Chapter 17
17
The book is still open to old photos of Tyler—of Jett —when a text vibrates my phone.
I hope you’re still asleep, but just wanted to let you know I’m up and can help with Puffin or breakfast or whatever , he’s written, along with a yellow cat emoji.
An hour ago, I would have turned to a puddle of heart-eyed goo at it.
Now, I cannot for the life of me reconcile the fact that Tyler—who absolutely would punctuate his texts with adorable emojis—is one and the same as Jett Beckett.
Jett Beckett was notorious for many things, none of them adorable.
If I had to describe how those of us in entertainment journalism perceived him back then, the words that come to mind are on edge . My entire job the year I spoke to him was to cover True North, as their tour was so massive—my coworkers usually complained about how lucky I was, how fun my assignments always were.
No one—and I mean no one —envied my task of interviewing Jett Beckett.
The day of the interview, they got me a gigantic bouquet of black roses along with a gift card to the wine bar down the street. “For later,” my boss said morosely as he handed it to me.
I gave everyone in the office a hard time, told them surely Jett Beckett couldn’t be that bad.
He was that bad.
It wasn’t just me, though I’m not sure that makes it any better. That was just how he was. With everyone .
Rumor had it that the smallest things would set him off. Changes in the set list, changes to his daily agenda—anything Sebastian did. Where Sebastian thrived on the band’s collective fame, Jett warped under the spotlight they shared. Their manager had given them both front man status, and for better or worse, their loathing chemistry worked: Sebastian was the golden boy, and Jett the shadowy rebel. It was good publicity, great publicity. Everyone loved to pick sides—it was a whole thing. I would go so far as to say their electric rivalry was one of the essential elements that propelled them to the level of fame they ultimately achieved.
Until Jett disappeared and it all came crashing down.
How did I not realize it was him sooner?
Some of it has to be contextual: take the famous skateboarder who never gets recognized in plain clothes at the airport (or anywhere), for example—you don’t necessarily expect to see a megastar in the aisle of your neighborhood drug store, or on your daily jogging route, or while on vacation. Maybe they’re dressed differently—or maybe they’ve purposefully altered their entire look to make themselves utterly unrecognizable.
You certainly don’t expect to see someone who’s been missing for more than eight years… just… casually teaching ski lessons at a posh resort. Especially not when his onstage persona was the polar opposite of an outdoor adventurer.
You don’t put it together that this daydream of a human who makes you dinner when you’re locked out—who takes you on the most creative, magical dates—who offers to feed your cat at five in the morning—could possibly be one and the same as the nightmare who so condescendingly commanded, mid-interview: Bring me some water, love.
As if I were some sort of servant, not a member of the press trying to give his band publicity during their tour.
And I cannot emphasize enough how Tyler really does not exude boy band energy anymore. How he is the very definition of hiding in plain sight—he pulls it off because he’s done everything in his power to blend in. Whereas Sebastian is a walking trend, committed to reminding the world that they should want his autograph, his very presence shouting I am THE Sebastian Green! everywhere he goes, Tyler couldn’t be further from that.
If you’d asked me to describe Jett Beckett in a single word after my experience sitting down with him for an interview all those years ago, the word would’ve been ego .
Now, though, after getting to know him here at the lodge, I have to wonder if I was wrong—if maybe I caught him on an exceptionally bad day.
I suddenly feel compelled to go back and listen to the recording of that interview; I’m sure I have it saved somewhere. I’ve changed phones since then but specifically remember wanting to delete it and deciding not to. It was his disappearance that kept me from doing so: my interview was the last he gave before that pivotal moment in pop culture history, and that seemed important.
Did I ever want to actually listen to it again?
Decidedly not.
Now I’m glad I kept it. I scroll deep into my iPhone’s voice memo history, down into all the tracks that have made the leap with me through at least three new phone upgrades.
There it is—March 29, eight years ago. I titled it, very eloquently, with a series of skull emojis.
