“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.”
“Like I said, I play the guitar,” she says with a shrug, but something about the encounter with Preeti has made her wobbly. She thinks about Gov Ball next weekend, and her hand closes around the phone in her pocket. She feels a sudden urge to call her manager, Howie, and tell him to forget the whole thing. That she’s not ready yet. That it’s too risky to go back out there before she is.
But she hasn’t even told him she’s on this trip. She hasn’t told anyone: not her publicist, not the label, not her agent, not even her best friend, Yara, a keyboardist who is out touring with Bruce Springsteen and would understand better than anyone why she’s avoiding them all.
For several days now, there’s been a steady drumbeat of emails and text messages about the festival and the launch of the new single. The subject lines include requests for local radio appearances and sit-downs with music journalists. Strategies for how to frame what happened in March and “reset her image.” Suggested talking points and timelines.
Greta hasn’t read any of it.
It’s so unlike her. She’s not usually the stereotypical version of a rock star her dad seems to think she is: consumed by the lifestyle and leaving the business part to others. She cares too much for that. She writes her own tracks and handles her own licensing, shows up early for sound check and spends hours and hours in the studio. When she’s onstage, it’s supposed to look effortless. Not just the way she plays—the massive guitar riffs and thrilling crescendos—but also the way she appears to the audience: powerful, incendiary, captivating. All those things are true. But they’re fueled by a relentless work ethic and a deep desire to keep getting better, to keep making music, to keep people listening and showing up and buying albums.
Now, of course, that’s all gone out the window. Both the image and the work ethic.
Now all she wants to do is get a drink and pretend none of this is happening.