Chapter Three

Tate

Some people love booze. They sit up alone at night, drowning their sorrows in expensive single malts, swirling them around in their fancy crystal tumblers with spherical ice cubes, letting themselves be morphed into more numb, fuzzier versions of themselves.

I don't like to dull my brain. It's my best feature—why would I want to downplay it? And not only my brain. I'm also known for my steadfast patience and considerable grace under fire. I never allow my emotions to drown me. In fact, I rarely allow my emotions to bother me at all. That would be like smearing dirt on the Mona Lisa. My vice? The one thing I turn to when the going gets rough and I feel that quiet, yearning ache in my soul? I'm a simple man, who enjoys simple pleasures. The biggest one of all is sugar. And not just sugar. Perhaps the most controversial sugar of them all. The sugar that starts fights at the end of every October.

Candy corn. Whenever I'm down, I eat fistfuls of the stuff. All kinds. All shapes. I'm currently inhaling half a bag of those Thanksgiving themed ones with the tiny pumpkins. I rattle the bag around, pouring a solid shake of the candies into a bowl on my desk, trying not to let my eyes continuously reread the article that got posted tonight.

As my body buzzes, I burn a path into the carpet below my feet. Forehead crinkling into a frown, I stare at the words on the page. The story centers around an interview with the CCO from Mingle, this annoying guy named Brad who speaks only in buzzwords and marketing lingo. Here at Mingle, we're leveraging our core competencies to empower and optimize user-centric engagement through an omni-channel approach, ensuring scalability and a robust ROI by targeting low-hanging fruit while fostering a disruptive ecosystem that promotes a paradigm shift towards agile, granular insights, ensuring we're always a thought leader with enough bandwidth to deep dive into our KPIs, boiling the ocean only when necessary to create unparalleled synergy in both B2B and B2C markets. According to Brad, the company is beyond stoked to roll out their revamped app, based on a brand new algorithm so unique to their company that they paid top dollar to develop it, and refuse to disclose the brains behind it. None of that is true, but it's close enough to the right language that they and their massive legal team can get away with it. They didn't develop the algorithm, but they paid top dollar for the algorithm, and they are unable to disclose the brains behind it. That's not for any reason of their own design. That was all my doing.

Well. Fifty-percent my doing. The algorithm was a joint venture as part of a PhD thesis that I and the Jane to my John Doe cooked up back in graduate school. She was trying to prove that love existed and could be quantified, I was trying to prove that it didn't exist in any provable sense of the word at all. By our powers combined, we cooked up a product so revolutionary for the then-emerging dating app market, that we had no choice but to sell. In the end, it was the money that drove us apart. I had no problems selling it, but my partner thought we should hold out for the most deserving candidate, who would use the algorithm for genuine, real searches for love. Whatever that means. The compromise was to sell it under absolute anonymity, and for a price that we couldn't turn down.

Last I heard, she gave most of her money to charity and is trying to become a licensed couple's counselor. No matter how hard I try to understand that life philosophy, I always fall short. The only way I look at it is that she wasted a golden opportunity. And they don't come along very often.

Shoving another handful of mostly-corn-syrup pumpkins into my mouth, I must admit that I have my regrets. I know how companies like this work. Yeah, it would be nice if people found love and companionship and their happily ever afters through the world wide web. But if they find love, they drop the subscription, no longer needing to sift through selfie after selfie to find the one. What's the use of a product that your consumer has no need for if it actually works? Instead, they focus on user engagement—all of those details that keep your eyes hooked to the screen, endlessly scrolling and swiping just to get the little bursts of dopamine that we've all become hooked to from the tiny computers in our hands.

I look from the phone sitting at the edge of my desk to the candy bowl, and back again. On second thought, maybe I've had enough sugar for one evening. It's starting to make me introspective and weird. As I seal the bag, I'm reminded of my parents, and all the snide little comments my dad would make anytime my mom reached for a dessert or even a full-sugar Coke. No wonder I wanted to prove once and for all that love doesn't exist. Dad doesn't deserve Mom. He never did. So my primary example in the wild was a classic misogynist/doormat pairing that just kept popping kids out until they got the gender they wanted and a free workforce to boot. I shiver at the thought of any tiny Tates running around any time soon. Although, their small, child hands would be great at doing fine repair work on my computers…

Ha! Just kidding. I'm not that much of a cold-hearted prick.

My phone vibrates, breaking me out of my doom spiral. It's a text from Ledger. Not someone I want to talk to on a good day, let alone right now. My hand hasn't even left the screen before it starts to actually ring. Ledger should know better. I'm a text guy, not a phone call guy. Unless I'm the one making the call, at which point I expect someone to answer immediately. When you have as much money as I do, you can afford to be hypocritical.

I let the call go to voicemail, leaning back in my chair with a stretch, my thighs protesting at the movement. I'm still sore from yesterday's equestrian activities, and I may have pulled something in my side from the way Mavis kept making me bounce around in the saddle. Or maybe it's whiplash from when she got spooked for no reason and almost careened me into a tree. If Piper wasn't there, I'd probably be laid up with a concussion right now. Would've been a nice excuse to not read the article.

The phone vibrates again, and my eyes dart to the screen against my better judgment. It's Fallon this time. The daughter at the end of our familial tree that I swear to God let my mother close her legs for all eternity. I'd do anything for my baby sister, and seeing the two calls back to back has me convinced there's real trouble brewing. Either somebody's dying, or the dock has fallen into the lake and on the way down hit a guest in the head, or the resort is on fire.

I swallow hard, steeling myself for whatever's on the other end of the line, and pick up the call on my ear piece. "Fallon, are you okay?"

