“That works,” he says, giving her a hug, but the truth is so much more complicated than that. This was a strange week. A sad week. A hard week.
It was a week that could’ve easily sunk them.
But somehow, it didn’t. Somehow, they’re still here. Still trying.
She says goodbye to the others too, high-fiving Davis and promising Mary she’ll come visit over Christmas. She laughs when Todd suggests that she join them for their next trip, and promises a beaming Eleanor that there’ll be a couple of backstage passes waiting at her show in Cincinnati this fall.
They all wish her luck for tomorrow, and when Mary folds her into one last hug and whispers, “Your mom would be so proud of you,” Greta has to blink back tears, even though she’s said it a dozen times this week.
When her group number is called, she slings her guitar over her shoulder, says goodbye one more time, and then winds her way through the maze of the ship. There’s baggage everywhere, and people too, a flurry of preparations. Strange to think that this will start all over again this afternoon, that an entirely new set of passengers will step on board. At the ramp, she turns in her key and then walks off the ship, glancing back only once at the breathtaking size of it, her unlikely home for the past seven days.
Afterward, there’s a wait in the line for customs, then another one to get her suitcase, and then she hops onto one of the many buses going to the airport. As soon as she sits down, she gets a text from Asher. It’s a blurry picture of Greta and Conrad at the piano bar last night that Mary must have sent him. Underneath it, he’s written: I have so many questions. But the first is…am I still the favorite??
She laughs, then types: Don’t worry. I’m pretty sure your spot is still safe.
Phew, he writes back. I was starting to think I need to have another kid.
As the bus pulls out, she presses her forehead to the window, watching the city of Vancouver whip by, a blur of gray, and she thinks how odd it is to start the day at sea and end it in New York City, to go from calm waters and endless sky to brownstones and bodegas. And tomorrow, a music festival.
On the plane, she pulls out her notebook to work on her set list, which she still hasn’t sent to Howie for approval. At the top, she writes “Prologue” and stares at it for a long time. Then she flips back a few pages to a different song she wrote on a different plane traveling through a different sort of night. She closes her eyes, and what swims to the surface is an image of the glacier the other day, all those ashes floating off, black pinpricks against a stark white sky, like the opposite of stars.
Her heart gives a great lurch, and she lets herself feel it.
But only for a moment.
Then she begins to write.
She finishes just in time to nudge open her window shade and see the tip of Manhattan appear, the clusters of silvery buildings bounded by two rivers, one of her favorite views in the world. Even the first time she ever came here, nervous and hopeful, it had somehow felt like home. It’s the kind of place you can fall in love with even before clapping eyes on it. Now she feels her heart swell at the familiar sight, and as the plane veers away from the city and toward the airport, she takes a few long breaths.
It’s dark by the time she gets home. She drops her keys on the side table and surveys the little apartment. Her latest attempt at keeping a plant alive has failed, but otherwise, everything looks the same. She hasn’t been there for three minutes when Howie calls.
“The story is officially dead, your car will be there at eight a.m. tomorrow, and the label wants to confirm that you won’t be playing ‘Astronomy,’？” he says without even a hello.
Greta glances down at the notebook sticking out of her bag. Then she says, “Thank you, okay, and fine.”
There’s a brief pause on the other end of the line. “Fine?”
“Fine.”
“To which part?”
“The car.”
“Oh.”
“Howie, I’m kidding. Tell them it’s okay. I won’t play it.”
“You sure?”
“No,” she says, and then she hangs up the phone.
Chapter Thirty-Three
In the morning, Greta wakes early, even though the time change is working against her. She goes for a walk along the East River, returns to drink two cups of coffee—one after the other while standing in front of the machine—then takes a long shower. By the time eight o’clock rolls around, she’s jittery and full of adrenaline, but she feels ready too.
As the car snakes up the FDR along the edge of Manhattan, she thinks about Ben, wondering what he’s doing with his Sunday morning. She pictures him sitting in his apartment uptown, reading the newspaper with a cup of tea. Or out for a stroll in Morningside Park. Maybe he’s at home in New Jersey. Or still at the hospital with Hannah, red-eyed and stubble-jawed. She hopes not.