Make Me Hate You(25)

I nodded at that, because as much as I made fun of him for it, I understood the choices he made. I’d made similar ones, myself. When you find out what images get the most attention, what videos get the most plays, what subjects get the most downloads, and maybe most importantly, what pays the bills — well, you wash, rinse, repeat.

I’d never stopped to consider the pressure Tyler might be feeling from working with his dad, though. To me, Robert was the best parent anyone could ask for. He was smart, established, built a successful company from the ground up. He loved his kids, still made time to cook dinner even when he worked, and always made room for dad jokes. He took them on vacations, sent them to any summer camp they ever wanted to go to, and supported them in any sports or hobbies they wanted to pursue.

He was perfect.

At least, to me.

Then again, I didn’t know who my father even was, let alone have any sort of relationship with him.

What’s it like working for your dad? I asked next.

Tyler read the question, letting out a long, slow exhale before he picked up a stick and started drawing little shapes in the sand at his feet. “I mean, what can I say? You know him as well as I do. He’s a great boss — not just to me, but to everyone.”

He paused, and I typed out but…

Tyler smiled at that. “But,” he said on a sigh. “I guess I just get in my head sometimes. I wonder if he’s proud of how I’ve strayed from advising the very affluent to focusing more on the everyday American and how they can stretch their dollars and make their money work more for them. It surely doesn’t pay as much, and I know in his mind, he wants me to take over everything when he’s ready to retire. But… I don’t know. I wonder if he doubts me, you know?” He looked at me then, the flecks of gold in his eyes bouncing as he looked back and forth between mine. “If he wonders whether my hands are steady enough to leave this company in.”

I frowned — not just at his assessment, but by my own urge to reach for him in that moment. If I hadn’t been aware enough to stop myself, I would have already had my hand over his, squeezing, reassuring.

Instead, I typed out a response on his phone.

I don’t think he wonders at all. I think he’s proud of you.

Tyler smiled at the message, but then his eyes were on the lake again.

And I didn’t know why, but I found myself typing once more.

I worry a lot, too. I love my podcast, but I never, ever expected it to become what it has, to be my only job, my only source of income. Right now, it’s lucrative — very much so. But, I’ve never seen money like this in my lifetime, and to be honest, I know I’m not handling it right. I blow way too much on travel and shopping, and I don’t even have an IRA or anything like that yet. So, just know that there are a lot of people out there who need videos like the ones you post. Like me. I paused, then added. Not that I have ever watched them.

Tyler laughed at the last of my message, but his eyes were light and playful when they met mine. It felt… good — to talk to him, to not be at each other’s throats.

It felt warm and comfortable and right.

It felt the way it used to when we were younger.

But the longer he stared at me, the more my mind played tricks. I blinked, and I saw the boy he used to be seven years ago. I blinked again, and I smelled the sweat on his skin, felt the rush of breath leaving his mouth and touching mine…

I cleared my throat, shaking the memory loose before I handed him his phone back and looked out over the lake again.

I was done talking.

“How’s your throat feeling?” Tyler asked after a while.

“Better,” I said, and before he could shush me, I held up a finger. “Hey, I needed to actually speak to see if it sounded any better.”

He tilted his head. “And? What do you think?”

I shrugged, holding up my hand and waving it side to side in a gesture that said it wasn’t as bad, but it wasn’t great, either.

Tyler stood, brushing sand off his ass before he reached down a hand to help me up. “Come on,” he said. “I’ve got one last remedy in mind.”





“I don’t think this is a good idea.”

Tyler widened his gaze, pointing at me with a warning. “Shh.”

“I’m serious,” I argued, pointing to the bottle in his hand. “I’ve read up on this. It’s a myth that whiskey does anything to help sore throats or hoarseness.”

“Shhhh.”

“But I don’t—”

In the next instant, Tyler turned, pressing his finger over my mouth before my next word made it free. And the notion shocked me still, my breaths locked in my chest, eyes crossing to look at his finger on my lips before they trailed up to meet his gaze.

He smirked. “Stop. Talking.”

I narrowed my eyes at him when he removed his finger, but sighed in surrender, plopping down on one of the bar stools at the kitchen island. I watched — silently — as he put hot water on to boil in a tea kettle, ready to mix it all together with the fresh lemon he’d sliced, bourbon, and honey.

“I’m well aware that the experts say hot toddies don’t help a sore throat,” he said when he delivered said hot toddy in a steaming mug in front of me. “But, quite frankly — they’re wrong.”