The Lodge

Chapter 20

20

I spend the day engrossed in my work, camping out at the café for far longer than I mean to. Makenna brings me a fruit and cheese platter at one point, along with a flaky butter croissant.

I write and I write and I write, trying my very best to do justice to Sebastian’s perspective without letting my own spill out onto the page.

I haven’t heard from him since our video call—he never responded to my text asking when he might want to meet up here in Vermont.

Now, though, I’m thinking a face-to-face meeting might be a very bad idea.

What if he and Tyler see each other? Aside from the obvious, that their relationship was nothing but contentious, it would put me in an extremely awkward position: both of them would find out I’ve been keeping secrets.

That the book I’m writing is about Tyler’s biggest rival and the band that made his life miserable.

That I know exactly where Jett Beckett ended up but haven’t breathed a word about it to Sebastian, even though the mystery has tormented him for years.

That I would be inviting Sebastian straight to Tyler’s doorstep, knowing full well how it could risk—could ruin —the privacy Tyler sacrificed his whole life for.

But.

A huge reason I’m here at all is so Sebastian and I have a private place to meet up in person. I feel professionally obligated to touch base with him, even if it’s only to tell him I’m making good progress and that sticking to video calls is perfectly fine with me. And if he insists on coming? I have a feeling he won’t—but at least I could plan around it, if so. Get Tyler to leave while he’s here, make sure Chloe schedules her visit for some other time.

Hi, Sebastian , I type out. Wanted to check in and see if you’ve figured out yet when you might want to meet up here in Vermont? If you have too much going on, I think another video call or two would suffice… the book is coming along well!

Predictably, he does not write back right away.

I set my phone down and look up to find the sky has grown dark outside the panoramic window. There are no other customers in the café—I’m the only one spending her Saturday night on a date with her laptop, apparently.

My phone buzzes on the table. Could Sebastian really have written back so soon?

Of course not.

It’s Tyler, and his text makes me smile.

Meant to check in much earlier, but I’ve been booked solid. How’s the wrist?

My stomach growls so loudly he probably heard it all the way back at his penthouse. The cheese and fruit and croissant were lovely—but they were just enough to trick me into thinking I’d had an actual dinner and not just a glorified snack plate.

Also, it’s past nine o’clock, and that snack was four hours ago.

The wrist is doing much better, thanks. I’ve been at the cafe for approx two million years

Sounds like a good work day , he writes back.

Productive day before I died of exhaustion , I reply.

His next message is a modified emoticon— :)))) —like he doesn’t know the emoji keyboard exists. I don’t know why I find it so charming.

How about you? I write. Good day on the mountain?

I am also currently dead , he replies.

Didn’t know ghosts could text

I’m a ghost of many talents, Alix.

It was a pretty last day, at least

SO pretty , he replies. I lost count of how many runs I did this afternoon. Some double blacks, some regular blacks. Too many greens. One of my clients had a pretty bad fall today

Hopefully your client was more graceful than I was last night…

I’m becoming a regular at the medical center for all the wrong reasons , he writes back. Doc gave me a hard time about it lmao

Are there ever any *good* reasons to become a regular in the medical center?

Very good point

So are they okay? Your client?

Torn ACL , he writes. Hate to see it. Especially because the guy insisted on trying a black, but he wasn’t ready for it. Told him I didn’t feel comfortable taking him up, so he went on his own after our lesson was over. Found him struggling at the bottom, he could hardly walk

Yikes , I reply. It reminds me of the guy I dated in college who tore his ACL under eerily similar circumstances.

Yeah :(

Sounds like a pretty good day otherwise with all the skiing, though? I’ve just been working

It was awesome otherwise, yeah , he writes. Super sore now, though

Wow, ski instructors get sore, too? I thought pros were immune to that sort of stuff

Shhhh , he replies. Don’t tell anyone. It could ruin our image

Sounds like you need a massage

I’ve just hit send when I realize it sounds a lot like I’m offering to give him one rather than suggesting he go see someone at the resort’s spa, which—

I mean—

I would.

Give him a massage, that is.

Wouldn’t say no to that , he replies. But if your wrist hurts too much, no worries :)))

I blink at my phone screen.

It’s an open invitation. The image of him shirtless flickers across my memory—taut muscles under smooth skin—and the idea of my hands, my hands on him —

My wrist still hurts if I twist it the wrong way, but it’s been mostly good this afternoon.

The idea is too tempting to resist.

Let me pack up my work , I write back. I’ll come over

The path back to our building is more crowded than usual: cozy couples walking hand in hand; a group of teenage girls who look very copy/paste right down to their matching to-go cups of cocoa; the occasional resort staff member dressed in uniform. Saturday night is in full swing, and I suddenly find myself with plans just like everyone else.

I almost back out at least twice on my walk over.

When I’m talking with Tyler, or texting with him, it’s easy to forget his past; his warmth is magnetic, and he makes me feel so comfortable in my own skin.

When the talking and texting ends, in the silence, I remember.

I remember all the things he ran from. All the people he left in the dark, worrying and wondering and making theories—making accusations. I don’t entirely understand it, not yet.

But I want to.

