Chapter 27
27
It’s blessedly silent outside Tyler’s front door when I finally head back to my place. No sign of Sebastian or River or Lauren.
I’m still reeling from the last twelve hours or so; I wish Chloe were here. She might not know how to fix anything, but she would most definitely make everything feel better.
Back in my own penthouse, still no sign of Lauren, I find my dead phone and plug it in. As soon as there’s even the tiniest hint of a charge, I initiate a FaceTime.
Chloe doesn’t pick up, but a text lights my screen almost immediately.
Finishing up a meeting right now, can I call you back in five?
Oh, right. It’s a regular weekday down in New York; of course she’s at work. They’re only getting rain today and not record-breaking amounts of snow.
Outside my own bedroom windows, it’s a gorgeous wonderland, a blanket of white as far as I can see. The Yeti continues to dump thick, puffy snowflakes over everything, and I have the strangest sensation that time has actually stopped—especially since Chloe’s five minutes turn into ten, and each feels eternal.
I pace my bedroom, anxious energy shadowing me with every step. An email alert on my phone makes me jump: it’s not Chloe calling me back, but it’s something to do while I wait.
When I check it out, I freeze.
It’s Aspen Underwood again, reaching out on behalf of Gloss—but it’s not just an innocuous follow-up.
It’s my worst nightmare.
To: Alix Morgan ([email protected])
From: Aspen Underwood ([email protected])
Subject: RE: Open Invitation
Hi again, Alix—
I hope this email finds you well! Just wanted to circle back in light of the posts that are popping up today on social.
There’s a fair bit of speculation going on about this photo posted by u/AnicaWithTheHotTea over on Dewdrops—seeing as you’re writing about Sebastian Green, I was wondering if you had any insight into the identity of the man on the far right? Everyone thinks he resembles Jett Beckett—and tbh, I agree—but we have a strict policy about verifying rumors before posting (unlike some of the tabloid outlets like Moondazzle), and I thought you might be my best hope of confirming them.
If you know anything and are willing to go on record about it and give us an exclusive interview, please reach out ASAP. Feel free to text or call—my number is below. We can pay you more than generously.
Best,
Aspen
Wait. What?
What photo is she talking about?
I tap on the link in her email, and my stomach turns to lead. I’ve just started reading the comments when Chloe finally calls me back. She’s at her office desk, using her work laptop.
“Whoa, Alix, are you okay?” she asks.
I blink, dazed.
“I… am not. No. Hold on just a second—”
I grab my own laptop so I can send her the post Aspen sent without leaving the call.
Her eyes shift away from the camera as she pulls up the link. I watch as she scans the post, her face morphing from perplexed to concerned in a heartbeat.
A minute later, she gasps—
Presumably, she’s just gotten to the comment I was reading when her call interrupted: Friend of a friend took the shot at some resort up in Vermont. Said this guy’s going by Tyler, so I did a deep dive… I found a review that mentions a ski instructor named Tyler Fox at Black Maple Lodge up in Stowe!
That isn’t even the thing that’s making me feel like I might throw up.
There’s only one person who could have taken this picture. Only one person who could have shared this picture.
“Hang on just a second, let me close my door.” Chloe disappears from the screen, then flops back into her desk chair a moment later. “So, uh—Alix—is there something you’ve been meaning to tell me?”
My cheeks turn to fire immediately.
“I had no idea Sebastian would be here—”
“You know I’m not talking about Sebastian. Tyler—Tyler Fox—your ski instructor ?”
“Okay, please don’t be mad.” I close my eyes, make a gut decision. Chloe is not my sister; Chloe is worthy of my trust. If I believe anything right now, it has to be that. “I only just figured it out, and I wanted to tell you, but it really didn’t feel like my secret to tell. But then Lauren showed up last night unannounced—and then Sebastian showed up at my door this morning, also unannounced—and I have no idea when Lauren snapped that photo or why she would share it, but now the whole world is putting it together and I’ve even already gotten an email asking me to confirm the rumors.”
Chloe shakes her head in awe. “I… don’t even know where to begin with all that. She seriously shared it without even talking to you first?”
