Chapter 21
21
For the next two days, all anyone can talk about is the weather. The local meteorologists have waited their entire careers for a storm like the one that’s supposed to hit later this week, predicted to be a blizzard to end all blizzards and an absolute monster —which has led to people dubbing it the Yeti.
The Yeti is supposed to arrive on Thursday—three days from now—and they’re saying it could drop as many as thirty, even forty , inches of snow here in our part of Vermont. I’m not a snow expert by any means, but even I know those are potentially record-breaking numbers.
I love a little snow… but not the kind that could keep Chloe from visiting. I’m hoping the Yeti will turn into a total nonevent, which is actually a possibility, according to a single hype-averse weatherman who insists it will bypass us entirely or fizzle to nothing. The forecast alone should be enough to keep Sebastian away for a bit longer, thankfully—not that I’ve heard from him. In a perfect world, this weekend would bring all the cozy vibes with none of the drama.
I haven’t seen Tyler since Saturday night. He was already booked for most of Sunday with private lessons and ended up over at the main lodge until well past midnight last night, helping Julie take care of last-minute food and supply orders after one of her assistants had to fly home for a family emergency. If hundreds of guests get stranded here for days, myself among them, it’s a relief to know the lodge is prepared to handle it.
I pull out my phone, type out a text to Chloe: Ugh… have you seen the forecast?
, she replies. THE TIMING
Let’s keep an eye on it…. I’ve gotten a lot done the last couple of days, so as long as the weather cooperates, I think this weekend will work for you to come visit!
brB, currently googling snowshoes and how long it would take to walk to Vermont if everything shuts down
The image of Chloe in snowshoes—the same Chloe who insists we get delivery instead of going out anytime the temperature dips below thirty degrees—makes me burst out laughing.
(Conclusion: WAY TOO LONG!!!!) , she types back before I can tell her I can’t even picture her snowshoeing to the coffee shop at the end of her block.
Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that, then! I reply, then add a GIF of a bundled-up guy trudging through a heavy blizzard.
I spent all of yesterday inside my own penthouse, so this morning, I’m working at my favorite café booth again. My wrist feels almost normal after all the ice and rest I gave it over the weekend, so I’m planning to draft at least one entire chapter today, maybe even two.
I feel uneasy over keeping my own secret—that it’s Sebastian’s book I’m writing—when Tyler gave me the whole truth about his. I try to brush that feeling off since it’s really not my place to tell, not my choice to keep quiet.
I’m convinced, after hearing Tyler’s side of things, that his rivalry with Sebastian wasn’t overblown by the media or just for show; that Tyler was absolutely miserable before he walked away from the band.
Now, listening to Sebastian get worked up about how moody Jett always was in rehearsals and how they could never agree on anything—which songs to record, which one of them would take lead vocals, and on and on—I feel a sort of defensiveness bubbling up in me. History did play out in Sebastian’s favor, much more than he acknowledges or maybe even realizes.
The songs Sebastian wanted to record were given priority.
The songs Sebastian sang lead on became the band’s singles.
The set lists for that final stretch of the last tour—now that I’m analyzing them—were weighted heavily with Sebastian songs at every single stop until the last one. Sebastian sang lead on twice as many songs as Jett, including at the now-iconic show where one of Sebastian’s songs got cut for time due to Jett’s insistence that they perform one of his songs instead—a twelve-minute version of “Que Será, Será,” with the rest of the guys backing him up from the shadows. Everyone lost their minds over that performance, it was that good. He was that good.
No one knew it at the time, but that would be Jett’s final show.
And his fight backstage with Sebastian—the one that went viral—would be their final fight.
It’s no wonder Sebastian took so much heat from the fandom when Jett disappeared. Everyone saw that fight, everyone heard the things they said to each other. The tension was so palpable, even over the internet, that I wouldn’t have been surprised if it’d broken my phone screen. I believe Sebastian when he says he has no idea what happened to Jett—especially in light of all I know now, that he’s alive and thriving here in Vermont—but I don’t think it’s a stretch to say that fight was Tyler’s breaking point, the catalyst for all that came next.
I sigh, take a sip of honey nut latte, and click over into my email for a break.
There are a few new things, but only a couple of them look important. The first is a brief note from our editor, just checking in. I dash off a quick reply, telling her everything’s going well and on schedule, how this change of scenery has been just what I needed to really focus on the book.
Back in my inbox, the subject line of the next email down catches my eye: Open Invitation .
I don’t recognize the sender’s name.
To: Alix Morgan ([email protected])
From: Aspen Underwood ([email protected])
Subject: Open Invitation
Hi Alix,
I’m the coordinator for all things entertainment at GlossMag.com, and I came across the announcement in Publishers Marketplace for the Sebastian Green memoir you’re working on (I know it’s a bit hush-hush that you’re ghostwriting for him, but publishing is a small world and I’ve got friends at your publishing house).
