Chapter 30
30
I’m halfway back down the mountain, staring off into the haze of snow, when my phone buzzes in my hand.
Chloe.
“We’ve got a problem,” she says as soon as I answer. “More stuff has popped up—are you alone right now?”
I sit a little straighter.
“Yeah. Why?”
“One of these stupid tabloid posts has a picture of you. Well, I know it’s you—but it’s just the back of your head. And, uh, you’re with Tyler. They’re calling you his ‘mystery girl.’?”
Oh no .
That drone we saw must have gotten something after all.
“Has anyone gone on record to confirm the Jett Beckett rumors yet?” I ask. “Check Gloss specifically. They seem really invested in breaking the story.” I saw the follow-up from Aspen as soon as the gondola doors closed.
“I’m not seeing anything there or anywhere else yet, no,” Chloe says. “But Alix, I’m worried about you —do you have any sort of hat, or, like… sunglasses?”
I snort.
“As in the classic celebrity disguise? Because that always works.”
“Hey, it might help,” she says, laughing. “Here, I’ll send you the link. I just don’t want people to, like, mob you. You know the truth. They want the truth. They’re snowed in with nothing better to do—I feel like they’ll do anything to get to you since they can’t get to Tyler.”
She’s right.
I hate that she’s right.
I’ve never been on this side of celebrity news before: in the story, not just writing it.
It feels way more invasive than I ever imagined, and I haven’t even left the quiet cocoon of this gondola yet—I know it doesn’t hold a candle to what Tyler’s been through, but even just the idea of people trying to track me down makes my skin crawl.
“Promise you’ll be careful?” she says.
“I will. Thanks, Chlo.”
“Always. Just wish I could do more from here.”
When we’re off the call, I check out the link she sent over. I can tell it’s me, but other than my back and hair, there are no identifying details. I do wish I’d grabbed a hat before leaving in such a rush earlier—a hair tie, anything.
I sigh, leaning back. I’m almost at the bottom of the mountain, and then I’ll have to make it all the way through the village and back to my penthouse without being recognized. My one consolation right now is that my face didn’t make it into any photos. Also, Gloss hasn’t posted anything Jett Beckett–related yet, so I suspect they’re still awaiting confirmation from their “promising source.”
For now.
Which means—maybe—there’s still time for me to convince said source to stay quiet.
Even though Lauren leaked the original photo that started this whole mess, I don’t believe she’d share more about it, especially not after our conversation earlier. And besides, how would Gloss have known to reach out to her? She’s no celebrity, and not obviously connected to the situation unless you dig pretty deep. Could Aspen have approached more obvious sources—namely, River or Sebastian—like she did with me? I could see either of them selling Tyler out: River, since he set this entire thing in motion in the first place—or Sebastian, because he was blindsided by it all.
I take a shot in the dark, follow my gut.
Can we talk? I type out to Sebastian. Meet at the penthouse ASAP?
I keep my head down and walk as quickly as I can through the village. I pass the café, busier than before, more people out doing things now that the worst of the storm has passed. A few resort guests mill around the ice-skating rink and along the sidewalks—fortunately, they’re mostly looking at their phones, probably scrolling social media in pursuit of their next Jett Beckett leads. I manage to make it past all of them without sparking anyone’s attention.
Just outside my own building, though, a larger group has assembled by the front door—which they clearly assume is the only door. I nod hello, figuring it would look blatantly suspicious if I just ignored them, and keep going until I’m well past them. The path curves past the far side of the building; I dart around the corner and head for the private penthouse entrance, which—mercifully—is both unmarked and unattended.
I slip inside as fast as I can.
Back in the penthouse, I find Lauren right where I left her: sitting on my bed, staring at her phone, scowling. Puffin is stretched out beside her, his soft fur pressed up against her leg.
She must have moved at some point, though. The stain from her latte earlier has all but disappeared, only a faint hint of brown remaining.
