Chapter 3
3
I can’t write fast enough.
I make furious notes in my journal, scribbles only I will be able to decipher when it’s time to transform them into an actual chapter. I’m fascinated by this backstory—not just because of the implication that Jason Saenz-Barlowe is a total snake (which I’ve suspected for a while), but because both Sebastian and Jett were manipulated into joining the band with empty promises of solo careers. Every making-of-the-band piece I’ve ever come across has painted a much rosier picture.
Sebastian did eventually go on to release a solo album, but I always assumed it was just his plan B after the band fell apart. It’s also a wonder those demos never resurfaced. Did no one ever think to look?
Honestly, I always assumed Jett Beckett was the problem in their rivalry. His name was constantly in headlines back then; drama followed him everywhere. I had the displeasure of interviewing him once, right before he vanished. It’s not an exaggeration to say I’ve never been treated worse by a celebrity in my entire career. He came off as entitled and demanding, sullen and sour and on edge.
I won’t go so far as to say my entire paradigm has shifted now that I know Sebastian and Jett were both manipulated into joining the band—but it’s illuminating. Jett Beckett had a reputation, for sure.
Maybe— maybe —he was pushed into that, too. All publicity is good publicity, as they say.
I make a list in my notebook, trying to capture all of my stray thoughts before they evaporate. I use a purple pen for all things Sebastian, a green pen for all things Jett, and red for Jason, their manager. It’s a total mess. I highlight the most compelling parts, draw arrows connecting bits of information, make even smaller footnotes in a few places—it looks like a serial killer’s bulletin board when I’m done.
It’s good work, though. A story is starting to form in my head, a compelling narrative.
From an outsider’s perspective, the story of True North looks like this: a group of five handsome, talented guys were handpicked to form a boy band—an industry plant that, unsurprisingly, skyrocketed to fast fame. Their overnight stardom looked like a dream come true, transforming them from guys next door to universally beloved cultural icons. Anyone could see their material success: the platinum records, a veritable army of awards statues, single after single played relentlessly in every place a person might hear music. The contentious relationship between Sebastian and Jett only fueled their popularity—Sebastian was the golden boy, Jett the brooding bad boy, and both had enormous fan bases.
Already, though, Sebastian’s revelations about how he and Jett were brought into the group feel like an undercurrent of red-hot lava, a persistent, pervasive force that cracked the band’s foundations right from the start and possibly led to its eventual demise.
I need to talk with Sebastian, ask some questions. He and our editor both strongly urged me to text if I need to get in touch—apparently Sebastian’s email is, and I quote, “a black hole”—but it feels like it’s getting too late to text someone I’ve only spoken to twice. One glance at the clock tells me I’ve been in the writing zone for longer than I realized; it’s nearly midnight, and I completely forgot to eat dinner.
I’ll text him first thing in the morning.
Hey, Sebastian , I type on my phone as soon as the clock hits eight. I have a few questions… can we set up a call for later today or tomorrow? Or, if you’re planning to come to the resort soon, we can wait until then.
It still feels weird that I have his number—that I can text him like we’re friends.
Unlike texting a friend, however, I have no clue when to expect his reply.
I’m running on six hours of sleep right now; I crashed so hard last night that I completely forgot to shut the blinds. Even if the sun hadn’t rudely awoken me, Lauren would have—she called during her seven a.m. run to vent about her boss at the museum. I spent most of the call ordering room service through the resort’s website since I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
Someone brought up a fully stocked breakfast tray about half an hour ago, complete with the best vanilla latte I’ve ever tasted in my life. I’m picking at what’s left of my food when my phone vibrates on the desk.
When I see Sebastian’s reply—a simple who is this , sans question mark or capital letters—I nearly choke on a blueberry.
I’m not sure whether to be offended that he couldn’t be bothered to enter the contact info of the person who’s writing his memoir or mortified that I expected him to save my number at all.
Also, hi, exactly how many people does he have tentative plans with re: meeting at a resort?
Alix Morgan , I write back. Your ghostwriter?
I hesitate before hitting send, rethinking my punctuation. A question mark feels passive-aggressive, possibly insulting. I switch it to an exclamation point instead, but that feels like enthusiasm overload.
In the end, I delete everything but my name.
At the ski lodge in Vermont , I type out instead. Working on your book and just have a few questions when you get a minute
After a few minutes of staring at my phone, willing him to write back, I give up. His phone has to be within reach, and my questions shouldn’t take long—but I’m the one whose entire month is dedicated to writing this book, not him, so maybe he’s just busy with other things. Hopefully he’ll get back to me soon.
I open my notebook, pick up where I left off.
It takes a moment to reorient myself. My notes—while thorough—are a mess, and the momentum and magic I felt last night are slow to return. I scan all the highlighted parts, read over my many questions. It’s enough to get started, I decide. I can draft a skeleton chapter and flesh it out more once I’ve talked to Sebastian.
Four hours later—after I wade through another long voice memo that mostly focuses on Sebastian’s musical influences and the idols who made him want a solo career in the first place, followed by two writing sprints and some edits on the pages I drafted last night—I’m in need of a break.
Sebastian still hasn’t written back.