I’m sure you’ve signed an NDA and can’t spill details related to Sebastian or his story, but I wanted to extend an open invitation—if you come across any juicy bits of news that don’t fall under the NDA, please don’t hesitate to reach out! I read that you covered True North pretty extensively back when you worked at Starslinger Daily , so thought you might have picked up some insider info at some point along the way.
Wanted to be proactive in reaching out—just say the word (and name your price) and we’d love to break any news you think the public might be interested in.
All my best,
Aspen Underwood
I blink, taking in the email on my screen.
Gloss is a huge deal.
Like… definitely not spam, definitely not a scam. Definitely a household name, thanks to their massive social media presence and their uncanny ability to spill celebrity secrets without spinning outright lies. I absolutely believe they have the resources for me to name my price (??!!), and given their long track record of breaking celebrity news, it’s also not surprising that they’d go out of their way to hunt for potential leads like this. Searching the celebrity memoir section, digging for details about my own résumé as an entertainment journalist—it’s a lot of work.
It’s a lot of work, and they’re willing to pay .
Before, the thought of selling Tyler’s story was just some nebulous idea that could solve all my problems. This, though: this is an open invitation for me to share what I know with a reputable and respected site—and to get paid outrageously for it.
Honestly, I can’t say it isn’t tempting. But I’ve been feeling firmly on the side of keeping his secret ever since our talk…. Deep down, I think I’d regret it if I took Aspen up on her offer.
If my sister isn’t able to get her coworker out of my apartment, though—and if I get evicted over it—
I slam the laptop shut before I do something I can’t undo, then head up to the pastry case for a snack.
“How’s the work going?” Makenna asks after handing off a drink to whoever ordered before me.
“Ugh,” I say, scowling.
She laughs. “Sounds like something only a chocolate croissant can fix.”
“It does sound like something only a chocolate croissant can fix,” I agree. “How did you know?”
She pulls one from the case. “Warmed?”
“Isn’t that the only way?”
“You’d be surprised how many people just don’t want to wait,” she says. “Tyler’s one of them. He’ll get it hot one day, then cold the next. And speaking of—”
I follow her gaze to the door and find myself staring straight at Tyler as he walks inside. His eyes light up, and my cheeks turn pink at his obvious attention—and the guilt I feel over the email in my inbox.
“After all these years,” Makenna says in a low voice, “I finally know one thing he likes!” She gives me a pointed look before putting the croissant in the toaster oven.
Tyler joins me at the counter, gives me a shy smile.
I smile back, doing my very best to look innocent.
I am innocent, I remind myself. So why do I feel like such a traitor?
“What’ll it be today, Tyler?” Makenna asks.
“Surprise me,” he replies—to no one’s surprise.
Makenna smirks. “I’ll have it right out.”
“You don’t have to pay?” I ask as he follows me over to my table, where all my stuff is still spread out. Thank goodness I closed the laptop, so there’s no chance of him catching a glimpse of Sebastian’s name in Aspen’s email.
“Perk of working on-property,” he replies. “We get one free drink every day.”
“Okay, so how do I get a job at the resort?”
“I’m sure Jules could hook you up with one if you really wanted it for more than just the free coffee,” he says, grinning. His eyes study mine. “It’s good to see you. Thank you—for Saturday. For everything.”
He doesn’t have to get specific: it’s been almost two days, and his secret is still a secret.
“Speaking of Jules,” he goes on, “she and Riv know that you know. You might have noticed, but they are embarrassingly excited about the fact that I’ve taken you on a few dates—and—you can say no to this—they invited us to dinner at Jules’s place tomorrow night. It would be you and me, Jules and her husband, and Riv. Riv travels a lot, but he’s back to help out with storm prep this week.”
He looks so shy extending this invitation, definitely nervous. I guess it is the equivalent of meeting his family—and I’m the first person he’s ever let in on his secret.
Maybe I’m the one who should be nervous.
Makenna comes over with my croissant and—I do a double take at the latte she sets before Tyler. There are Froot Loops on top.
Tyler raises his eyebrows. “This… is new…”
Makenna laughs. “Triple vanilla latte with a Froot Loop garnish, extra hot. Oh, and the milk is infused with Froot Loops, too—I let some soak in the fridge this morning since I figured you’d be in at some point.”
“You,” Tyler says, taking a sip and giving nothing away about how he likes it, “have a special talent.”
“I’m taking that as a compliment!” she sings as she heads back toward her station.
“It actually is really good,” Tyler admits when it’s just us. “A bit on the sweet side. Want to try it?”
I take a sip, and wow, yeah, it’s really sweet, even for me. But not bad?
“I’m surprised you like this, Mr. Naked Salad,” I say, maybe the most awkward sentence that’s ever come out of my mouth.
He laughs. “I wouldn’t put it past her to make me a spinach cappuccino one day, honestly.”
“Isn’t that just called a smoothie?”
“Not when it’s hot and has espresso in it,” he says. “I think we’ve just invented the worst beverage idea in history.”
“With soy milk,” I add, laughing so hard I snort, which makes him laugh even harder.
“And nutmeg,” he says.
“Stop it!”