Was it really his only option to make himself disappear like he did? Would he ever make himself disappear again if things got too hard?

Does he ever regret what he did?

I can tell myself all day long that it’s a bad idea to get close to someone with a history like his—someone who chose to run, to leave everything behind—but what it comes down to is that I like him. I like him a lot .

Which is why, I’ve decided, I’m going to just come out and ask him about it.

I want to hear him defend it. Need to hear him defend it, especially if I intend to continue keeping his secret. I haven’t entirely made up my mind yet on what to do about that—I could justify my decision either way—so this conversation will hopefully be the tipping point.

The elevator opens, and there he is, leaning against the wall outside my door, freshly showered and smelling like a dream of shampoo and soap and cologne. He’s wearing a different pair of comfy pants this time—black joggers, thinner fabric than his thick charcoal ones—and a light gray V-neck.

“Hi,” he says with the sort of shy smile that seems impossibly at odds with the fact that he’s a world-famous pop star.

There’s already a fire blazing in his living room fireplace, and the Edison bulbs give the place an extra-cozy feel. It’s too warm in here for all the layers I’m wearing, so I tear off my cropped lavender hoodie and the long-sleeved base layer underneath it, leaving only a black tank top paired with dark teal yoga pants.

“Would you like a drink or anything?” he calls out from the kitchen as I check out his collection of novels on the bookshelf. He was not kidding about liking spy thrillers. “Wine or a cocktail?”

I join him in the kitchen, see an unopened sauvignon blanc he’s clearly pulled straight from the fridge.

He notices me eyeing it. “That one’s one of my favorites,” he says, pulling two wineglasses down from a nearby cabinet.

A few minutes later, we’re sitting together on his leather couch. The fire radiates heat, the wine is crisp and chilled, and we’re also splitting some pita and hummus he had on hand since I sort of forgot to eat a real dinner.

Every sip of wine infuses me with more courage.

Unfortunately, every sip of wine also makes me want to forget talking altogether. I’m ready to get to the massage I promised—and maybe more—

But if I don’t bring it up soon, I might never work up the nerve.

Maybe I should just do both at once. All intimidating conversations go down smoother with a side of massage—that’s a saying, right?

In the end, I decide to just dive in before I change my mind.

“Your laptop bag is monogrammed,” I say as casually as I can manage. TJB . “I realized earlier that you never told me your last name.”

It’s possible that I practiced this intro in my head on the walk over. I know what the ski school says his last name is… but he doesn’t know that I know.

His gorgeous eyes meet mine, and everything moves in slow motion: the flicker of panic that’s there and then gone—the muscle in his jaw that subtly twitches—the way he seems to be weighing his options.

Truth or lie.

Truth or dare.

What he does now will make or break any chance of a future with him. Will he lie to me? I’ve given him a wide-open door here, the perfect chance to confess his secrets before things go any further between us. If I had to guess, he’s thinking about how his name on Black Maple Lodge’s ski school pamphlet is Tyler Fox and how he probably wishes the B in the monogram looked just a little bit more worn so he could explain away the discrepancy.

“It was a gift from my mom when I was in high school, but someone screwed up the monogram,” he finally says, and I’m sure— sure —he’s about to lie to me until he glances down at the bag and then back up to me and says, “The B should be in the middle.”

His eyes on me are intense.

Intensely honest.

Intensely intimate.

“Because your last name isn’t Fox,” I say quietly, daring him to look away.

Daring him to lie.

He knows I know. I can tell—he knows.

“I remember meeting you before,” I add while I still have the nerve, direct but not unkind. “When you had another name.”

I wait for him to deny it.

He doesn’t.

I’m fairly certain he still hasn’t placed me—the world really must have been a blur to him at the height of his fame—so I slip my phone out, scroll until I find the voice memo I saved all those years ago.

It only takes two seconds of playback for the recognition to hit.

“Shit, shit, holy shit. Alix. That was you ?”

I’m stunned.

Not a single hint of denial—or explanation—but instead, concern for me is all over his face. His thick brows knit together. I’ve never seen him this serious, not as Tyler. And when he was this serious as Jett, he never seemed this sincere or this kind.

“I remember you too,” he says. “You look a lot different now, though.”

I laugh. “You’re one to talk.”

His eyes are still searching mine, scanning my face for hints that remind him of that day. But he’s not the only one who’s changed his look since then—I ditched my dark hair color eight years ago, ditched the blunt bangs a year after that. When it all grew out, I ditched my flat iron, too—or, at least, I stopped using it to straighten my hair. Now I use it to make my trademark beach waves instead.

“I’ve never forgotten that interview,” he says slowly, carefully. “What you said to me.”

His eyes gleam in the glow of the firelight, the Edison bulbs.

“It was the worst day. The worst week in the worst month. I was drowning—and I know that’s no excuse for how I treated you—but the world felt heavy and twisted and nothing like anyone promised it would be. And then I remember you asking me something like, ‘Why don’t you just leave?’?”

He blinks rapidly, like he’s trying to clear his eyes—he’s held so much in for so long—and then he looks straight at me.

“It was a lifeline.”

His words are a whip, snapping the world into focus.

