Page 57 of The Lodge

Now, though, after getting to know him here at the lodge, I have to wonder if I was wrong—if maybe I caught him on an exceptionally bad day.

I suddenly feel compelled to go back and listen to the recording of that interview; I’m sure I have it saved somewhere. I’ve changed phones since then but specifically remember wanting to delete it and deciding not to. It was his disappearance that kept me from doing so: my interview was the last he gave before that pivotal moment in pop culture history, and that seemed important.

Did I ever want to actually listen to it again?

Decidedly not.

Now I’m glad I kept it. I scroll deep into my iPhone’s voice memo history, down into all the tracks that have made the leap with me through at least three new phone upgrades.

There it is—March 29, eight years ago. I titled it, very eloquently, with a series of skull emojis.

I press play, wishing I could whisper in Past Alix’s ear that her bright-eyed optimism is not going to age well.

The contrast between our voices is even more stark than I remember. Mine is patient, professional, borderline chipper (I hate the way I sound in recordings), while his is… the opposite. His tone is gritty, hurried, bitter with cynicism. Demanding. Condescending.

Underneath it all, I regret to admit, I hear undeniable shades of Tyler in Jett’s voice. It’s like when your favorite audiobook narrator pivots from villain to romantic love interest in unrelated books—voice actors are chameleons.

Maybe pop stars are, too.

My own voice pulls me out of my head and back to the interview as I hear myself say,“With all due respect—if you’re that unhappy, why don’t you walk away? Go solo, start your own thing?”

And then his sarcastic drawl, replying,“With all due respect, mind your own f—eeeeeeee—cking business.”There’s feedback on his mic, a side-effect of him twisting around and trying to rip it off.“No one walks away from the sort of life I have. Why shouldn’thebe the one to leave?”

He, meaning Sebastian.

I’m stunned.

In all my rage, I had completely forgotten that I’d suggested he walk away from the band—I remember feeling hung up on the way he’d cursed at me, how he’d ripped his mic off and thrown it on the floor, how my assistant had finally returned with hischilled lime water only to find me staring at an empty director’s chair.

No one walks away from the sort of life I have.

But two days after that interview, he did.

Twenty minutes later, I’m still lost in thought about the whole thing, but am pulled rudely back to reality when Puffin leaps up onto my lap, his back paws landing on my injured wrist.

Pain zings through me as he stretches up to rub his soft gray face against mine, totally oblivious. His large green eyes say,Breakfast?

I should probably text Tyler back.

I don’t know how not to be weird about it, though.

There’s just no great way to casually say,Hey, I know you made yourself disappear, but I’ve figured out who you are.It will have to be a Big Conversation, one in which I’m more sure of how I feel—and I’m not sure yet about so many things.

I came to this resort to write a book, not meet a guy—especially not a world-famous one. Part of what attracted me to Tyler in the first place was how opposite he seemed from the self-obsessed Wall Street bros of my past. Tyler’s never come across as someone with a massive ego, and—unlike Blake—he’s never seemed to think of women as mere accessories to his own privileged existence.

Jett Beckett, though: he had all that in common with Blake and more. That’s how it came across from the outside looking in, anyway. It’s no exaggeration to say that the man I interviewed all those years ago singlehandedly soured me on all future interactions with celebrities.

I don’t know how to reconcile the infamous Jett Beckett with the man I’ve met here at the resort.

Tyler, who made me feel more comfortable being myself thananyone—even Chloe—has made me feel in years. Tyler, who is funny and patient and thoughtful, creative and kind. I want so badly for Tyler to be real: for his current persona to be the true one.

Still, even if this is the real him, what he said in that interview struck a nerve:No one walks away from the sort of life I have.

Millions of dollars. Opportunities so many others give blood, sweat, and tears to have—to have even achanceat. Fame, even if he was painted as the rebel of the group. Access to the most luxurious locations in the world—weekend getaways, private jets. Relationships, surely, with people who legitimately cared for him.

And he gave it all up.

Part of me understands—based on my limited knowledge of how toxic their manager was—how making himself disappear might have felt like his only option.

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