Page 87 of The Lodge

He kisses me, softly and way too quickly, and then he’s gone.

I sleep like the dead, past the point of dreaming, and wake up to the Yeti. Everything outside is blanketed in thick white snow—and it’s still coming down.

On my nightstand, the clock flashes. Probably too soon for the power to have been completely restored, I think, but I’m glad to have any at all.

I didn’t bother plugging my phone in last night, given the lack of electricity, so it’s still somewhere in the living room and very much in need of a charge—I have no idea if Tyler is awake yet. I brush my teeth, throw on a fresh pair of joggers and one of my softest racerback tanks, and leave a serving of Puffin’s favorite food in his dish.

I see no sign of Lauren. I’m guessing she stayed in, given the raging blizzard outside, and is still asleep—though I suppose it’s possible she might have ventured out to get breakfast at the café.

I head over to Tyler’s, eager to pick up where we left off last night. When I get to his door, though, everything feels too still. I don’t smell coffee or waffles or bacon, don’t hear the sound of anything sizzling on the stove.

I knock.

He doesn’t answer.

The quiet is unsettling. I start second-guessing everything: Maybe it’s earlier than I thought and he’s not awake yet? Maybe Julie and River needed his help with something related to the storm? Maybe I should just head back to my place and get breakfast going on my own.

But then I hear the faint sound of footsteps on the other side of the door, and it opens. I smile on instinct, excited to see him—

It fades as soon as Iactuallysee him.

Something’s wrong.

He’s got dark circles under his eyes, and his expression looks empty. Not angry… just vacant. Exhausted.

“What?” I say. “What is it?”

Tyler opens his door wider, gestures for me to come inside. On his kitchen island sits his laptop, a window open to his email inbox.

Or, rather, upon closer inspection:myemail inbox.

No. No no no no no nooooooo.

I forgot to log out and close the browser before giving his laptop back, I realize, so of course it would have been on the screen when he opened the computer again. When I think back to the day I returned it to him—the day I traded it for the brand-new one from River—my stomach sinks.

Not only did I forget to log out, but I left the worst possible email open: the one from Gloss inviting me to spill whatever juicy gossip I might know—which also explicitly mentions the memoir. I clearly remember slamming the laptop shut so I wouldn’t be tempted by it.

“The book you’re writing isSebastian Green’s?” Tyler asks.

I was wrong before—his expression isn’t vacant. It’shurt.

“Are there parts about me in the book?” he asks evenly.

As if he doesn’t already know the answer.

“Tyler,” I say, the first of us to break eye contact.

His name hangs in the air between us.

“I’m sure he has nothing but glowing things to say about me.” His voice is tinged with sarcasm, a rare glimpse of the man he once was. “Hopefully you know me well enough by now to not buy into his bullshit.”

Tears well up in my eyes; I blink them away.

“I don’t have much control overwhathe says in the book,” I say. “Just how it’s written.”

“So that’s a yes.”

I nod. “Yes to him painting you in a bad light. No to me believing it.”

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