“Right?! What was she thinking?”
“Sounds like she wasn’t thinking,” Chloe says. “And I’m not mad at you, by the way—I get why you didn’t tell me. Honestly, I’m impressed you were even able to keep a secret like that.”
This right here: this is why I wish Chloe were here right now instead of Lauren.
From the far end of the penthouse, I hear the faint click of the front door.
I glance behind me instinctively, even though it isn’t physically possible for Lauren to have made it all the way into my bedroom in the last half second.
“I think she just got back,” I whisper, exaggerating my words in case Chloe can’t make them out well enough.
“Good luck,” she whispers back with a grimace. “Text me later?”
“You know I will.”
When we end the call, the post fills my screen like a punch in the gut. Lauren’s photo is so perfect it’s almost staged—an unmistakably clear shot of Sebastian, River, and Tyler as if they’re all characters in some kind of sitcom. Tyler’s face is a mess of disbelief and confusion, much more reminiscent of his trademark Jett Beckett scowl than his laid-back ski instructor vibe.
And the comments.
The comments are wild.
Some people in the mix should work for the CIA, that’s how good they are at tracking down personal information—though the whole screaming-it-for-the-entire-world thing would probably be a nonstarter for their careers as secret agents.
“Knock, knock!” Lauren says brightly, not actually knocking on my bedroom doorjamb. She’s carrying two takeout coffees, one in each hand. “Brought you a maple latte, but you can have my vanilla one if that sounds better. I wasn’t sure what you liked.”
I stare at her like she’s sprouted an extra head.
“Um… is everything okay?” Her face twists in confusion.
I think she legitimately has no idea. No clue what she started by coming to the resort—by taking that photo and sending it to whoever she sent it to.
“Maple latte sounds good,” I say evenly, reaching out. “Thanks.”
It’s hot and sweet and comforting, exactly what I need right now.
Lauren sinks onto the bed beside me, one leg curled up underneath her.
“What’s going on?” she asks, eyeing me over the top of her latte. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
I scroll up to make sure the Dewdrops post is fully visible, then hand my phone over. Her eyes widen when she realizes what it is. What’s happened.
She looks up at me, panicked.
“I only told two people, I swear! And I told them not to share it! I have no idea who this person is who posted it.”
“What did you think would happen? Of course they shared it. Of course it’s going viral—no one has seen or heard from Jett Beckett for almost a decade, Lauren!”
“I didn’t tell them it was him! And sorry, but, like, don’t you spread celebrity news for a living? How is this any different?”
“It’s entirely different,” I fire back, even though there’s probably more overlap than I’m ready to admit. “I am acting in a professional capacity. I don’t upend people’s private lives without their permission, for one thing.”
“I didn’t, though—I told them you’d introduced him as Tyler, not Jett.”
I close my eyes, take a deep breath. How can she not see the way that detail only made things worse?
“All that did was give people a name to search in this part of Vermont. Do you not see how this photo could ruin his life? Did you even once stop to think that maybe he had good reasons for disappearing and no intention of ever resurfacing?”
“I’m sorry, okay?” she says, flailing a little bit; some of her latte sloshes out onto my white duvet. “I was just a little shocked to see so many famous people right outside your door—I had a fangirl moment and my brain blanked out. I had to tell someone about it. Thanks for trusting me, by the way. Did they say you’re writing a book with Sebastian Green? Is that why you were always working so much back in New York?”
“This is exactly why I didn’t tell you,” I say, trying not to focus on the latte stain seeping into the luxe fabric. “And yes, it’s why I was always trying to work so much. It’s why I should still be working now. I’m on a huge deadline.”
Her eyes grow steely.
“You could have told me, you know. I would have been really, really happy for you—and it would have made a lot more sense why you were always hiding out in your room instead of hanging out with me, just like you did when we were kids.”
If she meant that to sting, well, mission accomplished.
“I know what happened today isn’t the best example, but I’m actually pretty good at keeping secrets,” she goes on. “Like, did you know Ian lost his job last fall and has been getting help from Mom and Dad?”
I—wow. No, I very much did not know that.
