Page 60 of The Lodge

True North was not the sort of band where you could envision any of its members being particularly invested in the lyrics—and their backing tracks were always so synthy and produced, not a traditional instrument in sight.

I knew he and Sebastian both started out with ambitions for solo careers, but I guess I just imagined his would have looked like Sebastian’s—a watered-down version of the sort of music they made with True North.

“You play guitar?” I can’t help but ask.

I want to believe it’s a sign that the man I’ve met here on the mountain is therealone: that maybe it’s a hint of who he really is—who hewantedto be onstage—who he would have been if Jason hadn’t packaged and marketed him as something else entirely.

“Oh,” he says as we pass into the next room, a single syllable that feels weighty—like he’s trying to decide how much to share.

“I do,” he finally adds. “My grandfather taught me.”

“Do you sing, too?”

I’m pressing my luck.

“Doesn’t everybody?” he says, grinning, subtly redirecting like I’ve come too close to the truth about a past he’d rather not think about. “I bet you sing in the shower, put on shows for Puffin.”

My eyes grow wide as I try to do mental calculations of just how thin these walls are, just how far my master bath is from Tyler’s main living space.

“You didn’t hear me—”

He raises his hands in defense. “I only heard a little. You’re not bad, although I have to say I was surprised by the song choice.”

I’m mortified.

“First of all, pardon me while I go hide in a cave somewhere,” I say, laughing. I don’t sing in public—ever—and with good reason: primarily, that I’m a horrible singer. “And second, ‘Winter Wonderland’ is a perfectly fitting choice for this particular resort.”

“It’s March,” he replies.

“It’ssnowy,” I counter. “Why confine such a perfect song to only December?”

We round one more corner and—wow.

“The way you casually told me you’d made wafflesreallydidn’t do this justice,” I say, eyeing the full breakfast spread laid out on a dining table that, like the living room, overlooks the mountain. My penthouse has a pool table in this section of the house.

Tyler shrugs, and with a wry grin, says, “I was pretty confident I wouldn’t be eating alone.”

I shake my head. “That will go on your gravestone,” I say. “?‘He was a pretty great guy until he died of overconfidence.’?”

This really makes him laugh, and that smile—thatsmile—

It occurs to me that his smile is another reason it took me so long to realize who he really is: Jett Beckett was ascowler. He lookedundoubtedly hot while scowling, sure. His smile is transformative, though, lighting up his face in a way that bears no resemblance to how he looked before.

We sit together at the table, and he peels back the kitchen towels he’s draped over the hot dishes to keep them warm: a pile of Belgian waffles, pure Vermont maple syrup, a dish of powdered sugar, a bowl of strawberries, bacon that looks just crispy enough, a carafe of freshly squeezed orange juice, and a French press full of black coffee. The French press is wearing something I’ve never seen in my life—it’s like a little cozy of some sort, chunky purple yarn knitted into a rectangle, wrapped around the French press and held in place by three yellow buttons that are shaped like stars.

He catches me staring at the French press sweater.

“Jules made that,” he says. “I don’t go through that much coffee very quickly on my own, so she gave it to me as a gift one time. Helps it stay warm.”

It’s a loaded thought, really, one that makes me feel secondhand loneliness: he hasn’t had anyone to share his coffee with for eight years.

And then I remember that he chose this for himself. Thousands would have lined up for the chance to share any of this, all of it, with him. It didn’t have to be this way.

What would he do if I just came right out and asked him about it?

I’m still debating whether I should bring it up when he holds a Belgian waffle out with a pair of tongs.

“One waffle or two?” he asks.

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