“So what do you want now?”
She smiles. “What a question.”
On the phone’s screen, the algorithm is suggesting the next video: Greta James Loses It at BAM. She watches Ben’s eyes fall on the words, then flick away again.
“You’ve seen it,” she says, “haven’t you?”
He’s quiet for a moment; then he nods. “I looked you up that first night.”
She reaches over to switch off the phone, and Ben leans forward.
“For what it’s worth,” he says, “I don’t think it’s as bad as you think. It was real and it was human and you should never apologize for that.”
“Thanks,” she says in a voice full of emotion as she reaches over to take his hand. They’re still sitting there like that, eyes locked, when Greta hears her name being called and looks over to see Eleanor Bloom.
She’s waving as she approaches them, her huge earrings swinging like chandeliers. “There you are,” she says as Greta disentangles her hand from Ben’s and stands to give her a hug. But a few feet short of the table, Eleanor stops dramatically, her eyes going wide. “You look just like your mother in that dress.”
Greta glances down, disoriented. “She never wore anything like this.”
“You don’t remember her when she was your age,” Eleanor says as the rest of the group makes their way over: Todd and Davis and Mary, followed by Conrad, who is wearing his one good shirt, with its wrinkled collar under a sports coat.
Ben smooths his tie as he stands up. “Hi, I’m—”
“Jack London,” Eleanor says, beaming. She winks at him, and Greta realizes she’s a little drunk. They all are. “We know.”
“Oh, well—” he begins, but Davis cuts him off.
“This looks mighty romantic,” he says, surveying the half-filled wine glasses and the two place settings arranged side by side. “Anything you care to tell—”
Mary thumps him in the stomach, and Davis coughs. Greta takes the opportunity to hand back his phone, which he tucks into his jacket pocket with a grin.
“I’m glad you’re having fun,” Mary says to Greta. “Did you try the duck?”
“I did,” Ben says cheerfully. “It was just ducky.”
Greta lets out a sudden laugh at this and promptly realizes she’s drunk too. She glances over at Conrad, who has been standing behind the others, his eyes bouncing from the floor to the window to the table in an effort to avoid her, and she can’t help feeling a little disappointed after their breakthrough this afternoon. But at last he looks at her and—with a strained casualness—asks, “Anything new with you?” and it clicks.
If she’d thought the rumor might reach him, she would’ve headed it off. But he doesn’t exactly pay attention to the types of news outlets that would have a story about the engagement between an indie musician and a well-known music producer. She has no idea how he saw it. He didn’t even buy a data package for this trip.
A waiter sweeps by with a tray of empty plates. Around them, the room is buzzing with laughter and conversation. But here in this little scrum, everyone is quiet.
Conrad stares at Greta. And Greta stares back at him.
“If you’re talking about—” she begins, but he cuts her off.
“Your engagement?”
Ben looks from one to the other, and then, slowed by the bottles of wine they’d just finished, takes it upon himself to helpfully interject. “Oh, she’s not actually engaged,” he says, “if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Eleanor’s eyebrows shoot up on her forehead. “What?” she says, her voice rising above the din. “You two are engaged?”
Ben—who had been looking pretty pleased with himself—now scuttles backward a step, glancing at Greta, who says, as calmly as she can, “I’m not engaged to anyone.”
Conrad frowns, but he doesn’t seem angry. To her surprise, Greta realizes he looks hurt. “That’s not what I heard,” he says. “Your aunt Wendy saw the news on Twitter.”
His sister—the most excitable member of their family—was always reading up on Greta’s life, tracking it like a reality show. “Tell her she shouldn’t believe stuff like that,” Greta says, then adds, “You shouldn’t either.”
“I don’t have much choice. It’s not like you bother to keep us informed.”
If he notices the us, he doesn’t show it. But it takes the edge off Greta’s impatience. “Well, now you know,” she says, “so you don’t have to worry about—”