Page 7 of The Lodge

They fed him the exact same lines, made the exact same promises.

Jasonmade him the exact same promises—

And we both believed him.

3

I can’t write fast enough.

I make furious notes in my journal, scribbles only I will be able to decipher when it’s time to transform them into an actual chapter. I’m fascinated by this backstory—not just because of the implication that Jason Saenz-Barlowe is a total snake (which I’ve suspected for a while), but because both Sebastian and Jett were manipulated into joining the band with empty promises of solo careers. Every making-of-the-band piece I’ve ever come across has painted a much rosier picture.

Sebastian did eventually go on to release a solo album, but I always assumed it was just his plan B after the band fell apart. It’s also a wonder those demos never resurfaced. Did no one ever think to look?

Honestly, I always assumed Jett Beckett was the problem in their rivalry. His name was constantly in headlines back then; drama followed him everywhere. I had the displeasure of interviewing him once, right before he vanished. It’s not an exaggeration tosay I’ve never been treated worse by a celebrity in my entire career. He came off as entitled and demanding, sullen and sour and on edge.

I won’t go so far as to say my entire paradigm has shifted now that I know Sebastian and Jett were both manipulated into joining the band—but it’s illuminating. Jett Beckett had a reputation, for sure.

Maybe—maybe—he was pushed into that, too. All publicity is good publicity, as they say.

I make a list in my notebook, trying to capture all of my stray thoughts before they evaporate. I use a purple pen for all things Sebastian, a green pen for all things Jett, and red for Jason, their manager. It’s a total mess. I highlight the most compelling parts, draw arrows connecting bits of information, make even smaller footnotes in a few places—it looks like a serial killer’s bulletin board when I’m done.

It’s good work, though. A story is starting to form in my head, a compelling narrative.

From an outsider’s perspective, the story of True North looks like this: a group of five handsome, talented guys were handpicked to form a boy band—an industry plant that, unsurprisingly, skyrocketed to fast fame. Their overnight stardom looked like a dream come true, transforming them from guys next door to universally beloved cultural icons. Anyone could see their material success: the platinum records, a veritable army of awards statues, single after single played relentlessly in every place a person might hear music. The contentious relationship between Sebastian and Jett only fueled their popularity—Sebastian was the golden boy, Jett the brooding bad boy, and both had enormous fan bases.

Already, though, Sebastian’s revelations about how he and Jettwere brought into the group feel like an undercurrent of red-hot lava, a persistent, pervasive force that cracked the band’s foundations right from the start and possibly led to its eventual demise.

I need to talk with Sebastian, ask some questions. He and our editor both strongly urged me to text if I need to get in touch—apparently Sebastian’s email is, and I quote, “a black hole”—but it feels like it’s getting too late to text someone I’ve only spoken to twice. One glance at the clock tells me I’ve been in the writing zone for longer than I realized; it’s nearly midnight, and I completely forgot to eat dinner.

I’ll text him first thing in the morning.

Hey, Sebastian, I type on my phone as soon as the clock hits eight.I have a few questions… can we set up a call for later today or tomorrow? Or, if you’re planning to come to the resort soon, we can wait until then.

It still feels weird that I have his number—that I can text him like we’re friends.

Unlike texting a friend, however, I have no clue when to expect his reply.

I’m running on six hours of sleep right now; I crashed so hard last night that I completely forgot to shut the blinds. Even if the sun hadn’t rudely awoken me, Lauren would have—she called during her seven a.m. run to vent about her boss at the museum. I spent most of the call ordering room service through the resort’s website since I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

Someone brought up a fully stocked breakfast tray about half an hour ago, complete with the best vanilla latte I’ve ever tasted in my life. I’m picking at what’s left of my food when my phone vibrates on the desk.

When I see Sebastian’s reply—a simplewho is this, sans question mark or capital letters—I nearly choke on a blueberry.

I’m not sure whether to be offended that he couldn’t be bothered to enter the contact info of the person who’s writing his memoir or mortified that I expected him to save my number at all.

Also, hi, exactly how many people does he have tentative plans with re: meeting at a resort?

Alix Morgan, I write back.Your ghostwriter?

I hesitate before hitting send, rethinking my punctuation. A question mark feels passive-aggressive, possibly insulting. I switch it to an exclamation point instead, but that feels like enthusiasm overload.

In the end, I delete everything but my name.

At the ski lodge in Vermont, I type out instead.Working on your book and just have a few questions when you get a minute

After a few minutes of staring at my phone, willing him to write back, I give up. His phone has to be within reach, and my questions shouldn’t take long—but I’m the one whose entire month is dedicated to writing this book, not him, so maybe he’s just busy with other things. Hopefully he’ll get back to me soon.

I open my notebook, pick up where I left off.

---