Call You Mine

by Claudia Burgoa

  Talk about things biting you back in the fucking ass. “You’re just assuming that I love her. I’m attracted to her. She’s hot.”

  “Denial,” Hayes intervenes.

  Before they can continue giving me some words of wisdom, the rest of the Aldridge family make their way into my sanctuary. Not only my house, but my room. I want to kick them all out, but when my sister-in-law, Leyla, hands me over baby Carter, my nephew, I can’t help but smile.

  He came to us last month. They named him Carter after our brother who lived for the moment. Maybe I should take a page from his book. I’m done doing the right thing for everyone. Maybe I should take the fucking year off and do whatever the fuck I want.

  Chapter Twelve

  Beacon

  My brothers and their wives are easy to deal with when I’m sober. I either make them uncomfortable, or I act like their latest lecture has been life-altering. It’s hard to do either one when I’m drunk.

  It’s easier to let them fuss around me. It’s a whole troop against me, and I have to let them “take care of me.” Let them be a part of my world. They are cute, but let’s see if they do this next year when we don’t have to play happy family to save the town.

  While the IV’s saline solution flows through my veins, I hear Henry complain about my poor behavior and Blaire blaming my brothers for ignoring me for years. They understand I’m a loner, but I should let them into my life.

  No. I’m not a fucking loner. I just don’t like to be with people who don’t stick around. A fight for another day. Something I’ll bring up around next November when we all have to leave. They are just not part of my tribe. Disagreeing with them will start a discussion I’m not planning on having with them tonight.

  For the time being, I listen to everything they have to say. My only response is a few grunts and plenty of nods. During this “we’re here for you” campaign, everyone is fussing around me. I try to limit how much I talk, making them believe I’m too tired and ashamed to contribute to their conversation.

  Once Hayes and Blaire decide I’m not dehydrated or drunk, we move to the main house where they feed me.

  It’s dark outside when I’m free to go, but as I make my way toward the door, Henry says, “You’re not alone, kid.”

  “We are here for you,” Pierce agrees.

  Someone should remind them that I am not a kid anymore. Also, they have to stop saying that we’re in this together. They can say all the shit they want, but I’m not sold on their newfound family.

  I’ll decide when this whole “we’re all in this together” is real and not some bullshit they keep saying.

  Listen, I’m not a cold asshole.

  My brothers tend to be a lot like my father. They seem like they give a shit, but they are always looking after number one. Don’t believe me? I can give you the best example. Our brother, Carter, was diagnosed with melanoma stage four during his senior year of college. No one was there for him. Only his best friend, Blaire, and I were with him.

  Hayes was in London, too busy to pay attention to his younger brother. Henry and Pierce didn’t learn about it until Carter was almost dead. Vance was busy with school and training with the general (his grandfather). Mills was in college and training to become a hockey superstar.

  They can say shit, but I know that when things get rough, those guys walk away.

  It’s a short walk from our place to where Grace is waiting for me.

  “Good evening, Beacon,” Mrs. Heywood, the owner of the bookstore on Main Street, greets me. She’s also Tucker’s grandmother-in-law. (That’s a real thing among the Deckers. It makes them family.) By the logic Grace’s family lives by, the Heywoods are like my grandparents.

  I wave at her. When I spot her husband, I decide to get closer. A few years back, he had a stroke, and even though he’s doing well, he needs assistance more often than he wants to admit.

  “Isn’t it a little too cold and late for you to be outside?” I ask, wondering if I should come more often to check on them.

  “We were next door, visiting Sage and her family,” Mrs. Heywood answers.

  Great. Tucker and family are in town. If they are here, maybe his bandmates came along.

  I sigh. “There’s a full house, huh?”

  I don’t even know what a full house means when it comes to Tucker’s house. Before my father died, we used his place as our vacation home. Those were simpler times when the townies knew me as Beacon the rock star and not one of William Aldridge’s children. Believe it or not, I had more freedom back then than now. Baker’s Creek hates to love the Aldridge family—or is it loves to hate?

  She nods with a smile. “They plan on staying all week. They are good kids. Stay out of trouble.”

  I salute them and wait until they enter their house before I head next door. Usually, I’d enter without knocking, but I don’t know who is inside.

  Seth is the one who opens the door.

  “The prodigal child is alive,” he jokes, lifting the bottle of beer he carries and taking a couple of gulps. “Are you here to grovel?”

  “How upset is she?”

  “I wouldn’t want to be you,” he answers.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Someone had to fly your crew,” he responds. “You know what would be a good idea? Building a landing strip on your property. It’d save me a lot of time.”

  “What’s next? Telling my brothers I sneak out of the house when they aren’t looking?”

  He smirks. “There’s that. I’d have to kill them in their sleep, and they seem nice.”

  “Where’s your sister?”

  Seth opens the door wide. “Probably in the music room, geeking. I don’t get why she has to be attached to an instrument all the time.”

  I stare at him and shake my head. “Are you sure you’re not adopted?”

  “Fucker.” He flips me the finger.

  “Hey, everyone in your family has some musical talent, and you—” I whistle. “I can teach you how to play the tambourine. It’s not that hard.”