When I opened my closet upon arrival, I discovered several boxes, all adorned with the simple gold-embossed logo of one of the village shops, along with a pair of skis and a helmet. Affixed to one of the boxes was a handwritten card: If these don’t work, they have more in the village. Charge whatever you want to the room.—Seb
I don’t want to know how Sebastian Green guessed my exact size based purely on my social media feeds and our two Zoom meetings, but the ski clothes he gifted me all fit to perfection. Everything is in my favorite colors, too—lilac and white with gold accents—and the snow goggles are iridescent pink Oakleys. I feel like an Olympian, or possibly even an astronaut; I’ve never worn such fancy ski gear in my life, only decades-old hand-me-downs from my mother and her sister.
I tie my hair into a pair of short braids, pulling out a couple of sandy-blond strands at the front like snowboarders always do, and tug on a cozy knit hat. It’s mustard yellow with a faux-fur pouf, the only thing that doesn’t quite match the rest of my outfit.
It feels strange to wear ski clothes again after all this time. Our family went every year while I was growing up—until we didn’t. Lauren was a late surprise, born just before my twelfth birthday.
After she came along, our vacations stopped: our parents didn’t want to travel with a new baby, didn’t want to travel with a toddler, three kids were outrageously more expensive than expected…
I blame my brother’s appetite for that; he hit a gigantic growth spurt around that same time and devoured everything in sight. I devoured pop culture instead, books and movies and music, an escape that erased—at least temporarily—the bitterness I felt about how drastically our family dynamic had changed.
Silver lining, at least: I never would have pursued a career in entertainment journalism had pop culture not been such a refuge for me in my teens. I wouldn’t be writing Sebastian’s book at all, let alone writing Sebastian’s book in a place like this .
I head out to the elevator landing, ski gear in hand. My eyes land instinctively on my mystery neighbor’s door—the boots are gone, the puddle of water wiped away like it never existed.
I happen to be staring at the door when it opens.
Out walks a guy with shoulder-length wavy hair and a slightly overgrown five o’clock shadow, chiseled cheekbones, and the lean, muscular build of someone who’s led a very athletic life. My gaze flickers down to his feet—sure enough, there are the boots—then back up to his remarkably handsome face. His eyes are an intense shade of deep brown; his eyebrows are dark and unusually thick. He looks vaguely familiar, a little like one of Chloe’s favorite tennis players, the one from Greece.
After the briefest flash of surprise—to see a stranger on this private penthouse floor at all, no doubt, let alone one who’s staring a hole through his door—the corner of his mouth turns up into a cocky half grin.
“What?” I say, hugging my skis and poles close to my chest as my cheeks grow hot. “It’s a really lovely door.”
A really lovely door . That’s the best I could come up with to explain my staring? I’m going to die.
He turns, crossing his arms as if to study the frosted-glass placard that reads PENTHOUSE B. “Oh, yeah,” he says with a serious nod. “People come from all over the world just to see it.”
“Clearly,” I reply. “I just got in yesterday.”
“Have you seen any other interesting things in the short time you’ve been here? Coffee tables, footstools?” He pulls his door shut and comes to stand beside me in front of the elevator.
Only when he reaches past me do I realize I forgot to push the button.
My cheeks grow even hotter. Who stands in an elevator lobby just for fun , without pushing the button, only to get caught staring at someone else’s door?
“Honestly,” I say quickly, hoping he won’t get the wrong idea, “I haven’t left my own place since I got here, so I’m taking in the sights for the first time.”
“Ah,” he says. “Going up on the mountain?”
The elevator dings, and he gestures for me to go first. The skis and poles are unwieldy—one of the skis gets caught on my way in, and he has the decency to help me instead of giving me a hard time about it.
“Maybe not all the way up,” I admit. “It’s been a minute since I skied.”
“They’ve got great instructors at the ski school,” he says as he presses a button marked with a star. “Private lessons, too.”
Sebastian did tell me to charge whatever I want to the room—maybe a private lesson wouldn’t be the worst idea.
“Where do I sign up for those?”
“Right here,” he says, flashing a grin that rivals that of any of the celebrities I’ve spent my entire adult life writing about.
“Right here,” I repeat. “In the elevator?”
He laughs. “I teach at the ski school and give private lessons.”
“So, by ‘they’ve got great instructors at the ski school,’ you were talking about yourself and not some other guy?”
“Hey, the other guys are great, too,” he says with a grin. “But I’ve got an opening at two if you want it?”
It would be perfect, actually. Enough time to explore the village a little, get something warm from the café. “Is this how you sign up all your clients?”
“Only the ones who seem like they might get lost touring the furniture on their way over to the mountain.”
I laugh. “Okay. Tell me where to meet you and I’ll be there.”
Once we’re outside, we split off down different paths. I take the one marked for the main lodge and the village; he’s headed to the mountain.
“Oh, wait!” I shout suddenly, a few seconds later.
He turns, thankfully still within earshot.
“What’s your name?” I call out.
“Tyler!” he shouts back. “What’s yours?”
“I’m Alix!”
“See you at two, Alix!” he replies, loud enough that the entire resort now knows we have plans.
And then it hits me: I have plans.
Plans with an undeniably attractive guy. One who didn’t mind me acting like the most awkward human on the planet.
No, no, no . He’s a ski instructor, and that’s it: nothing serious, nothing deep.
But that smile.
And those eyes—and his kindness. The way he made me laugh.
Chloe pushed me to leave my comfort zone, and she’s insufferable when she’s right. She would never let me hear the end of it if my ski instructor turned into anything more.
Which is why he absolutely, definitely cannot.