I press play, wishing I could whisper in Past Alix’s ear that her bright-eyed optimism is not going to age well.
The contrast between our voices is even more stark than I remember. Mine is patient, professional, borderline chipper (I hate the way I sound in recordings), while his is… the opposite. His tone is gritty, hurried, bitter with cynicism. Demanding. Condescending.
Underneath it all, I regret to admit, I hear undeniable shades of Tyler in Jett’s voice. It’s like when your favorite audiobook narrator pivots from villain to romantic love interest in unrelated books—voice actors are chameleons.
Maybe pop stars are, too.
My own voice pulls me out of my head and back to the interview as I hear myself say, “With all due respect—if you’re that unhappy, why don’t you walk away? Go solo, start your own thing?”
And then his sarcastic drawl, replying, “With all due respect, mind your own f—eeeeeeee—cking business.” There’s feedback on his mic, a side-effect of him twisting around and trying to rip it off. “No one walks away from the sort of life I have. Why shouldn’t he be the one to leave?”
He, meaning Sebastian.
I’m stunned.
In all my rage, I had completely forgotten that I’d suggested he walk away from the band—I remember feeling hung up on the way he’d cursed at me, how he’d ripped his mic off and thrown it on the floor, how my assistant had finally returned with his chilled lime water only to find me staring at an empty director’s chair.
No one walks away from the sort of life I have .
But two days after that interview, he did.
Twenty minutes later, I’m still lost in thought about the whole thing, but am pulled rudely back to reality when Puffin leaps up onto my lap, his back paws landing on my injured wrist.
Pain zings through me as he stretches up to rub his soft gray face against mine, totally oblivious. His large green eyes say, Breakfast?
I should probably text Tyler back.
I don’t know how not to be weird about it, though.
There’s just no great way to casually say, Hey, I know you made yourself disappear, but I’ve figured out who you are. It will have to be a Big Conversation, one in which I’m more sure of how I feel—and I’m not sure yet about so many things.
I came to this resort to write a book, not meet a guy—especially not a world-famous one. Part of what attracted me to Tyler in the first place was how opposite he seemed from the self-obsessed Wall Street bros of my past. Tyler’s never come across as someone with a massive ego, and—unlike Blake—he’s never seemed to think of women as mere accessories to his own privileged existence.
Jett Beckett, though: he had all that in common with Blake and more. That’s how it came across from the outside looking in, anyway. It’s no exaggeration to say that the man I interviewed all those years ago singlehandedly soured me on all future interactions with celebrities.
I don’t know how to reconcile the infamous Jett Beckett with the man I’ve met here at the resort.
Tyler, who made me feel more comfortable being myself than anyone—even Chloe—has made me feel in years. Tyler, who is funny and patient and thoughtful, creative and kind. I want so badly for Tyler to be real: for his current persona to be the true one.
Still, even if this is the real him, what he said in that interview struck a nerve: No one walks away from the sort of life I have.
Millions of dollars. Opportunities so many others give blood, sweat, and tears to have—to have even a chance at. Fame, even if he was painted as the rebel of the group. Access to the most luxurious locations in the world—weekend getaways, private jets. Relationships, surely, with people who legitimately cared for him.
And he gave it all up.
Part of me understands—based on my limited knowledge of how toxic their manager was—how making himself disappear might have felt like his only option.
But the other part of me? The other part of me doesn’t take professional opportunities for granted—because I need to pay rent on my tiny, frustrating apartment with the terrible heat and the terrible neighbors. Because I need to eat . Because Puffin also needs to eat.
Puffin, who’s now curled into a bagel on top of the True North book that’s still open in my lap, purring loudly, probably still starving.
I sigh, pick up my phone.
There’s a new text from Lauren.
Ughhhhhhhh , it says, along with a preview of an image.