“Didn’t think so,” she says. “And did you know Mom actually got a job to help cover Ian’s expenses? It’s a huge reason I applied for the internship in New York, so I could finally start earning my own money instead of relying on them all the time. I wasn’t sure Mom would even be able to get a job—she applied at, like, five different places the summer after my sixth-grade year, and literally no one gave her the time of day because she didn’t have much on her résumé. Things were tight back then, but we just ended up cutting back on a lot until Dad got his new job.”
All of this is news to me.
I was almost done with college that summer, already working in entertainment journalism. It was around that time that my parents started making comments: that I should consider something more stable, something more lucrative.
Those comments always felt like judgment and disapproval, but this new information—what they went through, how tight things were even with my dad’s steady paycheck—makes me think maybe they were sincerely trying to be supportive, protective. Maybe it just came out wrong and I had no context to hear it in any other way. It’s a lot to process.
“I’ve always thought you were so amazing, Alix,” she says sharply, a dagger to my heart. “Living in New York, writing articles about celebrities—you’ve always made it look so easy. You’ve always known exactly who you are, exactly what you want. And I wanted to be like that, too. I still want to be that way. But, like, finding out you don’t trust me? It hurts .”
The dagger twists.
“Can you blame me?” I counter. “What happened today is exactly why I didn’t tell you. Why I didn’t tell anyone .”
“You didn’t even tell me you were working on a book. You didn’t tell me anything! I’m your sister. Sisters are supposed to be close.”
I sigh. “I’m not saying we can’t be close. I’m just saying, the fact that this happened at all is why I was afraid to tell anyone. You took one picture and shared it with the wrong people—and now it’s out there forever.”
“I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry I ruined everything.” Abruptly, Lauren stands. “I need some space.”
This conversation isn’t over, but if she wants space, she can have it. She’s stuck here for the foreseeable future thanks to all the snow—we’ll talk again later.
I could use some space myself.
“I’m going to Tyler’s,” I announce too loudly, startling Puffin.
Lauren says nothing as I rip my charging cable out of my phone and tug on my boots. She picks at her chipped nail polish, not even bothering to look up when I leave.
Has Tyler heard there are rumors yet? Surely he hasn’t seen them firsthand since he doesn’t have social media.
I knock on his door, but he doesn’t answer, so I try again. When he still doesn’t answer, I send a text.
It’s just me , I type out in a hurry. Come let me in?
But a minute passes, then two, and he doesn’t text me back. Maybe his phone is dead like mine was?
Something feels wrong. It’s quiet—too quiet. No signs of life, no sounds of his guitar. Nothing. Is it possible he managed to slip out of the building without anyone spotting him?
He’s kept himself hidden for eight years, I remind myself. I guess anything is possible.
I give up after ten minutes, my gut full of dread. Where is he? Why isn’t he answering? I could try Julie or River, I guess, see if they know anything. If he knows that photo is circulating, they would have been the ones to tell him.
I turn around, intending to head to the elevator, but my own door catches my eye instead: there’s an envelope taped to it. I definitely missed it on my way out.
My hands shake as I open it, as I pull out the handwritten note.
Alix,
I’m so sorry. You were the best thing to happen to me in years, and nothing in me wants this to be over. I need to go clear my head. If we don’t see each other again, I know you’ll understand why—I just hope you’ll forgive me.
Love,
T
What?
Excuse me, what ?
I read it three times before it fully sinks in. Tyler isn’t simply out for a few minutes—it sounds like he doesn’t intend to come back.
On my fourth read, the word if hits me in a new, more hopeful way: if we don’t see each other again.
If means there’s a chance, however small, that this isn’t the end for us. Every instinct in him might be telling him to run, to hide, to start over again—but maybe he’s trying to fight it this time. Maybe there’s a part of him, deep down, that wants to resurface.
Wishful thinking, I know. I’m not biased at all .
I have to find him—he can’t have gotten far in this snowstorm.
But if he’s not here, where is he? And how did he get out without being spotted by the paparazzi drone from earlier? If it’s not circling like a vulture already, on high alert for any sign of him, it will be soon.
I have to get to him first.