into the world and then it drifts so much farther than you ever could’ve imagined?” he says. “Like a lost balloon.”
“Or a message in a bottle,” Greta says. “Since the whole point is to let it go.”
Ben leans away, just slightly, but enough so that there’s now a space between their shoulders. “I’ve never been very good at that part,” he admits, his face troubled beneath the speckled light of the disco ball.
“It gets easier,” Greta says. “You’ll see when you finish your next book, and you start—”
“We’re supposed to have a talk when I get back.”
“Who?” she asks, though she already knows.
He downs the rest of his drink. “I don’t know what to do. Sometimes I think it doesn’t matter whether or not I still love her. That there are more important reasons to stay. Not just the kids, but there’s so much history there. And it’s hard to close the book on that, you know? But other times…” He looks over at her, his eyes pleading. “I don’t know. It’s like I want to take this last week and bottle it up so I can remember how it feels in case I ever start to lose my nerve.”
When he looks at her, Greta isn’t sure what to say. What she’s thinking is: Of course he’ll go back. He has a wife and kids and a mortgage. She can picture his life at home: the yard full of plastic toys and the basement with pipes that burst in the winter. The PTA meetings at the elementary school and the group of friends they make plans with every month, promising themselves they’ll try that new place in the city but ultimately settling for their usual spot in the suburbs because one of the kids has a sore throat and it’s been a busy week and it’s easier that way. He probably has a lawnmower. And a grill. And a special voice he uses when reading bedtime stories. He has a whole world.
It’s not easy to turn such a big ship.
A new song comes on, slower this time, and around them, several couples wobble to their feet. After a moment, Ben stands too. “I think we should dance,” he says, holding out a hand, and then he leads her solemnly out onto the floor and pulls her close.
Greta can’t remember the last time she danced like this. It was probably with Jason at Asher’s wedding, the two of them leaving enough space to maintain the illusion that this was just a neighborly friendship, even as he slipped the key to his hotel room into her hand. But this is different. She wants to think it’s corny, her cheek pressed against his chest, his hands knotted against the small of her back, but she can’t muster any kind of cynicism right now.
“Can I tell you something?” Ben says, leaning back to look at her, his eyes searching hers. “It’s not just because of his writing.”
“What?” she asks, confused.
“The reason I’m so inspired by Jack London. It’s because he lived this great big life.”
The song ends, and the DJ puts on something faster, and the dance floor begins to empty again. Greta stops moving, and Ben does too, their arms still around each other. They just stand there under the swirling lights.
“He wasn’t only a writer,” Ben says with an odd sort of urgency. “He was a sailor, an explorer, a boxer, an oyster pirate, an activist. He went up to the Klondike when he was only twenty-one to seek his fortune, which sounds so wild and romantic, but in the end it was writing that really did it for him. He was this gutsy, intrepid adventurer, you know? But he was also just a guy with a pen.”
Greta watches the lights flicker across his face. He lowers his arms and takes a step back. Above them, a disco ball twirls, bathing the room in silver.
“I mean, look around,” he says, and she does: at the last few swaying couples, the people at the bar, the man falling asleep in the corner. “How many people really live? Like, really and truly do something big with their lives?” His eyes find Greta’s again, and there’s an intensity to them she hasn’t seen before. “I have a good life. But until recently, it’s been a small one too. And mostly I’m okay with that. But every once in a while, I look around and it sort of cracks me over the head. How contained it all is. How safe. And it makes me realize how few risks I’ve taken.” He reaches for her hands, both of them. When he speaks again, his voice is determined. “I want to take more risks. I want to make it count.”