The Unsinkable Greta James(16)

Greta smiles at this. A few seconds go by before she realizes they’re both just sitting there, as if waiting for something.

Finally, he clears his throat. “So, um, were you sticking around because you had a question?”

“Yes,” Greta says, standing up. “Did you want to get that drink now?”





Chapter Eight


As they walk out of the auditorium, Ben stops to take a picture of a grand-looking staircase that winds down toward a lower level. A minute later, he pauses again, snapping a shot of a random sculpture of a sea otter.

Greta looks at him sideways. “Have you been commissioned to photograph the entire boat?”

He laughs. “They’re for my kids. I’d prefer to send postcards, but they’re way too impatient for that.” He takes one more of the view out the window, the stripe of blue water and the spruce trees behind it. Then he slips the phone back into his pocket. “Oh, and it’s a ship.”

Greta shrugs. “Same thing.”

“Not really,” he says. “Ships have at least two decks above the waterline. This has eleven. Plus it weighs a lot more than five hundred tons. And its only form of propulsion is an engine, so…”

She gives him an incredulous look.

“Sorry, I’m a nerd,” he says at the exact same time she says, “You’re such a nerd.”

They cross the lido deck, where the smell of chlorine is thick against the fogged-up windows and a water aerobics class is underway, dozens of swim caps bobbing in the turquoise water. As they walk out into the atrium—a bustling area full of shops and restaurants, as if they’re not at sea at all but rather in a suburban mall somewhere—Preeti, the girl from yesterday, comes wandering out of an art gallery. Her face lights up when she sees Greta, and she yanks out her earbuds and hurries over.

“Hi,” she says, giving Ben a cursory glance, then turning back to Greta. She holds up her phone. “I told my friend Caroline that I met you, but she doesn’t believe me. Do you think we could take a selfie so I could send it to her as proof?”

“Sure,” Greta says, glancing over at Ben, who looks understandably baffled by this.

He nods at the phone in Preeti’s hand. “Want me to take it?”

“Um, no thank you,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him. “I mean, it’s a selfie, so…”

“So we’ve got it,” Greta says, trying not to laugh at the look on his face. Preeti punches a few buttons, then holds the phone out, and Greta bends so their faces are close together. She gives a practiced smile just before the flash goes off, then straightens again.

“Proof,” she says as they examine the photo. Greta’s eyes look greener in the light, and her dark hair is wavy and loose. She’s not wearing any makeup, and her face is characteristically pale. Beside her, Preeti is grinning and flashing a peace sign.

“I was always trying to get her to listen to your stuff,” Preeti says as she sends it off, “but she’s basically only into, like, Taylor Swift—which is fine, if that’s your thing—but after that video of you went viral, she finally…” She stops, and her eyes, which have been on her phone, flick up to meet Greta’s with a slightly panicked expression. “Sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“It’s fine,” Greta says lightly, though her face is warm. She shouldn’t feel as thrown as she does. Just because she’s on a boat in the middle of nowhere doesn’t mean anything has changed. It doesn’t mean people aren’t still talking about it. But this is the first time anyone she doesn’t know—anyone outside her team—has talked about it to her. And now, suddenly, here it is. Right out in the open.

Preeti’s eyes are still wide. “I wasn’t—”

“I know,” Greta says, trying not to look at either one of them: Preeti, who is mortified, and Ben, who is deeply confused. “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.”

“Okay,” Preeti says after a moment. She looks like she wants to say more, but instead she holds up the phone a little awkwardly. “Well, thanks for the selfie.”

“Of course,” Greta says in a too-bright voice. “I’ll see you around, okay?”

When she’s gone, Greta begins to walk again, and Ben trots to catch up to her. “What was that about?”

“Nothing,” she says, shaking her head. “Which bar do you want to try?”

He’s still looking at her sideways. “So you’re, like, someone people know.”

“Don’t be too impressed. I’m pretty sure she’s the only one on this whole ship.”

“Yeah, but you have fans.”

“So do you,” Greta says as she heads toward the first bar she sees, which—inexplicably—has a tropical island theme. There’s a Jimmy Buffett song drifting from inside, and the entrance is lined with fake palm trees. She starts to head in but turns when she realizes Ben isn’t following her. “What?”

“Who are you, really?”

“I told you,” she says. “I’m a musician.”

“Like a pop star or something?”

She frowns. “Do I look like a pop star to you?”

“I guess not.”