“Hey,” I say, settling onto the bed. “Thanks for cleaning the duvet.”
Finally she looks up.
Her eyes are red and puffy, as if she spent a decent portion of the time I was gone in tears.
“I’m so sorry,” she says, her voice barely more than a whisper. She holds her phone up, shakes her head. “I really didn’t know it would turn into all this. I’m so sorry, Alix. I wish I had never taken that photo. I wish I could fix it.”
For as much trouble as she’s caused, my heart still breaks to see her upset: she’s my little sister, after all.
“Do I even want to know what people are saying?” I ask.
“About him or about you?”
“I don’t want to know anything they’re saying about me.” I make a mental note to throw my phone over the edge of my balcony at some point in the near future. “But what about Tyler?”
“Lots of speculation—tons of people who believe he truly is Jett Beckett, others who argue he can’t be because he looks too different. Some people are also being kind of mean, saying he’s a selfish coward if it really is him. And then there are some who think we should leave celebrities alone and let them make their own choices.”
I snort. “If only.”
Even as I say it, though, I recognize that I’m part of the problem. Writing about celebrities has been my literal job for years: had I been on the other end of it before now— in the headlines, not just writing them—I might have thought twice about some of the articles I submitted for publication.
Lauren wasn’t altogether off base when she asked how what she’d done was any different from the work I do every day.
“But yeah,” she goes on, idly stroking Puffin’s fur. “I can see why Tyler just wants to hide in a hole forever.”
I hate the idea of Tyler thinking his only options are to live a miserably public life… or to run and hide and somehow try to reinvent himself again. And I hate that I finally, after all these years, opened myself up to someone—someone incredible —only for it to fall apart like this.
It isn’t about me, I remind myself. If anything, everything that went down between us today is proof that he cares quite a lot, even if the reality of him leaving feels like the opposite.
Tyler didn’t have to leave a note. Didn’t have to word it in such a way that hinted at where to find him. Surely he could have found some way to leave the resort, even in this weather—cross-country skis exist for a reason, and I know they have some at the ski school. He could have headed off the beaten path and made himself disappear without a trace.
Without a goodbye.
But he stayed. He stayed long enough, at least, for us to talk one last time… and maybe I’m wrong, but I think that has to count for something.
At the end of the day, though, it was a goodbye.
It’s the fact that I’ll never see him again—that he’ll never again make me laugh, or make me dinner, or kiss me late into the night in front of a blazing fire—he’ll never take me up to look at the stars, or buy me a pretzel bigger than my face, or confide his deepest hopes and fears—
It’s that I can’t get over.
I understand his choice. And I know he doesn’t want to hurt me.
It doesn’t stop it from hurting.
“I’m moving back home,” Lauren says suddenly. “To Iowa.”
The abrupt subject change throws me for a loop. “Like—after your internship?”
“Like, after this weekend,” she says, eyes low. “Everything I’ve touched since I moved to New York has… just… fallen apart. I’m terrible at my internship. I’m terrible at knowing who to trust—and you might get evicted because of that. The people I thought were my friends are obviously not. But I really did think I could trust the ones I texted, Alix, I never would have sent that photo otherwise. I thought they’d just fangirl with me, you know?”
She takes a deep, shaky breath.
“And I’ve totally screwed things up with you when all I ever wanted was to get to know you better. For you to finally see me as an adult—someone you might want to spend time with, be friends with, if I ended up living in New York for good like you one day.” Her eyebrows knit together. “But I just don’t know if I’m cut out for it. For any of it.”
Her gaze flicks up to meet mine.
“For… a really long time now,” she goes on, “I have been intensely afraid that I have no idea how to take care of myself.” She makes a face, looks away. “I thought doing the internship would help me get over my fear, help me prove that I’m capable of making it in a city like New York. Mom’s always bragging about you to people around town, saying how impressed she is by the life you’ve made there, so I thought maybe I could do it, too.”
