The label was furious. They were in the middle of a rollout for her second album, which they’d been promising would be even more explosive and exciting than her first. And then she went and stood up onstage and cried her way through an overly sentimental ballad, which was now the top result when you searched for Greta James.
They wanted her to do another show right away. A chance to quickly wipe the slate clean and move on. But Howie—who had flown overnight from L.A. to New York and shown up at Greta’s apartment the next morning with coffee and bagels—convinced them it would be better to take a pause, even just for a week. That week, of course, had turned into a month. And then another. Soon, everything had to be pushed back: the single, the album, the tour, all the publicity. Even so, it took a long time for Greta to begin paying attention again, to start to worry about any of it—not because the other, greater loss had faded but because she knew if she lost this too, she might never recover at all.
Now she looks at her phone again, trying to imagine being back onstage, singing a brand-new song, all of the execs hoping for a fresh start, all of her fans looking for a story to tell, all of it in concert with the embarrassment and doubt that have been beating like twin drums underneath her grief, that constant fist around her heart.
She knows it’s time. It’s past time. It’s possibly even too late.
But still, she’s not sure she’s ready.
One of the strangest things about death is that it doesn’t mean you stop hearing someone’s voice in your head, and right now, Greta knows exactly what her mom would say.
You’ll be fine. You’re ready. You’ve got this.
But she’s not here to say it.
And so Greta attempts to do it for herself.
I’ll be fine, she writes to Howie. I’m ready. I’ve got this.
She’s just not sure she believes it.
Chapter Fifteen
Greta is standing at the rail, mesmerized by the tiny icebergs floating past in the tranquil water, when Mary appears at her side. She’s wearing a red coat, and her knit hat is pulled tight over her short black hair.
“The bad news,” she says, leaning her elbows on the railing beside Greta, “is that we lost our trivia title. The good news is that we got the one about the Rolling Stones.”
Greta laughs. “Happy to help.”
“I checked on your dad.” Mary rubs her hands together. “He seems a lot better.”
“Did he yell at you about the quarantine too?”
“Honestly,” she says, “I’d be more worried about him if he hadn’t.”
“I feel bad he’s stuck in his room,” Greta says. “I can’t even blame him for being grumpy for once.”
“Go easy on him. He’s having a hard time.”
“We all are.”
Mary gives her an appraising look. “I’m glad you’re getting a little break this week.”
“I’ve been on a break for a while now, actually.”
“I know. I saw the video.”
“You and about two million other people,” Greta says, turning to her with an attempt at a smile. But it falters when she sees the look on Mary’s face, which is so tender it makes her want to cry.
“For what it’s worth, I thought the song was beautiful.”
“That’s only because you miss her too.”
“Maybe,” she says, looking thoughtful. “Will you ever play it again?”
“I’ve been explicitly instructed not to,” she says, then shrugs. “It’s not finished anyway. It’s something I started writing on the plane. Before I knew…” Her voice breaks. “Anyway, even if it hadn’t ruined my entire career, it’s not really a fit for my shows.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s just not my brand, a song like that.”
Mary rolls her eyes. “What ever happened to just writing what you’re feeling?”
“You saw what happened,” Greta says ruefully. “I think it’s better if I leave that particular chapter behind for now.”
“That chapter,” Mary says gently, “will be with you for a while. Whether you want it to be or not. Sometimes the only way out is through.”
“That sounds like something my mom would say.”
Mary smiles. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
For a few seconds, they both gaze out as the first glacier comes into view, a brilliant white against the blue-green water.
“She would’ve loved this,” Mary says, then shakes her head. “I still can’t believe she’s gone.”