Yours to Keep by Claudia Burgoa

Chapter Seven

Vance

Sometimes,despite your best efforts, things don’t go as you plan.

I like to strategize, plan for my future. I like to win. Most of the time, I compete against myself. Growing up with a military family means following rules at a young age. I like order. Structure and discipline are my allies. For the past fourteen months, I have experienced chaos. The disarray my brothers live in makes me want to jump out of my skin.

I hate the unknown. While I was on the battlefield, I had weapons to fight the enemy. In Baker’s Creek, I feel powerless as I try to understand my brothers and fight my dead father. Some days I feel like I’m playing this game called don’t let your father dictate your life from hell.

Guess what?

He’s fucking winning.

It feels like I’ve been living in Baker’s Creek for a lifetime. Most days, I want to escape. Others, I want to fix everything that I broke. Then there’s the occasional day I wonder what would happen if I killed my brothers because they are fucking annoying. I’m yet to figure out how they’re married. My sisters-in-law are either blind or saints.

When I enter the kitchen, I spot my brother, Pierce. I’m tempted to leave because these days, it’s almost impossible to have a conversation with him that doesn’t include a lecture or some ‘wise’ advice. It’s never wise, but he believes he’s smarter than everyone else in this house, and therefore, his advice will save or improve our lives.

The moment he sees me, he asks, “You know what you need?”

I want to say, “For you to leave me the fuck alone.” Unfortunately, he has his son, Carter, in his arms, and I try not to cuss in front of the children.

Fuck, how is it that we went from only having Arden in the house to now having three children? Don’t get me wrong, I love my three nephews, but three is too many. Sophia is also pregnant with twins. In a couple of months, there’ll be five children crying. Yet, another reason to leave this place, stipulations be damned.

Still, I don’t say anything. Instead, I wait for him to speak.

“To get laid?” Henry says as he walks past me. “I heard the new doctor is moving in a few days. There’s your chance.”

Fuck, where is Sophia when I need her? “Isn’t your wife calling you?”

“No,” he answers without looking at me. He’s busy searching for something in the freezer. “Where is the fucking peach tea ice cream?”

I go to the recycle bin, pull out the empty tub, and show it to him. “Your wife finished it last night.”

He shakes his head. “I’m not going to…where do I find a pint that’s not at the factory? I don’t want to drive all the way to Happy Springs.”

“You might have some in your office,” I suggest. “I saw some ice cream in the freezer. Your wife seems to have an ice cream addiction.”

“It’s called cravings,” Henry says. “Wait until you knock someone up. I’ll be laughing at you.”

I grin because that’s almost impossible. I’m not a saint, but I don’t plan on being with anyone for a long time.

“Maybe he’s the one who knocked up Mary Beth.”

There’s a rumor that one of the women in town is pregnant and one of us is probably the father. We’re not.

“Funny,” I groan.

“Careful, he’s going to bite,” Pierce warns him. Then as if he’s not being funny enough, he says, “Or kill us.”

“Too soon,” I say, grabbing two bottles of beer and leaving the kitchen without waiting for him to say another word.

“Those who drink alone don’t have much fun,” Henry calls out, but I ignore him.

I wish I could at least punch them. I can’t. When I leave this town, I might finally kick their asses for all the times I haven’t done it. They can be so fucking dense.

If they had any idea of what’s going through my head, they wouldn’t be saying stupid shit every time they see me. I’m wondering if they’re trying to joke so things can feel less…I don’t even know what they’re trying to do.

Our baby brother is fighting for his life because of me. That’s not entirely accurate. He’s awake and working with his team. If everything goes well, he should fly home in a few weeks. At least, that’s what Hayes said a week ago when he arrived from San Diego. I hate knowing that he’s alone in the hospital. Well, not alone. Grace and his bandmates are with him. Even so, there’s not one day I don’t think of what I could’ve done to avoid his accident. If there’s anyone to blame, that’d be our father. He could’ve left us alone, and no one would’ve gotten hurt.

Was it all his fault?

This is the time of the day when I look closely into my life to either condemn or absolve myself. If I hadn’t dropped out of West Point, I wouldn’t be here. What if, instead of saying yes to becoming a Delta Force, I had just stayed in the Army?