I slide open the notification and see a handwritten note from the landlord affixed to my front door. I skim it and my heart sinks: in short, Lauren apparently had some loud friends with her late last night while waiting for the locksmith, and they caused three separate noise complaints. Technically, she’s not even supposed to be living with me—so this could get dicey in a hurry if we’re not careful. This is just a warning, thankfully. If she gets another one, however, I could be in danger of eviction.
My building is pretty strict about quiet hours , I reply.
Yeah, I noticed
If you’re going to have people over, please please please make sure they’re quiet , I write back. I can’t afford to get evicted.
My apartment might be tiny and frustrating, but the rent is fantastic for the location—the only reason I’ve been able to live there as long as I have. I also don’t want to have to explain a move; our parents have never quite understood my choice to work in entertainment journalism. Even though I’m making it from month to month and have a nice little savings cushion from the book deal, I don’t want to give them any more reason to gossip with my siblings behind my back about how they wish I’d picked something more lucrative, with more stability.
A fleeting, terrible thought crosses my mind: I could probably get a gigantic windfall of cash now that I’ve located the long-lost Jett Beckett—auction off the story to the highest bidder, telling the world how he’s been living a secret life all these years as a ski instructor in Vermont. And not only a pile of cash… but a byline that would make my name instantly recognizable and guarantee work for the foreseeable future.
I squeeze my eyes shut, try to force the thought from my mind. Spilling Tyler’s secret could change my life in unimaginable ways, but it would almost certainly ruin his.
What kind of person would that make me?
A smart one, maybe , my inner voice supplies.
Smart or not, I’m not sure I’m ruthless enough to take advantage of someone that way, even out of desperation. Especially not someone who sent me a cat emoji less than an hour ago—who offered to help with Puffin, with breakfast.
Guilt twists in my gut as I pick up my phone to reply.
Hiiiii , I write back to Tyler.
I’m choosing to continue thinking of him as Tyler, since a) that’s the name he’s chosen for who he is now , and b) I’d erase all memory of my interaction with him as Jett if I could. If I’d never met him as Tyler, I’d sell him out in a heartbeat—but the fact is, the guy I met on the mountain has been nothing but kind to me. Nothing but generous, gracious. Trusting.
The least I can do is let him explain himself.
You didn’t wake me, I was just lost in work , I continue. I could use your help if you’re still up for it? Puffin jumped on my wrist and it’s not feeling great
His reply is immediate: Perfect. Went ahead and started on a batch of Belgian waffles… could totally eat them all on my own… would rather share if you want to come over :)
And then, in another bubble that quickly pops up, he says, I’ll come feed Puffin first, though. Be right there
Our first day on the slopes, he said I looked familiar. Now I know why.
Has he put it together yet that I’m the same journalist who interviewed him years ago? The one who asked him the question about walking away? He must have met hundreds of girls back then. Thousands, maybe.
If he were to figure out where he recognizes me from, would he say anything? Or would he be too afraid to bring it up?
There’s a knock at my door. Puffin lifts his head, ears perking up.
“Sorry, buddy,” I tell him as I urge him gently off my lap.
I cannot let myself get any more invested in Tyler , I coach myself as I go to let him in.
Because what sort of future could there ever be for us, even if I ultimately decide to keep his secret for as long as I live?
For the first time, it occurs to me how incredibly lonely he must be after eight years of keeping himself hidden, and how hard it would be for him to resurface after all this time. No wonder he doesn’t make a habit out of having women over—
And what does that say about the fact that he let me in?
I whip the door open, find him in those thick charcoal sweatpants and the same light-green V-neck from last night, slightly rumpled.
He smiles, and it’s devastatingly beautiful.
And that’s when I realize: once you start falling, it’s nearly impossible to stop—you pick up speed, and you might flail a little to course-correct, but at the end of the day you find yourself in over your head.
“Hi,” I say, a blush creeping into my cheeks despite myself. Despite everything . “Come on in.”