“It seemed so simple when you said it. ‘Why don’t you just leave?’ Like it was easy. I remember feeling so alone in that moment—so angry, so trapped. It was the most ludicrous thing anyone could have suggested, especially in the middle of that tour, and the contract we had for three more albums and three more world tours, and the press commitments, and so many pointless dinners, and every single minute of every single day being scheduled out for the next five years.”

His voice is a tightrope about to snap, his bitterness and resentment the most tenuous connection to the past. Still, there’s a tenderness to his tone that tells me it isn’t me making him feel bitter or resentful—it’s the memory of everything he left behind.

“But to you, it was simple. ‘Just leave.’ I didn’t think I should have to, obviously,” he goes on. “I knew no one would want me to, that no one would ever allow it. Our manager, Jason—his wife had just left him because of the band, the person it had turned him into. None of us liked him much except Seb, but of course Seb liked him, because Jason played favorites and Seb was his. I hated that. The more I thought about it that night, the idea of just—just leaving —wouldn’t leave me alone. It seemed impossible. I didn’t see how it could ever work. And that made me want it more than anything.”

His words are a flood, like he’s actually wanted to talk about it all this time but never knew how to start.

“What I’m trying to say is—thank you.” He looks down at his hands, and then back up at me. “Thank you for the question that saved my life, and for never releasing that interview even though I was so rude to you. I’m so, so sorry, Alix. I hope you know I’m not the same person I was back then—I tried to leave behind more than just my name.”

I don’t know what to say, not to any of it.

He’s basically just confirmed that it was my question that sparked his decision to disappear—when I listened back over that interview, I guess I just assumed the timing had been coincidental.

It’s a lot to process.

“Tyler Jett Beckett,” he says now, and I tuck it away like the secret it is. “That’s what the monogram was meant to represent.”

His gaze locks with mine.

“In eight years,” he goes on, “you’re the only person I’ve ever actually told . Riv and Jules know, of course—but they helped me get out, start over. They know because they lived it with me.”

I set my wine on the side table, shift as close on the couch as I can get without sitting on top of him. I’m facing him, one knee tucked up to my chest. I could kiss him right now, easily—but there are still things left unsaid.

“Thank you for telling me,” I say. “For trusting me.”

He breathes out a little half laugh. “Of all the people in the world to figure it out,” he says, shaking his head, “an entertainment journalist . Because of course.”

I tense on instinct.

Can he tell that one of my first impulses when I realized the truth was to sell him out?

Honestly, if he’d lied to me tonight, I would have felt more inclined to do precisely what entertainment journalists do: send a splashy article out into the internet with the intent of making his incredibly juicy gossip go viral.

But the fact is, he told me the truth. He trusted me.

Which makes everything feel more complicated.

This man has trusted literally no one but his two best friends in the last eight years —but he let me in. And while some aspects of my life might be easier if I were to betray that trust, I can’t help but wonder if I’d be happiest in the long run if I were to prove myself worthy of it instead.

“In all fairness,” I say, “only an entertainment journalist in exactly this situation would have had all the pieces to put it together like I did. So if it hadn’t been me, another one of us might have figured it out eventually.”

His smile is soft, subdued. “I’m glad it was you.”

“Me too,” I say, and then I can’t stop it—the force that pulls us together—and the next thing I know, his lips are on mine, and this kiss is full of more fire than any we’ve had yet, any I’ve had ever .

His hands find their way to my face, fingers tenderly tracing my jawline until they’re buried in my hair. He kisses me harder, harder still when I wrap my arms around him and pull him in closer. Everywhere I touch is soft cotton over pure muscle—his strong upper back, the defined curve of his shoulders, the smooth skin of his biceps just below the hem of his sleeve.

He returns the favor, his strong hands tracing the lines of my racerback tank down to my waist, and then to my hips.

“This okay?” he murmurs between kisses.

“Definitely okay,” I reply.

“And what about this?” he says, as he tugs me onto his lap so that I’m straddling him, my knees sinking into the soft leather couch, gravity pulling us even closer and reminding me there is very little fabric between us right now.

I nod, kiss him again. “Yeah,” I say. “It’s good.”

Very good, actually, but neither of us says another word, and we get lost like this, lost in each other. He doesn’t press for more than I’m ready to give—and as much as more would be fun (fun being the understatement of the century), I scrape together just enough self-control to stop before I get even more hopelessly entangled.

I want it. I want him .

But being worthy of his trust means his secret has to stay secret. I don’t know how any of this can ever exist outside the bubble of this penthouse, this resort.

I pull back, surprised to find myself blinking away tears. I’m not quick enough to hide them.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

I’m still on his lap, sitting back now, arms loosely draped around his neck. “I want this,” I say. “I want you . But… your life… we can’t…”

Tyler nods, like he gets what I mean but haven’t quite managed to say.

He presses his forehead against mine, his hands still resting lightly at my hips. I slide off his lap and tuck myself into his warm, strong body; he wraps an arm around me and pulls me even closer, his breath hot in my hair as I curl into him.

We stay like this, quiet, for a long time.

He never gives me an answer because there isn’t one.