If I had figured out that I was working as a mercenary…

I might’ve killed them before they threatened my family. They might’ve killed me. This exercise of trying to look into what I could’ve done right is unnecessary, yet I do it every fucking day.

I should just blame my father.

As I walk along the streets of Baker’s Creek, I wonder what people think about me. He’s at it again, going to the old guy’s house holding two beers. No one has posted about it on social media, which is strange. Everything that happens in this town is posted almost as it’s happening. It’s better than live news.

When I arrive at the house of Dr. Sanders, I knock on the door before entering.

“I’m in the backyard.” I hear his voice.

Great, he’s going to ask me to help him cut the grass, or who the fuck knows what he’s going to ask this time. I should change therapists, but I can’t. One of the reasons I’m doing this is because I want to work for The Organization. Right now, I’m consulting with the team Mason Bradley left behind. He left six guys to patrol the town just in case someone surfaces from the grave.

When I step into the backyard, the good doctor looks at a sheet. Then he stares at the planks of wood next to him.

“Dr. Sanders,” I greet him.

He turns his focus to me. He smiles as if the answer to all his problems has just arrived.

“My daughter suggested that I build a garden.”

“A garden?” I’m confused. Is he going to forget the suggestion while drinking the beer?

“Yes. She insists that if I grow my own tomatoes, cucumbers, and carrots, I’ll eat them.”

That doesn’t explain the wood planks. “What are you building?”

“A raised garden bed,” he answers, handing me the sheet. “The doctor said my good cholesterol is low, and my bad is high. Can you believe that? We’ve been hiking for the last few weeks. It should be enough.”

Two weeks and it’s been only two times. There’s no way he could’ve lowered his cholesterol with that. “I’m pretty sure that’s not how it works.”

Dr. Sanders is unorthodox. He doesn’t have an office or a couch where I can sit and tell him about my problems. The only reason I go to him is because Mason Bradley insisted he’s one of the best, the right man for me. I don’t understand why he’s a good fit. After eight sessions, I don’t see any progress. I’ve cleaned lentils, hiked around my property with him, and from the looks of this, I might build a raised garden bed.

“Do you have a garden?” he asks.

“No.”

“Did you and your father do any activities together while growing up?”

I stare at the instructions on how to build the raised bed. Before anyone knew who William Aldridge really was, he used to visit me at least once a month. Sometimes it was during the week, others during the weekend. We lived in Berkeley Lake, Georgia. We had a pool, a boat, and a tennis court.

Dad would teach me how to play tennis. Some mornings, we’d go out on the boat, and he’d try to teach me how to fish. It was boring. I couldn’t sit for more than five minutes before I became restless. He taught me how to swim, and I loved it. I’d practice every day, so when he came to visit again, he’d be proud of me.

“Nothing,” I finally answer. “As I explained to you the other day, he didn’t spend much time with us. He had five other families—that we know of.”

Dr. Sanders nods.

“The last time we met, you were telling me about the day you found out he was sick.”

The day I got the news that William Aldridge was sick, I had just finished a job. It felt slightly ironic that just when I was celebrating another case closed without any casualties, he came knocking down my door. It all began with the call from his lawyer, which I chose to ignore. Just like I decided to skip the call from my brothers informing me that he died.

“I was at the airport when I heard the voicemail from his lawyer, telling me he was sick,” I respond.

Dr. Sanders points at the ground. “Do you think the bed needs a foundation?”

“Everything needs a foundation, no matter how different it is,” I explain. “According to these instructions, the base is the dirt on the ground. You just need to nail the boards to each other.”

He nods. “So, you were telling me that Billy died and you children were dragged to this house.”

I stare at him. “What did you call him?”

“Billy,” he repeats. “That’s what his mother called him. He hated it.”

I can’t help but chuckle. “That’s funny. Like an embarrassing anecdote you tell your children about your significant other.”

“Exactly,” he agrees. “Were you by his bedside when he died?”

I shake my head. “No. I tried not to acknowledge it was happening or that it happened at all. He didn’t care about us…at least that’s what we thought.”

