Page 34 of The Lodge

“Right? So I might need to do damage control to soften it all up,” I say. “I’m hoping there’s just some context missing that’ll make it better somehow.”

“It’s not, like—something that makes him dangerous to society or anything, though, I hope?”

“Thankfully, no.”Thatwould put me in a seriously uncomfortable position; I suppose the situation could always be worse. “He just made a comment that makes him sound pretty heartless, like, that a thing a lot of people were sad about was basically the best thing to ever happen to him.”

Not to mention how some people might take hisothercomment the wrong way—how he thought Jett was trying to sabotage him by getting him to quit the band—but that is one detail I should most definitely not share.

“Okay, yeah, he sounds like a piece of work—I’m so sorry you have to deal with that, and that he won’t return your calls.”

Tyler looks so sincere, so invested in how this situation is affecting my progress on the project. I mentally addempathetic listenerto the growing list of his attractive qualities.

“Thank you,” I say. “Hopefully there’s a good explanation.”

Hannah returns a few minutes later to deliver our food, and we dive in. It’sheavenly. I want to eat this filet mignon for everymeal, forever. I want to swim in these mashed potatoes. The zing of horseradish on my tongue feels like an electric current, sharpening my focus—perfection.

And at the center of that focus: Tyler.

His smile. His eyes. His thick eyebrows, distinctive and expressive. His laugh, and how rare it apparently is for someone to bring it out of him—howIbring it out of him. That piece of hair that just won’t stay put; the place where his nose was broken once upon a time.

There’s still something so familiar about him, like I’ve known him forever—I think he just has one of those faces. An REI model with a Whole Foods glow, outdoorsy and athletic and strong, the type who could build you a campfire, make dinner over it, and then curl up with you under a thick flannel blanket (s’mores optional).

Okay, so that’s a bit specific. But the point is, Tyler is simultaneously like no one I’ve ever known and like everything I never knew I might want. He’s the farthest thing imaginable from Blake’s Wall Street crowd.

“Have you ever gone ice skating before?” Tyler asks once we’re done with dinner.

“Only long enough for my brother to trip and fall and get his left pinkie skated over. I was eight.”

Tyler grimaces. “Gruesome. Well. I promise nothing likethatwill happen, because I’m not going to let you fall.”

The idea of him breaking my fall—those lean, muscular forearms and his (for lack of a better word)capable-looking hands—makes me feel all sparkly inside.

It’s almost enough to make a girl want to fall on purpose.

“I always did harbor secret dreams of winning Olympic gold,” I say as we head down the path in the direction of the rink. “Youdon’t happen toalsocoach figure skating in your spare time, do you?”

“Depends on how you define ‘figure skating,’?” he replies, grinning. “Can I help someone learn how to skate a giant loop around the rink without falling? Possibly.”

“No death spirals, then?”

“Most definitely not.”

“No triple Axels either?”

“Not even asingleAxel, I’m afraid.” He laughs. “If you actually want a lesson, I bet Jules could teach you some stuff—she used to skate competitively when she was younger.”

“Seriously? That’s incredible! Does she still skate?”

“She likes to pretend she doesn’t,” he says. “But I’ve seen her out here at dawn a few times when she thinks she’s alone.”

We head up to the skate rental counter inside a little hut just off the rink.

“My usual, please,” Tyler says. “And for the other pair, we’ll need a—”

“Size eight,” I fill in.

From a distance, I’ve always gotten the impression the skating rink would be beautiful, but it’s even more charming up close: the ice shimmers under all the twinkling globe lights overhead, countless rows of them zigzagging from one side to the other. Fir trees line the far edge of the rink, densely packed with snow clinging to their needles. On this end, a snack bar sells only two items: hot cocoa and soft pretzels, both of which smellamazing.

Everything but the ice itself—the rink railings, the skate rental hut, the snack bar, and all the benches in between—is made of smooth pine. Tyler and I sit on one of the benches, change into our skates. At the rink where Ian got hurt, we were given generic worn, brown skates; these, though, are pristine white leather, and thewhite laces are flecked with sparkly silver thread. Tyler’s are solid black suede, different from mine and all the others I see waiting behind the counter.

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