“And—wait for it— croutons .”
I’m in true danger of choking on my chocolate croissant; I close my eyes, focus on getting it down the right way. When I open them, there’s Tyler, eyes bright, beaming.
“So let me see if I have this right,” I say, now that I can speak again. “You actually do have preferences, but you let her make you whatever she wants just to mess with her.”
“Correct,” he says. “But wait, she actually told you I don’t have preferences?”
“She said she’s been trying for years to crack what you like and what you don’t. You’re such a closed book—you change the subject whenever it gets too close to something real.”
He glances behind him, making sure we’re still in the clear.
“I didn’t think anyone paid enough attention to notice,” he says quietly.
“Well, she did. And so did I.”
He studies me for a moment, eye contact so intense it makes me want to sweep everything off this table so I can climb over it and into his lap.
“I’m glad you did,” he finally says.
“Me too.” I glance down, then meet his eyes again. “And I’d love to do dinner with your friends. If you’re ready for that.”
“The only thing I’m not ready for is how much shit they’re going to give me over the fact that I’ve finally invited someone to one of our group dinners,” he says. “But they’ll give me shit no matter what, so it might as well be for a good reason this time.”
“Can I ask—after all these years of not going out with anyone, why did you pick me?”
I’ve been dying to know. And it suddenly feels important that I know, given the temptation in my inbox.
“Honestly? It was your cat. And the fact that you were staying next door at all.”
Of all the reasons he could’ve given, I admit that my cat is not one I ever expected.
“You asked me out… because of Puffin?”
He laughs, like he’s only just now hearing how ridiculous it sounds.
“Riv owns the penthouse you’re staying in,” he explains. “No one ever stays there, so when I saw you that day waiting for the elevator, I knew you had to be someone special. Someone Riv had personally allowed into his space. And then when you told me they’d said yes to your cat —it just surprised me, is all. They only let me have a goldfish, and I’ve known them my entire life.”
I try my best to cover my surprise: all this time, Sebastian has acted like it was his penthouse to share with me.
The fact that it belongs to River instead brings up so many questions.
River has to know I’m writing Sebastian’s memoir, right? To allow a stranger to stay in one of his personal penthouses for a solid month—wouldn’t he have to know? Surely Sebastian would have told him when asking for the favor.
Why would River say yes to an entertainment journalist moving in next door to his best friend—his best friend who’s gone to great lengths to make himself disappear—all while continuing to keep his secret?
It doesn’t make any sense.
“I still can’t believe they only let you have a goldfish,” I finally say.
It’s all I can manage.
“In Pete’s defense, he is a very companionable goldfish,” Tyler replies, not missing a beat, and I laugh.
Something he said earlier nags at me.
“You said I seemed like someone special because River had personally allowed me into his space,” I say, “but at some point you must have figured out that I don’t actually know River.”
The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Riv and Jules get requests all the time for people to stay at the resort,” he says. “Travel writers, athletes, food critics—all strangers, but almost always notable in some way or another. They usually stay over at the main lodge or in one of the lower suites.” He shrugs. “I figured Riv knew someone at your publisher and that’s why you got extra-special treatment—all he told me was that you were a writer with a good reputation.”
It’s all I can do to keep from blurting out that Sebastian Green is the someone who reached out to River for said “extra-special treatment”—but revealing that little detail would most definitely be in violation of the NDA I signed. Not to mention how it has the potential to set off an avalanche of drama between River and Tyler, and I’d rather not get caught up in it.
“Speaking of River,” Tyler says, “I happened to mention your laptop disaster, and—”
From his backpack, he pulls a shiny rose-gold MacBook Air.
It looks brand-new.
“He wants you to have it.”
I look at the laptop, then back to Tyler, then at the laptop again.
“River… bought me a new computer?”
“Apparently, people send him free stuff all the time—perk of being a social media influencer, I guess.” He grins. “He said he had a couple of extras on hand and it’s yours if you want it.”
“Um, yes, I want it.” I’m in a little bit of shock right now. “He doesn’t want anything in return?”
River planted me right next door to Tyler, knowing full well that I’m an entertainment journalist working on Sebastian’s book—and now he’s dropping a brand-new laptop into my life so I can continue working on said book?
Interesting.
“Riv’s got a whole closet full of stuff he’s not sure what to do with,” Tyler says. “You’re actually doing him a favor by taking it.”
“Well, tell him I’m happy to help,” I say, laughing, even though I can’t help but wonder if there’s more to it than that.
More to it than Tyler knows.
“You can tell him yourself when you meet him tomorrow night,” Tyler says, and that’s when it hits me: I’m going to meet River Wu— tomorrow .
I could take or leave his celebrity status, and the fact that all the True North guys are pop culture legends. But the thing that’s giving me a sudden surge of nerves is that I’m going to be meeting Tyler’s lifelong best friend.
The guy he wouldn’t join the band without—
The guy who helped him disappear—
The guy who invited Tyler’s mortal enemy’s ghostwriter to live in the penthouse next door.
So much for not getting in over my head.