Ben looks stricken. “You couldn’t have known what would happen.”
“Maybe not. But I could’ve been there.”
“It wouldn’t have changed anything.”
“No,” she says, her heart like a weight in her chest. “But at least I would’ve gotten to say goodbye.”
His eyes are full of sympathy. “I’m sure she knew how you felt.”
Greta thinks of the last text exchange she’d had with her mom, which was—of course—completely ordinary. At work, Helen had run into the music teacher, who had gushed about Greta.
I offered you up for the winter recital, Helen had written, and Greta could so clearly picture the face she’d be making, that gleeful, slightly devilish look she got whenever she teased her daughter. It’ll just be you and a couple dozen first graders. I figured you’d be fine with it.
Sounds delightful, Greta had responded. Wish I could.
Helen’s reply was quick: I bet!
Greta had typed the next part without really thinking. It was late in Berlin, and Luke was already asleep beside her and she had to be up early the next day for sound check. Thanks for thinking of me, she wrote, and then she switched off her phone. It wasn’t until she turned it on again the next morning that the response came through.
I’m always thinking of you.
Hours later, while Greta was onstage in front of thousands of fans, something ruptured deep inside her mother’s brain, sending her into a coma.
And that was it.
The end of the only conversation that had ever really mattered to her.
On the boat, they’re both quiet for a long time, Greta and Ben, their eyes fixed on the blue-gray water.
“I’ve never told anyone that,” she says eventually, and he puts an arm around her shoulders.
“Thanks for telling me.”
She nods. “I trust you with important things.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
They’re not quite to shore when Greta’s phone starts buzzing again. She slips it out of her jacket pocket and scrolls through her messages. It’s been only a couple hours, but there are a lot of them, still mostly about Luke: a flurry of interview requests and messages from friends. But it all feels so far away right now, out on the water, silly and insignificant.
She glances over at Ben, who is looking at his own phone with an unreadable expression. “I missed five calls from Emily.”
“Who?”
“My wife,” he says, then grimaces. “My ex-wife. I’m just gonna…”
“Of course,” Greta says as he brings the phone to his ear, his jaw set and his face suddenly businesslike. But after a second, he shakes his head.
“My service cut out again.”
“Want to use mine?”
“No, that’s okay,” he says, looking off toward the spit of beach, with its huddle of red buildings, which they’re fast approaching, the boat tipping up and down over the chop. “I’ll try again in a few minutes.”
“Hey,” she says, turning to him as the pier comes into sight and the boat begins to slow. “I changed my mind.”
“About what?”
“Gov Ball.”
He frowns at her. “You’re not doing it?”
“No,” she says, taking a deep breath. “I am. I’m definitely doing it.”
“Good,” he says with a small smile. “That’s really good.”
“And I’d like you to come.”
He looks surprised. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought I made you nervous.”
She laughs. “You do.”
“But?”
“You also make me calm,” she says, and he pulls her close. Even before she says this next part, there’s a piece of her that can’t believe she’s saying it at all. “You make me…”
“What?” he asks with a grin, like he already knows what she’s going to say.
“Happy.”
When he kisses her, his lips taste of salt. “Are you going to play that song?”
“What, ‘Baby Beluga’?”
He laughs. “The one from the video.”
“ ‘Astronomy,’ ” she says, and even just the word sends a ripple of anxiety through her. “I doubt it. They want me to focus on the new album. It’s a safer bet.”
Ben raises his eyebrows.
“What?”
“You don’t strike me as someone who goes in for safe bets,” he says, and Greta wishes she could be as sure as he sounds.
On the dock, people are waiting in line for the next tour. Below them, there are children playing on the beach, tossing rocks into the water and squealing when the surf comes up too high, their laughter carried by the wind.
The boat bumps up against the wooden pier with a thud, and Greta and Ben make their way down from the top deck, nodding at the crew as they pass through the interior and back out into the sunshine. A little boy looks up at them urgently as they weave through the assembled crowd.
“Did you see any?” he asks, shuffling around in his excitement.
“A few,” Greta says. “You’ll have to say hi to them for us.”
He frowns at her. “Whales don’t talk.”
“No, but they wave,” she tells him with a grin.
At the end of the dock, there’s a sprawling red building filled with gift shops and restaurants. Ben tries his phone again as they walk inside, their eyes adjusting to the light beneath the lofty wood-beamed ceiling. Near the entrance, a small cannery museum is set up, and Greta wanders over to look at the huge cast-iron structures, which were apparently once used to cut and clean the fish before stuffing them into cans.
She turns around, ready to make a joke to Ben—something about close quarters and sardines; she hasn’t quite gotten there yet—but she sees that he’s still standing near the door, the phone pressed to his ear. From this distance, it’s hard to read his face. The barnlike building is filled with noise and chatter, and between them, people crisscross the wooden floors, carrying bags from the gift shops or eating crab cakes out of paper boats. Still, she can tell by the hunch of his shoulders that something is wrong.
As she watches, he lowers the phone and looks around. When his eyes find hers, there’s something wild about them. He hurries over to where she’s still standing beside the canning machine.