Chapter 11
11
I wake up in a tangle of sheets, too-bright light streaming in through the windows. There’s a faint buzzing on the bedside table—I peer over the cloudlike comforter just in time to see my phone vibrate itself right onto the floor. The alarm clock reads 11:37.
I rarely sleep past seven thirty these days—can’t even remember the last time I slept through an alarm, especially when I have a ton of work on my plate. I also never forget to close the curtains, but apparently a single (incredible) kiss and the best soft pretzel I’ve ever eaten were enough to turn me into an entirely different person overnight.
By the time I get to my phone, it’s stopped ringing.
No, no, no—
It was a video call from Sebastian. Because of course.
I sit up, rub my eyes. It’s too bright in here.
After a quick once-over in the mirror, I head to the living room and call him back. I grab my notebook as the phone rings, flop down on the couch near the window.
Surprise, surprise: he doesn’t answer.
I groan so loudly Puffin perks up.
“It’s okay, buddy,” I tell him, even though it’s not. Sebastian literally just called me—but he doesn’t pick up when I call him back two minutes later?
I open my notebook and scan my list of questions. If I ever do get Sebastian on the phone, I have no idea how long I’ll be able to keep him on the phone, so I go down the list and put asterisks beside the most pressing ones.
At the moment, my list looks like this:
Manager manipulation: When did Sebastian and Jett realize their manager had fed them the exact same promises, the exact same lies?
Sebastian’s solo album: Was Jason his manager then?
TIPSY ELEPHANT FIGHT: Can he tell me more about his argument with Jett?*
Potentially controversial comment about how Jett’s disappearance was the best thing that ever happened to Sebastian—can he clarify?*
I’m still thinking through how to word everything when—miracle of miracles—Sebastian calls me back.
“Hiiii,” I say as cheerily as possible, since I probably shouldn’t greet him with my first choice of Well, look who’s alive! “Wow, where are you?”
Behind him is the most unreal sight I’ve ever seen: an unbroken stretch of crystal-blue water below an infinite, cloudless sky.
Sebastian laughs. “Still in Tahiti.”
He looks like he’s just rolled out of bed.
“Sorry I couldn’t call before—I dropped my phone in the ocean, and it took a while to get another one.” He laughs again, probably at the obvious look of relief written all over my face. “What—you thought I’d ghosted you on purpose ?”
My cheeks go hot; the thumbnail image of my face confirms that I’m blushing, and not in a subtle way.
Take a breath, Alix.
I’ve had countless celebrity interactions, extensive media training. I don’t make a habit of insulting famous people—of insulting anyone , for the record—or insinuating they’re in the wrong in any way. Only once was I pushed past my breaking point into borderline unprofessional territory; coincidentally, that was the time I interviewed Jett Beckett.
“Of course not,” I reply as smoothly as possible. “And I’m sorry I missed you earlier.”
“It’s all good.”
“I don’t want to take too much of your time, but I have a few questions.”
“Hit me,” he says with the sort of cocky casualness only an ex–boy band pop star could get away with. He winks .
“I’ve been working through your voice memos,” I begin. “And a lot of my questions are about the dynamics involving your manager, Jason, as well as Jett Beckett.”
I pause, trying to gauge his reaction when I say Jett’s name, but his expression is unreadable.
“Understanding those dynamics will help me share your story in the most accurate and powerful way possible,” I go on. “So to start, I was wondering if you could tell me more about how Jason manipulated you both into joining the band—when did you realize Jett had been promised the exact same things as you?”
Sebastian shakes his head. If I had to describe the look on his face, it would be wounded puppy with a dash of rage.
“Man, where do I even start with Jason?”
He considers it for a moment, biting his lip.
“Jason was an asshole, but he hid it well—always gave the impression that he was on your side,” he finally says. “For maybe three months, I thought Jett was like the others, handpicked just for the band. It wasn’t until Jett made a comment in the studio one night—how Jason was all lies, that we shouldn’t trust him, and why —that he and I realized we’d been made the exact same promises. That Jason had strung us both along, fed us both the same hope about how huge our solo careers could be. It explained so much, especially why Jett had such an attitude all the time.”
“But it didn’t bring you closer? Finding out you’d been through the same thing?”
Sebastian looks away.
“It did not,” he says, his voice hardening.
I wait for him to go on. A seagull swoops over the ocean behind him, in the frame and then gone again.
“Finding out Jason was even more of an asshole than he thought only made Jett angrier,” he finally says. “Jett really wanted a solo career, was never passionate about being in a boy band. He wanted to make his own music.”
“And you didn’t relate to that?”
Sebastian shrugs.
“It’s not that I didn’t relate. But we had a good thing going with the band—quick success, lots of fans. Money pouring in. I guess I was just more patient, figured all of that would only help when I—or we—eventually broke off and went solo.”
I glance at my notes.
“It seems like you weren’t just willing to be more patient with Jason, but also more forgiving, even after he manipulated you both—but in your voice memos, it sounds like your feelings about Jason and the whole situation changed at some point. When was that, and what caused it?”
“Now that’s a loaded question.”