“Wait—sorry—but Mom brags about me? She’s impressed ?”
This is news to me, but Lauren gawks at me.
“Um, yes. Definitely. She brings it up to anyone who’ll listen.”
“I honestly had no idea.”
Maybe she’s spent so much time saying nice things to other people, she doesn’t realize she’s never actually said them to me.
“But… yeah,” Lauren goes on, looking down at her chipped nail polish. “Maybe I’m just not cut out for the city like you are, or for city people. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
My heart breaks all over again.
“Hey,” I say, nudging her. “Hey.”
Finally she meets my eyes.
“No one knows what they’re doing, not really. It’s not like people are born knowing how to handle every single thing—it takes work to figure out your own life. I know it has for me, anyway. You’re going to make mistakes. Everyone does. But you have a choice: you can face the hard things, or you can run from them. You have to risk making mistakes in the first place if you’re ever going to get better at dealing with them.”
She’s quiet, probably thinking—like I am—about how our mother has spent Lauren’s entire life solving every one of her problems for her before she even gets a chance to try.
And I think about Tyler, who ran when things got too hard before—who could very well be running away again right this very minute.
Puffin climbs lazily over Lauren’s lap and onto mine, then raises his chin until I give in and start scratching it. He leans into my fingers, purring loudly, and then flops his entire body upside down like he’s lost all his bones. His huge green eyes stare up at me like I’m the sun at the center of his universe.
Lauren’s eyes on me feel almost the same. I don’t know how I never saw it before this spring—how much she looks up to me.
“You’re the last person I ever wanted to hurt, Alix,” she says now. She shakes her head and sighs. “Maybe I should start by getting you an apology latte since you barely touched the drink I brought earlier?”
The corner of my mouth quirks up. “And maybe some apology maple candies, too?”
There’s a knock at my front door. I’m not exactly motivated to answer, given that there’s only one person I want it to be and it’s almost certainly not him—but maybe it’s Sebastian, even though he still hasn’t answered my text.
Lauren follows me to the door, pulling on a puffy coat as she walks. “Maple latte again?” she asks.
“Tell the barista to surprise me.”
I open the door, hoping against hope that Tyler’s there, leaning artfully against the doorframe in one of his trademark V-neck shirts—
But no such luck.
It’s Sebastian.
Lauren slips out the door with a little wave.
“You said you wanted to talk?” he says. “Let’s talk.”
He came all the way to Vermont to discuss his memoir, but this is about to be an entirely different conversation. Which, ironically, we would not be having had he not shown up at the resort in the first place. It’s not like he had any idea he’d be setting off a chain reaction that led to the implosion of our numerous secrets, though, I remind myself. I may not be his biggest fan, but at least I can acknowledge that he didn’t put Tyler’s privacy at risk on purpose.
“Come in,” I tell him.
“Nice place,” he remarks as we pass through the living room and turn off into an area where I haven’t spent much time, the game room.
“I could live here, honestly,” I say. “I really appreciate you arranging for me to stay here this month.”
Sebastian gives a cursory glance to the myriad seating options in this room—barstools, armchairs, a couch upholstered in emerald-green velvet—and chooses, instead, to lean casually against the pool table.
It’s the most blatant attempt at a power position I’ve ever seen, and I’m not even sure he’s aware he’s doing it. I think that’s just how he is .
Every seat I could take would result in him looking down on me, and the barstools are a bit too far away for conversation, but the pool table looks more than sturdy enough to hold my weight and then some. I climb up and make myself comfortable, crossing my legs and letting them dangle over the edge.
“Busy day for you,” I comment.
He rubs a hand over his jaw. “I’m used to it.”
“Have you seen everything that’s happening online?”
“My manager called, yeah. To talk about Jett.”
His expression is hard to read. It’s hard, period—steely, impenetrable.
“And?” I say.
“And I told him to piss off.”
If I had a drink, I’d be choking on it.