When Beacon woke up, his mother told him something I still don’t want to believe. William cared about us. He wanted us. He fought for us but then, he let us go. Why? There’s no answer to that riddle, but maybe it’s in those letters? The letters my father left for us and his lawyer is handing us.

“What are you thinking now?”

“I don’t know what to think. The narrative changed. Everything I knew is shifting in ways I can’t explain. I…” I trail my words, not sure how to continue that sentence.

For the past twenty-some years, I’ve been upset at my father, and suddenly, he’s not the villain. There’s more to why we’re here, or he lost his fucking mind, but the fact that we’re here isn’t because he hated us.

“After finding out that I had to move to Baker’s Creek, my brothers began to pressure me. I considered saying fuck it all. However, my sense of responsibility didn’t allow me to give my father the finger. Nope. Instead, I took a bullet so I could have an excuse to go home.”

“You took a bullet?” he asks, concerned. “Listen, I understand the Army was your life, but why take a bullet?”

“My former employer had a lot of fucked-up rules. Once we quit the unit, we could never come back. I loved that job because I was in charge of strategizing all the operations. As I mentioned once, planning is my jam. Did I ever stop to consider what kind of jobs we were taking? No. When you’re a Delta Force, you trust your brothers-in-arms. You have their back. They have yours. My brothers needed me here, and it sounded like a good idea at the time. If I took a bullet, I could recover in Baker’s Creek while I figured out how to get out of the stipulations of the will.”

He whistles. “You chose self-harm instead of confronting the truth. Is that the first time you did something like that?”

I shake my head. “It happened when I had to come to the funeral too.”

He gives me a worried look.

And maybe I did it a couple of times when I was a teenager. It was better to say I hurt my arm than to tell people my grandfather wouldn’t allow it.

I stopped doing that when I figured out a way to flee the house without my grandfather noticing.

“You’re a fighter, but it seems you don’t like to confront those you care about.” He taps his chin and shakes his head. “You’re responsible, and that sense of responsibility drags you to do things that are unconventional.”

“Well, saying goodbye to them after sharing nine years together was painful. I knew all along that if I chose to stay in Baker’s Creek to save this forsaken town and live with my brothers, I’d have to say goodbye to them.”

“Was it worth it?”

“To quit, yes. I should’ve handled it differently. I can’t fix the past. I can’t stop everything that happened after. My mind is stuck in this fucking hell where I can’t save anyone. The same place where I almost lost my baby brother. A dungeon where I shot Bennett, and I couldn’t save my unit. In fact, I gave the intelligence to my little brother Beacon so he could kill them all.”

“You still loved him,” he states.

“No. I spent nine years of my life watching his back. We protected each other. Maybe I’m no different from my father. He swore he loved us, and at the end, he abandoned us.”

“There’s that word again, love.”

“It’s…I didn’t feel shit for him,” I repeat.

And this is why I’m trapped in a vortex of guilt. I can’t process any other feeling. I’m not fond of telling people how I feel, mostly because I hate to feel.

Finally, I say, “I know it sounds like nonsense, but that’s me in a nutshell. A former Delta Force officer who desensitized himself so he could do his job. Now I hate to feel. It gives me hives.”

“Do you think that tomorrow you can come help me with these beds?” He points at the beers I left on the table. “I’ll put those in the fridge, and maybe we can drink them tomorrow.”

“That’s it?”

“We uncovered a lot,” he states. “You finally said it out loud. Feeling ‘gives you hives.’ Take a break, think about what we just talked about, and let’s—” The sound of a cell phone interrupts him. “It’s my girl. Let me text her.”

“Your daughter?” I point at all the material he has on the ground. “The one who thinks you need to eat more carrots.”

“No, this is the other one.”

“How many children do you have?”

He smiles while texting her. “That’s a complicated question. Six, thirteen…it’s all relative.”

He doesn’t make sense, but I don’t want to ask him more questions.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it. See you in a couple of days.”

“Tomorrow,” he says.

I shake my head. “I have work to do, and building these beds is going to take me a long time. Pencil me in for Friday.”