He runs a hand over his five-o’clock shadow, which barely even qualifies as a shadow since it’s blond and only visible when the sunlight hits it in just the right way.
“It… it took way too long to sever ties with Jason,” he says. “I should have done it a lot earlier. Jett tried to get me to do it sooner—”
He breaks off and looks away.
“We met up one time, just Jett and me, and he pitched this idea—he wanted us to, like, go on strike, refuse to play Jason’s games anymore. Refuse to record, refuse to perform, stuff like that. Said it would only work if both of us did it together, which was probably true since none of the other guys could carry the lead vocals. He didn’t say so, but I’m sure he thought it would get under Jason’s skin if I suddenly started putting my foot down about stuff—Jason played favorites, and I was his favorite because I never made trouble or asked too many questions.”
“And Jett did?”
“Oh, all the time. And he hated that I went along with everything Jason wanted, called me a puppet or something stupid like that. Jett and I were never on good terms, so I was suspicious of the whole thing from the minute he asked me to go get drinks. I thought maybe he was just trying to pull me down so he wouldn’t be the only one on Jason’s bad side.”
“So you said no,” I say, “because you were happy enough as it was and because you didn’t want to burn bridges with Jason?”
He nods. “Didn’t realize until later that bridges aren’t worth keeping if they lead straight to snake pits.”
I scribble that line down word for word—that’s definitely going in the book.
“When was that?” I ask. “The ‘later,’ I mean, when you finally came to that realization?”
His jaw tenses as he looks off into the distance.
“When Jett disappeared and Jason found a replacement by the next weekend.”
Wow. Wow .
I had no idea he’d been replaced that quickly—their PR team must have buried that detail somehow. They definitely didn’t announce the new guy until some time had passed. I remember because I wrote one of the “breaking news” articles that went viral. The band didn’t last much longer after that, though, so the replacement—Adrian Silva—didn’t make a lasting impression on most of the fandom.
“I don’t think it really hit me until then how right Jett was about Jason, or that he’d been sincere when pitching the idea to strike all those months earlier. It sounded ludicrous, honestly—we were all under contract, you know? It’s not like we could just say no to stuff. It’s not like we could just walk away from any of it. When Jett disappeared, though—”
He cuts himself off.
“When he disappeared,” Sebastian starts again, “I felt really, really sick. Like maybe if I’d gone along with his idea, maybe things—maybe he wouldn’t have—”
He closes his eyes.
“Maybe he’d still be here.”
His words hang between us, even across the ocean and the internet.
As if he realizes how heavy it sounded, he adds, “I mean, he has to be out there somewhere, right?” What he doesn’t say is that eight years is a long time to stay that far under the radar. “But whatever happened to him… it could’ve been different.”
This is it, I think—this is my opening. Now or never.
“In one of your recordings, you said that his disappearance was one of the best things that ever happened to you,” I say. “What, exactly, did you mean by that?”
His eyes flicker downward, then back up to the camera.
“It was the thing that finally made me wake up and muster the guts to cut ties with Jason. Best career choice I ever made.”
He pauses, bites his lip.
“I hate that it took Jett disappearing for me to do it, though. And sometimes—”
His brows knit together. Gone is the shiny veneer he shows to every camera and anyone else who’ll look: this is the real Sebastian. I didn’t truly believe he had this level of vulnerability in him.
“Sometimes I can’t sleep because I feel so guilty about it. How much better my life is now that Jason doesn’t have a hold on me anymore—how I have the life Jett always wanted, but it took him disappearing for me to get it. Was he, like, rotting in a ditch somewhere while my own life got better? Sorry, I know that’s graphic.”
Sebastian has survivor’s guilt .
This I can write about. I hate it for him—but people won’t hate him for it.
I try not to show how reassured I am by his confession. I definitely don’t want to tell him I was worried he was a heartless egomaniac there for a bit, especially not when he’s given me such a raw, honest look inside who he really is.
“That all sounds really complicated,” I say. “Totally understandable, though, all of it.”
I jot down a couple of quick notes before I forget them. Sebastian’s quiet on the other end.
“I’ve got one more quick follow-up question, if that’s okay?”
He nods.
“Was there ever a part of you that felt relief that your biggest rival was gone? It had to have created a wide-open lane for you when you launched your solo career.”
“I mean, who wouldn’t be at least a little relieved?” he says evenly. “But it felt like bad luck to think that way, you know?”
“Hey, Seb,” a woman says from somewhere off-screen. “Can we go get breakfast now? I’m starving!”
He glances past his phone’s camera at what is probably a gorgeous woman in a tiny string bikini, if she’s wearing anything at all—it could be either, judging by how he’s looking at her right now.
“Yeah, almost done here.” Sebastian looks back to me. “Sorry, Alix, gotta go.”
And just like that, his pop star facade takes over again, pushing out all hints of his former vulnerability.
I have more questions, but this is plenty to work with for now.
“Sounds good,” I say. “Thank you for—”
He ends the call before I finish my sentence.
“Your time,” I say to no one.
Forgot to mention , I text Sebastian a little while later, let me know when might work well for us to meet up in person here in Vermont?
No surprise: it goes unanswered.