  He shrugs. “What can I say? I’m my father’s son.”

  He can keep up with us when he wants, but unlike Grace or Nathan, he doesn’t care much about music.

  When I walk into the house, I notice there are more people than I expected. Tucker, who is the oldest of the cousins, likes to gather his family often. I wasn’t expecting to see everyone.

  I wave as I march toward the music room, and it’s not hard to find Grace. She sits by the piano. Eyes closed, hands almost touching the keys. She’s dressed in a pair of yoga pants tucked into a pair of long knee-high fuzzy socks. Her hair is pulled up into a messy knot. Several streaks of pink, teal, and indigo are loose around her neck.

  She’s without a doubt the most beautiful woman in the world. Though, my Grace is more than a pretty face. She’s fucking smart, brave, and talented. I not only admire her but adore her. The ultimate answer to life, the universe, and everything is a number, according to The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy by Douglas Adams.

  For me, it’s Grace.

  “Finally,” she mutters, her eyes remain closed. “I hope you have a good explanation for your poor behavior, Beacon Aldridge.”

  “What are you playing?”

  She grins, and her beautiful soft gray eyes open and stare at her delicate hands. “Something new. I just don’t want anyone to listen to it, yet.”

  If I’m lucky, I might be the first one, though.

  “It’s a work in progress,” she mumbles and smiles. That smile makes my heart skip a few beats.

  Everything about her is astonishing. Her ethereal beauty comes from the inside. She has a depth to her that no one cares to reach. I do. And how I wish I could say she’s mine. But Grace is off-limits.

  Except, you’re taking the year off and can do whatever the fuck you want—including Ms. G. You just need to figure out how to convince her to say yes.

  “Are you going to explain yourself?” she asks.
/>
  “No,” I answer. “I’ll do whatever you want to make it up to you, though.”

  Grace and I are honest with each other, and when we’re not ready to speak about something, we say it, and the other respects it. It’s better than giving her some bullshit explanation.

  “I might have a thing or two in mind.” That mischievous grin tells me she’s going to make me work hard for it. If only it was in sexual favors.

  “How was your New Year’s Eve celebration?” I ask.

  This might qualify me as a masochist. I guess, after all these years, I’m used to listening to her dating life. I don’t like it, but if I am not going to step up to the plate, I have to just be there for her, right?

  The answer might kill me. At the least, I might want to go back to my bunker, change the locks, and not allow anyone to come inside ever. This might be the part where she reaches for my heart, rips it from my chest, and stomps on top of it until it stops beating.

  The grand moment when she says, “It was perfect. We finally took that step, and I think this is it.”

  So much for taking a year off and doing whatever the fuck I want while I live in Baker’s Creek without The Organization’s watchful eye.

  She sighs. “I spent it at home with Mozart.”

  That, of course, doesn’t sound right, so I dare to ask, “What happened with Richards?”

  “Richardson,” she corrects me with an annoyed voice.

  I look over my shoulder, trying to see who’s around. “Did you bring him?”

  Please say no, because that means you’re on your way to being with Mr. Right and leaving me behind.

  It feels like the air is sucked out of my lungs when she smiles. This is it. She found the guy, and one of these days she’s going to show me some fucking ring and invite me to her wedding. She’ll even ask me to be a bridesmaid or some shit like that.

  Her gray eyes finally focus on me. “That would mean we’re still together.”

  My pulse goes back to normal. “Another one bit the dust?” I ask, trying not to show relief, but if I’m honest, I’m fucking glad that’s over.

  She opens her mouth, taking a deliberate sip of air. After she exhales, she says, “Apparently, we weren’t together, together. He had several more friends like me, who were less uptight.”

  “Ouch?” Okay, not the right word to say when I’m supposed to be sympathetic, but at least I’m not doing some air fist pump while celebrating a somehow victorious outcome.

  Do I want to find the asshole and kick his ass on her behalf? Yes, but I wouldn’t do it. She’d get upset with me for fighting her battles.

  “My dating luck is shitty, but I think”—she twirls one of her loose strands between her fingers—“I know what I’m going to do. Also, don’t fake sadness. You hated him. No one is good enough for me, according to you.”

  My eyes drift to the floor momentarily.

  “I’m not gloating, and as I keep telling you, you choose losers. You’re a prize.” Shoving my hands inside the pockets of my jeans, I ask, “What’s the plan, Bradley?”

  This is the part where I have to think fast and act faster. She’s probably preparing to open an account on some dating app. She might accept Nathan’s offer to test his love-algorithm app. I don’t even know if he has it or if he’s just teasing her. With him, it is hard to know what’s real and what’s not.

  Maybe she’ll be applying to one of those companies where they find your match according to their database and charge you a gazillion dollars to find your happiness.

  “You’re right. Since the beginning, I’ve been with losers who say, ‘Thank you, but I’m going to the next best thing,’” she explains. “Instead of tracking all those men, I’m going to start with the first one. The one who said it was great, but we should stay friends.”

  “What?” I choke on my own saliva.

  Can you not say that out loud?

  At least five of her cousins and Seth are in this house. They’ll kill me if they hear her say that I took her virginity. I can defend myself, but not against those guys who know how to fight just like me.

