Chapter 16
16
I hardly sleep.
My mind races with questions: Why would Tyler opt for brown contacts when his actual eye color is so beautiful? Did he think I wouldn’t notice they’d changed—or is his nighttime routine so deeply engrained that he didn’t think about it at all?
On top of that, my wrist hurts. Like, hurts . I keep accidentally rolling over on it in my sleep.
At five o’clock, I give up.
Even though I’d planned to write first thing this morning, it seems best to throw some ice on my wrist and rest it instead.
I know Tyler said I could text him if I need anything, but five in the morning seems a little too extreme—surely I can make a fresh ice pack all on my own. The doctor gave me a reusable one last night, but like Puffin’s treat jar, it has a screw-on cap. I rummage around in one of the cabinets, find some Ziploc freezer bags: perfect. Between this and the automatic ice dispenser in the fridge, I’m good to go.
I settle onto the armchair where I left my work supplies last night, shifting Tyler’s laptop bag to the floor. I’ll write later, but for now, I figure I might as well flip through one of my True North research books.
This particular book was published nine years ago at the height of the True North frenzy and is full of old photographs from their early days in the studio and on tour, along with even older photographs from each of the members’ childhood days.
Sebastian’s eighteen-year-old face stares up at me from one of the recording studio photos, bright-eyed and laughing, and in the blurry background, there’s the barest glimpse of his long-lost bandmate, Jett Beckett. Must be one from the early days when the band was flying high on the promise of their potential, before all the envy and resentment and rivalry grew into tangled roots between them.
I make my way through the Sebastian pages, which run the gamut from his talent shows to his infamous high school musical performance to album covers and tour shots. There’s even one serious throwback—a Christmas morning photo of him as a toddler, hugging a guitar that’s bigger than he is.
I flip through the bulk of the book, scanning the other band members’ sections for any additional places where Sebastian might come up. I start with River Wu’s section.
River was always one of the most low-key members of the band. His signature haircut was cut short in the back, but with unruly bangs in the front—I always wondered what he was really thinking behind that hair, behind those kind eyes. He hung out often with Jett and Sebastian but rarely with both of them at the same time.
I’ve seen River hundreds of times in photos, but now it’s like I’m seeing him for the first time: he’s taller and more muscular, but his face—something about the light or the angle makes it feel like I’ve met him for real. I wrack my brain. Was it one of the Wall Street bros? One of Lauren’s museum friends? The guy who unloaded my bags when I first arrived here at the lodge?
Or, wait, no—maybe it wasn’t a guy at all, though I do think it was here at the lodge.
And then it hits me: he looks like Julie, so much so that they could be twins.
Julie, the concierge at this very resort—
Julie, whose brother is Tyler’s best friend.
My heart rate picks up.
I turn the page, looking for any sign of a sister. While I don’t find any mention of siblings one way or the other, I do see another photo that feels like I’ve just discovered a hidden key: it’s a picture of eleven-year-old River and a friend about the same age, bundled up in ski gear.
The mountain looks familiar. And there’s an ice rink in the background.
I take a closer look at the caption off to the side: River Wu (age 11) and Jett Beckett (age 11) prepare to carve the slopes in Stowe, Vermont .
Stowe, Vermont: that can’t be a coincidence.
In the photo, Jett Beckett is wearing a mint-green helmet.
I think of the one Tyler loaned me at my first lesson. Limited edition , he told me that day. Super rare .
I flip a few pages over, find the section devoted to Jett, and scan through until I find a picture from his later days in the band—nine years ago. I gasp.
If you were to break that perfect nose—
And cover up that flawless complexion with a five-o’clock shadow that’s grown out for a few days—
And turn the clock forward by nearly a decade—cheekbones and jawline more defined, smile lines at the corners of his eyes—a transformation from polished pop star to rugged outdoorsman—
And add some brown contacts to those piercing blue eyes—
And let those eyebrows do their own thing—
And grow that short, bleach-blond hair out into long, dark waves—
And hide it all under helmets and goggles and ski gear for extra measure—
You’d get Tyler.