I indulge in room service for my extremely late brunch, take it and my laptop out to the expansive balcony off the living room to get started on writing while our call is fresh on my mind. I may or may not have picked this particular balcony because it’s the one that borders Tyler’s, the two separated by a waist-high railing—but if I do happen to see him this morning, I’ll most definitely say I chose it for the mountain view.
I certainly didn’t choose it for its warmth. Thankfully, the heater is easy to figure out, and so effective I have to move farther away from it only a few minutes after I sit down. The outdoor couch is incredibly comfortable, too—my only fear is that I’ll spill coffee or the raspberry compote from my granola yogurt all over its plush white cushions.
I get to work crafting Sebastian’s relationship with Jason into a narrative that roughly reflects the conversation we just had, typing furiously until the chapter starts to take shape. This revelation—survivor’s guilt—will make Sebastian seem like an extremely sympathetic character to the reader, especially given how public his rivalry with Jett was and what a contrast these lingering feelings are to all of that.
I write about the hold Jason had over him, and how it took Jett’s disappearance to break the spell. I try to fill in the gaps I didn’t get to ask about—the timeline of his eventual solo album makes me think he’d ditched Jason by that time, and a quick internet search tells me I’m right.
I’m not sure I’ve ever listened to that solo album all the way through, now that I’m thinking about it. I pull it up on Spotify. The first track is just as mediocre as I remember: though catchy, it’s nothing groundbreaking. The second track is similar but with better lyrics, and the third track is somewhat forgettable.
All of this gives me a false sense of security, because I am not prepared for the fourth track. Track four is almost unlistenable—I think Sebastian was going for sexy, but it’s more reminiscent of a cat in heat. A wounded cat in heat, maybe?
I can’t yank my earbuds out fast enough.
“Must’ve been a terrible song,” a familiar voice says as I throw my AirPods on the table.
I whip my head up and see Tyler, mug of steaming coffee in hand, standing at the railing of his own balcony.
He is, once again, shirtless. Flawless.
It can’t be more than forty degrees out here.
“How are you not freezing?” I ask, shutting my laptop. I could use a little break.
Tyler shrugs, and I force my eyes up to his face.
The face that was so close to mine last night. The lips I kissed—and that most definitely kissed me back.
“You get used to it. I like to come out here first thing in the morning with my coffee to help me wake up.”
“It’s hardly first thing in the morning,” I reply.
Understatement: it’s well past noon.
“Not the first time I’ve been out here today,” he says, grinning, a reminder that not all of us overslept this morning.
“Do you have a lot of private lessons to give later?”
“I’ve got three this afternoon,” he says. “But I’ve got time for another five o’clock if you want it?”
I’m still sore from all the skiing I’ve done this week, and probably from the ice skating, too—but it’s too tempting. Especially since I now know, thanks to the deep dive I did on the ski school pamphlet, that he technically doesn’t advertise five o’clock slots since it’s borderline too dark at that time.
He’s made exceptions to spend time with me this week, and I can’t fully process it without a blush creeping into my cheeks.
“Sounds perfect,” I say.
Tyler nods toward my table full of books. “Those for your project?”
“Research, yeah,” I say.
Casually, I shift my laptop on top of them so he won’t be able to tell what they are—a trio of coffee table books about True North. The spines aren’t facing him, so I doubt he saw too much. But still.
“Did the guy you’re writing about ever call you back?”
“Finally, yes.” I make a face. “Turns out his phone was dead because he dropped it in the ocean.”
Tyler cracks up, eyes crinkling at the corners. “He did not.”
“If he didn’t, he’s a pretty convincing liar,” I say.
“Or a pretty creative one, at least.” He gestures to my laptop. “Is it hard not to talk about the book?”
“Not as hard as you’d think,” I reply. “I mean, this guy’s life is living rent-free in my head right now—but that also means I want to stop thinking about it whenever I’m not working.”
“I bet you wish you could talk about whatever it was that inspired such violence against your earbuds.”
I shudder, wishing I could unhear Sebastian’s melismatic journey through an unholy number of octaves.
“Be glad I can’t inflict it upon you,” I say.
I’m dead serious, but he laughs.
“Well, good luck with all of that.” He raises his coffee mug in a toast. “And hey, I just wanted to tell you… last night was a lot of fun. I’d love to take you out again.”
The memory of last night—his hands on my hips, his lips hot against mine—
Fire and ice and magic —
All of it comes crashing back.
“Something more than this, right here, now?” I say, playing down how into the idea I am.
“Something with a little less patio railing in the way,” he replies, grinning. “I can’t do dinner tonight, but if you’re free after that, I have something perfect in mind.”
“I’m intrigued,” I say, and not just by the mystery of it all: he doesn’t seem to get out much, so I’m fascinated by the idea that he might have plans outside his own penthouse that don’t involve ski lessons.
“Oh, you’ll love it,” he says, eyes sparkling in the sunlight.
“You’re confident,” I reply. “As always.”
“Have I been wrong yet?”
He hasn’t, and he knows it.
I don’t admit it.
“Where and when?” I say instead.
“Meet me at the ice rink at ten—but we’re not skating tonight. And you should wear something warm.”