“He can tell I know something,” Sebastian says, shaking his head. “He wants me to talk—to confirm the rumors about Jett. He’s gotten a lot of calls today, a lot of interview offers.” He makes a gesture with his fingers that can only be interpreted as cold, hard cash .
Ah.
“And… are you going to?”
It’s not like he needs the money—but then again, his constant jet-setting has got to be burning a hole in his pocket. The fact that he seems to be on the fence gives me hope.
In all likelihood, Tyler’s peaceful days of hiding out at the lodge have ended. Until one of us confirms he’s really Jett Beckett, though, there’s a chance—however small—that the truth might remain a mystery. Maybe the fandom will decide he doesn’t look similar enough or that it’s too unlikely that he’s flown under the radar for this long. Maybe it will all blow over.
“Maybe?” he says. “Probably. I don’t know.”
He shifts, and it sounds like plastic crinkling.
I think it’s his pants.
“I can’t decide if it makes more sense to take the cash today,” he goes on, “or make them wait to read the whole story in the book.”
“I’d rather not write anything about Jett’s secret life in the book, honestly.”
“It isn’t your book,” he counters. “It’s my story to tell.”
“Not this part—this part is Tyler’s.”
“Who’s Tyler?”
I guess he hasn’t read everything being said online, only the broad strokes.
“That’s the name Jett is going by now,” I say.
His eyes light up with recognition. “Huh. Well. I think the publishing house would agree it’s relevant to my story.”
It would sell books, I’ll give him that.
A pit forms in my stomach.
When it comes down to it, is this not what I signed on for? To write Sebastian’s story in the most accurate way possible—which, I reluctantly admit, might include this week’s compelling turn of events?
I don’t think there’s any way out of this: my only options are to break my contract or to write the book however Sebastian and our editor see fit.
It’s an impossible choice.
Nothing in me wants to ruin the career I’ve worked so hard for—but at the same time, if the rumors do manage to blow over somehow, could I live with myself for being the one to officially betray Tyler’s secrets to the world?
Maybe it won’t ever have to come to that.
There’s always a chance Sebastian will change his mind. Maybe, in time, I can convince him.
If someone else writes this book, I’ll have no control. No control over what’s said, how it’s said. Didn’t I just tell my sister not to run when things get hard? Didn’t I just tell Tyler the same thing?
Nothing in me wants to do hard things, but I can do them.
I can if I have to.
“Okay,” I finally say. “You’re right—it’s your book. Your story.”
My best option right now is to convince Sebastian to wait to confirm the Jett rumors rather than selling out to Gloss or whoever else is vying for an interview. If Tyler’s determined to make himself disappear again, the least I can do is buy him some time—as soon as this snowstorm ends and the roads clear up, the paparazzi will multiply like cockroaches.
“If I were you,” I go on, “I wouldn’t cash in today. You’d make more money in the long run with book royalties, I think— and you’d get the credit for telling the world exactly what happened to Jett Beckett. People will be dying to read about that.”
I hold my breath, wait while he considers it. His pop star–perfect face creases between the eyebrows (and nowhere else).
If I know Sebastian—and I’m pretty sure I do at this point—appealing to his ego should work.
“Good call,” he says, nodding. “I can see that. You think you can work it in?”
Unfortunately, I can already tell the Jett Beckett reveal is the missing piece that will make the entire book come together. Sebastian’s story started with his rivalry with Jett—and then his life drastically changed course when Jett disappeared and the band fell apart—and now that Jett’s resurfaced as Tyler, Sebastian can finally get closure, finally has the context he needs to process his own life story.
As much as I hate to admit it, their stories really are inextricable.
“Yeah,” I say. “I can.” After a beat, I add, “Don’t tell Maribel yet, though? Let’s wait until the draft is done—less risk of anything leaking that way.”
He stands, straightening his worryingly tight pants.
“Sounds like a plan,” he says. “Should we get to work?”