"Sure am!" she answers, chipper as can be. "Please hold for someone far

more important than me. And probably crabbier. Scratch that… definitely

crabbier."

There's a muffled noise as she places the phone on her shoulder, followed by a few angry whispers I can't quite make out. Then, the phone changes hands.

"Tate," my brother's voice responds. "We need to talk."

Well, hello to you too, asshole. I never thought there could be a bigger Debbie Downer than myself, but here we are. It's all in the genes. Maybe the way we were raised. Or a sad, morose cocktail of both.

"Really, Ledger? Using Fallon to reach me? That's a new low." I should've seen this coming. Everyone knows that Fallon is my weak spot. Heck, she's all of our weak spots. Who can blame us guys for wanting to protect our one and only little sister? She's like brilliant light pouring inside a dark room that hasn't seen it in decades.

"So, I get you're busy." He pauses on the word busy, as if he doesn't quite believe that I'm anything of the sort. I get it. The downside to not telling your family that you're a billionaire software developer is that they start to get the impression that you need something to fill your time. In Ledger's mind, I lay around all day drinking Mountain Dew and playing Call of Duty, waiting for someone to give my life a sense of purpose. Which boils down to my elder brother thinks he's above me. "We're all busy. I'm the accountant for the resort, and now I'm also working the front desk. Think I'm happy about that?"

"Did they make you wear the polo shirt? With the little nametag?" The lack of response to my joke is all the answer I need. He's absolutely wearing the polo shirt with the goofy little nametag. I bet Fallon put him up to it. "Right. Shared responsibility. Not happy. Got it."

"You know, Gibson's still working at the garage until he moves to LA to be with Avery. They're busier every day. He finds time to come in and work some shifts. Help us all out."

I'm sure that's much easier for Gibson, since he lives in Sunset Lake and only has to amble his way on up the street. "Gibson is a rock star. I'd expect no less from the guy. And?"

"Fallon… event planner…" he trails off, letting me fill in the blanks.

"Works the desk," I add, completing the thought for him. I'm starting to see where this is going, and I don't like it. Ledger has a tendency to not let up on things once he's made his mind up. Which doesn't bode well for my desire to never see that damn lake again. Not that I never want to see my family again. I do, I really do. I just like them in small doses much like an expensive single malt. "I see a pattern."

Ledger agrees with a soft hum. "Know who doesn't work the desk?"

I tap my foot on the hardwood floor. "Oh, I know, I know. It's me."

"You live within a reasonable distance. You rarely see your family. You can make this work," Ledger insists, with a slight plea in his voice. I get it. He's stressed. As the oldest son, he's always been the de facto leader. That can take a toll on a guy. Then the resort got sold, and everything felt significantly less… stable. I'm sure if he knew the truth about the new owners, he could relax a little. But that's not a step I'm ready to take any time soon. For now, we have to stick with the status quo. Which means I have to swallow my pride, and smooth this over.

"What if I hire someone to work a few shifts? Take the load off you and Fallon?" Surely, I can solve this problem with my usual solution. I can just throw money at it. There must be loads of kids running around Sunset Lake who need a job a few hours a week.

Ledger sighs, and I can see in my mind that crease that forms between his eyebrows when he's hitting a wall, just like Mom always did. I brace myself for the oncoming lecture.

"Tate, you've always been lousy with money. Put in the time so you don't go broke. I can give you some tips when you get here, suggest some retirement investments, that kind of thing."

Hearing my older brother trying to help me in the midst of his own personal stress meltdown, as unnecessary as it may be, does something to me. Dare I say, it warms something in my cold, dead heart. I'm going to regret this, but I can't turn my back on him, as much as I want to. It's just like when Mom called me all those months ago and talked me into buying the business so her and Dad could go travel before they died. Why do I feel that damn tug toward home at the worst possible times? Like when I really need to tell my brother to fuck right off.

"You're very helpful," I offer with as much kindness as I can muster. Warmth isn't something I do very often. "I'm sure I'll be able to get to Sunset Lake."

"When?" There's so much hope in his question that I consider getting in the car right now. But there's certain arrangements that need to be seen to first.

"Soon." I end the call with a touch of my finger against the earpiece before things have a chance to turn sappy, leaning back in my chair with a heavy breath.

The reality of what I just agreed to sets in, and I start to pace around the apartment. I can't do this. No. Scratch that. I can do this, just not alone. All I have to do is bring Piper with me. She anticipates all the things that annoy me and gets out in front of them so I never have to feel that pesky emotion.

I race back to the desk, and dial her cell. It rings three times. Then four. Then goes to voicemail. Remember when I said I would probably call the police after ring #4? Panic starts to set in. That never happens. Piper always answers for me. I got her kicked out of a movie theater once because she took a call during a special screening of His Girl Friday. I threatened to buy the theater when I found out, but she talked me out of it. Said they weren't a good investment in the current market.

I call again. It rings, and then goes to voicemail. Okay, okay. Deep breaths. No problem. I'll just go down there and see what's up. It's a short elevator ride, and I'm sure whatever's going on isn't a big deal, and we'll laugh it off together. What if she's injured? What if she's dead? God, there's no way I could get through more than a single day without the woman. My mind races and my heart threatens to explode as I enter the passcode to the elevator, and try not to escalate waiting for the doors to slide open. Using the mirror inside, I straighten my hair with my hands and make sure that there aren't any visible candy corn crumbs in my trimmed beard. Satisfied with my appearance, I take a deep breath as the elevator comes to a stop, and brace myself for whatever is waiting for me in Piper's apartment.