Feeling claustrophobic, she weaves through the chairs and out the door on the opposite side, back into the fresh air, where she stands gripping the rail of the ship, looking out over the bay and listening to the incessant crying of the seagulls.
“Hey,” someone says behind her, and when she turns to see Ben, her heart lifts. He’s wearing fishing gear—orange waders and rubber boots—and a Boston Red Sox cap that’s bleached from the sun. Beneath the brim, he’s watching her with a slightly puzzled expression.
“Hey,” she says, turning to lean against the rail. “Catch anything?”
He nods. She waits for him to say something more, to make a joke or step forward and kiss her. But he keeps frowning at her like something is wrong.
“What?” she says finally, her pleasure at seeing him—and at the memory of last night—melting into something far less patient. Because this day has already felt like a thousand years, and she doesn’t need whatever this is too.
“I just…” He trails off uncertainly, then pulls his phone out of the pocket of his waterproof jacket. “You’re not…I mean…you would’ve told me if…”
“Ben,” she says with a sigh. “Just spit it out.”
There’s a flash of annoyance on his face, or possibly something more than that. Finally, he says, “You’re engaged?”
She stares at him. “What?”
This time, he doesn’t pose it as a question: “You’re engaged.”
“I’m—what?” she says again, her mind moving slowly. “No, I’m not.”
“It says so right here.” He holds out his phone. On the screen, there’s a picture of Greta and Luke kissing on a street corner. She recognizes it immediately, the night coming back to her in a hurry. It was two years ago, not long after they’d started dating. Greta had played a surprise set at a smallish venue in Brooklyn, previewing a few tracks from her album several weeks before it was due to come out. She and Luke had spent the day arguing about the bridge on one of them, and though she’d agreed to try it his way, she’d changed her mind once she was onstage. This happened often during her live performances; anyone who played with her knew she had a tendency to call audibles once she was out there. Sometimes the changes were successful, sometimes not. But they always kept her shows interesting. That night had been a good one, and afterward, elated by the reception—the mad applause from the crowd—she’d charged back into the greenroom only to find it empty. Out on the street, Luke was waiting for her, pacing around in the frosty air, his hands deep in his coat pockets. Greta was expecting a fight, but instead he pulled her close and kissed her.
“You were brilliant,” he said simply.
The picture had appeared online the next day. The photographers were mostly there for the band going on after her, far more famous at the time than Greta, so it hadn’t gotten much pickup. But later, once the album came out and interest in her romance with the handsome Aussie producer started to be of greater interest, the photo resurfaced.
And now here it is again: under a headline that inexplicably announces her engagement to Luke Watts.
She takes the phone from Ben and stares at it.
“That’s not…” she says, then starts again. “I’m not…”
“Then why would they say that?”
“I don’t know,” she says, pushing the phone back into his hand. She starts to walk along the rail of the ship, not exactly sure where she’s going. “Because they’re trying to get you to click.”
He follows her. “Well, there must be some truth to it. Or else why would they—”
“Ben,” she says, spinning around. “I’m obviously not engaged.”
His face is hard. “Maybe that’s not as obvious as you think.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He shrugs. “We only just met. How would I know if you’re really—”
“You’re one to talk,” she says, sparking with sudden anger. She pushes open the door to the inside of the ship, her ears ringing as she leaves the rushing wind behind. “You’re the one who’s married.”
“That’s different.”
“Yeah,” Greta says, “it’s worse.”
“We’re separated,” Ben hisses as they pass a family on their way to the buffet. Greta ignores him, continuing down the red-carpeted hallway toward the elevators. “And that’s not really the point here. I don’t think it’s crazy to see a headline like this and wonder if my—”