  “Plus, you offered to help me figure out what’s wrong with my dating techniques.”

  This is the part where I should say, “Thank you, Jesus.”

  She’s making this easier than I thought.

  I can’t be fooled by what appears to be dessert served on a silver platter. Nothing that involves Grace is easy. Even when she’s knocking on my door, I have a hell of a road to walk before I can make a real move. Why? Because as she said, I was the first loser who said this isn’t working for me.

  “Technically, we never dated,” I whisper, getting closer to her and praying that no one is around to listen to our conversation.

  She gives me the look. The one where she says, “Don’t be fucking obtuse.” It annoys the fuck out of me.

  Lifting her index finger, she points at me. “You were my first kiss.”

  “You were mine too,” I remind her.

  “We kissed, we—”

  “You don’t need to list what we did, Grace. I remember everything.”

  Her saying, “Have you ever kissed anyone?”

  “No,” I answered, staring at her lips. “Have you?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve never been kissed. If I ask you to be my first…?”

  I had wanted to kiss her for a long time.

  “Would you want me to kiss you, G?”

  She’s the only person I’ve given my heart to. She still has it. She just doesn’t acknowledge it.

  “So, you agree that we were each other’s firsts,” she continues. “But then you told me you didn’t think we should be a couple.”

  “Your point?”

  “What was so wrong with me that you called it off?”

  I gulp. Eleven years and I still can’t articulate more than, “This isn’t a good idea.”

  There’s a long story behind it. I doubt I’ll ever tell her. The consequences can be catastrophic.

  But she has to know if you’re going to try to date her.

  For now, I answer the first thing that comes to my mind. “I panicked?”

  Can you sound lamer?

  Probably.

  “What scared you?”

  “I was seventeen. You are my best friend. If I fucked up, I would lose you. It seemed like the best way to proceed. I recall you saying that I was right.”

  She chews her bottom lip and nods. I frown because maybe there’s more to her response, “You’re right. We’re better as friends,” than she never told me.

  Okay, so maybe we harbor a secret or two from each other.

  “If I was wrong, you could’ve told me,” I explain.

  “Why haven’t you dated?” she suddenly asks. “Like ever?”

  “There’s a lot to the art of dating,” I respond. “I’m too busy to pay attention to anyone else. It wouldn’t be fair, would it?”

  Is this bullshit? Somehow, it’s the truth. I just cut a few words to make it Grace acceptable. I don’t have time for anyone but my Grace. Dating would require me to notice someone else. It wouldn’t be fair to string along a woman who I’ll never love. It’d be so much easier if I can say, “How can you expect me to love anyone else when I belong to you?”

  Okay, I omitted a few sentences.

  “Well, you offered to help me, and to the best of my knowledge, you’ve never gone out with a woman. Fucking a groupie doesn’t count.”

  I flinch. Hey, I never said I was a saint.

  “It’s been a long time since I slept with a groupie.” Or anyone, for that matter.

  She rolls her eyes. Of course, she doesn’t believe me because I built my reputation when I was younger. I’ve never been a manwhore, nor a playboy. However, that’s how I painted myself. When I stopped sleeping with other women, I never took the time to clear my name. Not even with Grace.

  When did I stop sleeping around?

  I was named the Sexiest Man Alive. Grace’s reaction
was, “Great. He’s going to be sleeping around more than he already does.”

  She had it all wrong. I had a fling here and there, but they weren’t often.

  So, she dared me to stop sleeping around until I found the woman who would make me fall in love with her. It’s been almost five years since it happened. I’ve been faithful to the woman I love. We go out on friend dates; she just doesn’t know it.

  “I know the theory. We could apply it so you can learn. Give me a few months, and you’ll be ready to find a non-loser who deserves you.”

  Listen, I’m aware that there’s a glitch in my plan. After eleven months, it’s going to be hell to let her go, but what’s the other option? I made my choice, didn’t I?

  “You sound like a late-night infomercial offering the perfect solution to a problem.”

  “And it’s all yours after five easy payments of nineteen-ninety-nine,” I try to imitate the tone they use on television and wiggle my eyebrows. “Plus, shipping and handling.”

  “Ha, I wouldn’t pay for your services.”

  I wink at her. “I can make it good for you—and it’d be free.” I tap the surface of the piano.

  “I just need to figure out a way to keep a guy interested,” she explains. “At this rate, I’m going to end up being the cat lady—and I don’t even own Mozart. I share him with you.”

  For fuck’s sake, she’s kept me interested since…it’s been so long.

  “You’re just twenty-eight,” I remind her.

  “God, you sound like my father,” she protests, exasperated. “If things continue like this, you’re going to find love before me. Look at your brothers. They’re all getting married. Mills is next, then Vance, and you—”

  “I doubt I’ll get there,” I stop her.

  “You say that now, but one day someone is going to come, knock you down, and take you away.”

  How do I explain to this woman that she owns me?

  She’s owned me ever since I met her, I just didn’t know it. I’d walk through the storm, climb mountains, fight death only to be beside her. She’s insane if she thinks that someone can come and tear me from her.