Chapter 8
8
Sebastian never called.
He didn’t call while I was locked out, and he didn’t answer when I gave up waiting and tried calling him myself. I left two voicemails before finally going to bed, one embarrassingly long, the other stilted and short. He had hours to call back overnight while I was asleep—even a text would have been fine.
This silence is maddening.
Does he not care about his own book? Does he not want it to be complex and groundbreaking and real ? That can’t happen unless I know the whole story. I get that he’s in Tahiti right now, but some of us are on deadline. He’d better have a good excuse.
Back to voice memo land I go, I guess.
My penthouse feels suffocatingly stagnant this morning. I try to work in three different locations before realizing I’m just too anxious to sit still—I need movement, maybe a change of scenery. Usually, the quiet would be a good thing. Today, it only amplifies my awareness of how silent my phone is.
I decide to head down to the coffee shop instead. It’s snowing lightly, and I’m up so early it’s still dark outside; I pull on the warmest jacket I can find and triple-check that my phone, wallet, and penthouse key are all safely tucked in my laptop tote before heading out.
Makenna is there when I arrive.
“Honey nut latte for here?” she asks, eyeing my tote.
“Sounds amazing. Can you make it a triple?”
I set up shop at a big table by the window. I’m the only customer in here, so of course I’ve picked the very best spot, one with a cushy single-sided booth made of blue velvet that has a full view of the glorious mountain.
Or, at least, it will once the sun is up.
“How’d your lesson go yesterday?” Makenna asks, setting my honey nut latte down on the table along with an almond croissant I didn’t order. “On the house—they’re fresh out of the oven, and you’ve got to try one.”
“Ooh, thanks! And it went really well, actually. Better than expected after so many years.”
“And Tyler?”
Tyler Fox, according to the ski school pamphlet I read from cover to cover before I went to bed. His name takes me right back to last night: shirtless Tyler and his superhero stomach—the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs—his amazing hair, and the way that one piece of it is always falling out of place. How he made me an entire dinner when I swooped into his penthouse without warning.
I shrug, like his name means nothing. Nothing more than Ski Instructor Tyler .
“He’s nice. A good teacher.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Makenna says, like she can read every single thing I’m trying not to show. “Going back today?”
“I haven’t skied in years,” I say, busying myself with arranging my workspace in just the right way. “It would be irresponsible of me not to go back, right?”
Makenna laughs. “ So irresponsible.”
“Have you ever taken a lesson with him?”
“It’s best for everyone if I stay off the mountain—one hundred percent, I’d end up breaking both wrists, possibly even my neck. Hard to make coffee with broken wrists.”
“Hard to do anything with a broken neck!”
“You see my point,” she says with mock solemnity.
Makenna heads back over to her station at the coffee bar, and I settle in to work. I catch a glimpse of golden light as the sun peeks through the clouds, a sliver of the sunrise radiating from the snow-covered mountains. It’s still snowing outside, delicate little flakes: the perfect writing weather.
I pick up where I left off yesterday—I flagged one of Sebastian’s voice memos to listen to after stumbling on an article about an argument he had with Jett Beckett. The title of this voice memo is the name of the bar mentioned in the article, so I’m hoping it will shed some light on what they were actually arguing about.
I open to a fresh page in my journal and hit play.
This is one of the lengthier voice memos, more than two hours long, but so far it’s not at all what I thought it would be. Instead of juicy details about his heated exchange with Jett, the first half is all about his experience on a reality dating show he starred in a few years ago called The Stag .
I’m interested in that, too, of course—it was a huge scandal at the time, one of the most-watched finales in reality dating show history, in which Sebastian was famously rejected by both women at his final choosing ceremony. According to Sebastian, the double dumping was entirely staged: he claims he never intended to continue a relationship with any of the contestants outside the show. He even refused to sign the contract until the producers agreed to his idea of the perfect finale (i.e., one in which Sebastian ended up alone while simultaneously sparking a viral publicity moment for himself and the show).
From there, he talks at length about his public image—how the show affected it for better and for worse, how his solo album didn’t quite land in the way he’d always hoped it would.
