“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.”