I write a question in my journal: Was Sebastian still represented by Jason Saenz-Barlowe when he agreed to that reality show? Was he pressured into doing it somehow, or was he just desperate to stay in the public spotlight at any cost? Was the twist ending really his own idea? If so, he’s smarter than I’ve given him credit for.
I’m still making notes when something Sebastian says snags my attention: Do you want to know what the number one question is that people ask whenever they meet me on the street?
Yes, Sebastian. I do.
I hang on his every word, scribble out these revelations like they’ll evanesce into nothing if I don’t capture them:
As much as I hate to admit it, my career has been defined by Jett Beckett .
Jett tried to convince me to quit True North one time. I thought he was full of it, trying to sabotage me somehow.
Here’s a secret I’ve never told anyone, not ever.
Jett Beckett’s disappearance was one of the best things that ever happened to me.
And that’s it: the end of the recording.
These are the kind of statements that will sell a billion books.
I close my eyes, pinch the bridge of my nose. When the conspiracy theorists get hold of this, they’ll have an absolute field day. Sebastian’s alibi was rock solid, and the investigators repeatedly emphasized that there was zero reason to think foul play was involved in Jett’s disappearance—yet a small but vocal subset of the fandom refuses to accept that the case is closed, forever insisting there’s more to the story. This new revelation about thinking Jett was trying to sabotage him, though… some might see it as motive.
I believe Sebastian when he says he has no idea what happened to Jett Beckett, but he isn’t doing himself any favors with that final comment. I need to know what’s behind it so I can make sure he comes off in a way that won’t turn the entire fandom against him.
Would it be excessive for me to leave a third voicemail? At what point do I need to let Maribel, my editor, know I’m having a hard time getting Sebastian on a call and it’s slowing down my progress? Maybe his service is just super spotty in Tahiti.
I take out my earbuds and close my journal.
The sunlight has shifted, and so have the shadows. It must have stopped snowing at some point—and I’m starving . I check the time: it’s been almost three hours since I made a new home for myself here on this blue velvet bench. Three hours since I devoured my (incredible) almond croissant, and my honey nut latte is long gone.
Makenna is gone, too, replaced by a guy whose height and limbs can only be described as adolescent giraffe . Not that he’s an adolescent—he’s probably in his early twenties—but he’s lanky, towering high above the espresso machine.
I take my phone off focus mode; I tweaked my settings last night to allow Sebastian’s number to break through at any time, even while I’m asleep, but everyone else stays muted until I turn it off. I’m relieved to see I’ve only missed one text all morning, and it’s from Chloe.
Hope you’re not working too hard! Can’t wait to hear how today’s ski lesson goes
Working a very appropriate level of hard, thank you , I write back. Otherwise I won’t have time to hang out when you come visit in a couple weeks!
In that case, ignore everything I said and get back to work! TWELVE HOUR DAYS FROM NOW ON! (But I hereby give you permission—nay, ORDERS—to make time for ski school with Tyler Last Name Unknown!)
Tyler Fox , I reply. Found that out last night!
Ohmygosh Alix! she writes, followed by a GIF of some adorable baby foxes playing in the snow.
“Excuse me, but are you Alix?”
I look up to see the adolescent giraffe towering over my table.
“Um… yes?”
He slides a napkin onto the table in front of me. “This is for you.”
There’s a note scrawled on it in black Sharpie.
You looked really focused—didn’t want to interrupt. Hope the book is going well! See you tonight. PS: Feel free to text at 555-253-9009
And then, the signature: Tyler :)
All the butterflies I tried to hide earlier, while talking with Makenna, come back in full force. I wasn’t supposed to meet anyone who made me feel this way—now is so not the time for distractions.
I feel a little fluttery over the gesture, not to mention impressed that he was thoughtful enough not to interrupt my work.
Maybe it isn’t such a bad idea, letting myself feel again. Chloe would certainly encourage it. I’m only here for a month—how serious could it get?
It’s been a long time since I let myself just have fun.
Can’t wait! I text back to him, triple-checking that I’ve typed his phone number in correctly. Thanks for your note… see you in a little while.
I debate the punctuation for entirely too long, then ultimately just add a smile to match the one on his note.
Five o’clock can’t come soon enough.