Colt
I haven't been here since we lowered the casket into the dirt six months ago. I was in uniform then, eyes locked on the horizon because I couldn’t handle the sight of that mahogany box.
I did my time in the Sandbox, saw things that no one should have to carry, and yet that six-foot hole in the ground is what did me in.
There’s nothing but ugliness in this world, that’s what I’ve learned.
Gravel crunches under my tires as I pull into the cemetery.
It’s a modest, quiet place, overgrown with ivy and shaded by ancient oaks borne witness to anguish and grief across the decades.
I kill the engine, and the silence that follows is deafening.
For a minute, I just sit there, hands gripping the steering wheel.
When I finally climb out, my knees pop like firecrackers—a souvenir from a jump in Helmand that didn’t go as planned. I start walking toward the back corner, where the newer markers are. But as I round a weeping willow, I stop in my tracks.
Someone is already there.
A woman sits on a patch of grass next to my mother’s headstone, legs curled up beside her. She’s wearing a wide-brimmed sunhat and a yellow sundress that looks like a splash of spilled lemonade. There’s a bundle of flowers resting at the base of the stone.
And she’s talking. No, she’s reading.
It’s a voice I would recognize anywhere.
I stand there, paralyzed, as Alice turns a page. "Magic is always pushing and drawing and making things out of nothing,” she reads softly. "Everything is made out of magic, leaves and trees, flowers and birds, badgers and foxes and squirrels and people."
I take a step forward, and a twig snaps under my boot. Alice jumps, her head whipping around.
"Colt," she breathes, her face flushing pink as she pulls the book to her chest. "I… Oh, god. I’m sorry. I didn’t think anyone— I shouldn't be intruding."
She scrambles to her feet, gathering her things.
"Don’t.” The word comes out rougher than I intended. I clear my throat and try again. "Don't go. And please, don’t apologize."
I walk closer, my heart hammering as I glance down at the grave. The flowers are fresh, the cut stems glistening at the ends. My mother’s name stares back at me: Eleanor Mitchell. Beloved Mother. Those last two words are a punch to the gut.
"You were reading to her," I say.
Alice clutches a worn copy of The Secret Garden. "I figured she might like some company, but I didn’t know what to say," she offers quietly. “So I figured…” She tilts the book.
I look away, blinking hard against the sudden burn in my eyes. I feel like a bastard. I’m her son, and I haven't said a word to the woman in years. And here’s Alice, who owes my family nothing, sitting in the dirt beside her.
"She didn't deserve this.” My voice strains. "This kindness. She made things difficult for everyone. You especially. I basically lived at your house because she couldn't keep it together. I intruded on your life because of her."
Alice steps toward me. She doesn't reach out, but I can feel the warmth radiating off her. My fingers twitch, desperate for that warmth. "That's why I'm here," she explains. Her voice is steady, surer than mine. "I'm thanking her for letting us have you for a little while."
I look at her, confused, and she continues gazing down at the grave. She reaches out and moves the bundle of flowers an inch higher on the stone.
"She could have forced you home," Alice elaborates.
"You were underage. She could have forced you back to her house every single night.
But she didn't. Somewhere in her heart, she knew you were better with us, with my parents and Grant.
And so she allowed it. I think that was her way of loving you, the best she could. "
The air leaves my lungs in a long, shaky exhale. It’s a perspective I never allowed myself to have. I always saw her rejection as neglect, her pushing me away as a sign she didn't care. To hear Alice call it a sacrifice rattles me to my core.
I have to turn away. I walk a few paces, staring at a distant fence line until I can breathe.
I’m a Marine, for Christ’s sake. I’m supposed to be made of tougher stuff.
But Alice has quickly proved to be my tactical weakness, slipping past my defenses.
Disarming me in a way I want to hate, but don’t.
When I turn back, she’s watching me with those soft, patient eyes. I need to move. I need to be anywhere but this graveyard, which brings back memories not only of Mom but of others I’ve lost.
"Alice," I say. "You want to go to the river?"
A smile breaks across her face, slow and infectious. She nods once. "I’d love to."
We drive in silence, but it’s not the suffocating kind from before. The windows are down, and the smell of the changing season fills the cab. As we pull off the main road and onto the dirt track that leads to town, the scenery shifts.
The oaks are deepening into a rich, burnt umber, and the cottonwoods shiver in shades of pale gold. Even the sumacs along the bank are a startling, bloody crimson. It looks like the world is slowly catching fire.
We reach our old spot, a hidden bend where the water slows down and the limestone banks form a natural shelf. The sun is beginning its slow descent, hanging low in the sky.
"We should swim.” Alice hops out of the truck before I’ve even killed the lights. "The water’s going to be freezing in a week. This might be the last warm day."
I climb out, leaning against the door. "We don't have suits."
She shoots me a playful look over her shoulder, reminding me of the twelve-year-old girl who used to steal my cleats just to watch me hunt for them. "Then turn around, Mitchell.” She circles her finger.
My heart skips a beat. "Ali."
"Turn. Around."
I face the truck, staring at the rusted tailgate, occasionally glancing at the road to ensure no one is coming. If someone does come along and sees her half undressed, I’ll handle it calmly. By blinding them.
I hear the rustle of fabric, the soft thud of her sandals hitting the grass, the slide of a zipper. My imagination goes into overdrive. I picture the curve of her breasts, the way the fading sunlight hits the small of her back.
Stop, goddamn it. That’s Grant’s sister.
But I don’t stop. Not until she calls out from behind me.
"Okay. Your turn."
I hear a splash. When I turn, I see her head bobbing in the water, yellow dress crumpled on the bank. I strip down to my boxers, trying to hide my erection, and dive in. The water is shocking at first, a cold slap that ignites every nerve ending, but then it settles into a cool embrace.
I surface a few feet from her. She’s treading water, watching me with an unblinking gaze. She doesn't look away as I wipe the water from my eyes, and I release a surprised laugh.
"What?" she asks.
"You could have at least pretended to avert your gaze while I stripped to my underwear.”
"You and Grant swam in your boxers around me all the time," she counters, splashing me.
The water surrounding us is golden, reflecting the sky. High above, the birdsong reaches a crescendo—the frantic, beautiful trill of mockingbirds and the low coo of mourning doves. The sun is nosediving now, casting long shadows across the surface of the river.
We drift for a while, the current lazy. Then we find a shallow spot where we can stand, the water to our waists. Alice reaches out and touches a scar on my shoulder, her fingers light as a dragonfly.
"Does it still hurt?" she asks.
"Only when it rains," I lie. It hurts more often than I’d like, but right now, I feel little else outside of her touch.
She looks up at me, and for a second, the air between us feels charged.
I can see the droplets of water clinging to her eyelashes, the way her lips part slightly.
I want to lean in. I want to see what she tastes like.
I want to wrap my arms around her like I did at the Hall, but this time, feeling her bare skin beneath my hands.
I picture Grant sitting inside the darkened cabin of my truck, face twisted in disgust by what I’m imagining doing to his little sister, and I pull back.
"Remember the chicken heist?" I change the subject abruptly, forcing my mind off the fact that I could undress Alice in under sixty seconds.
Alice’s laughter echoes off the limestone. "My chickens!"
"You wanted those fluffy yellow chicks from the feed store so badly." I shake my head at the memory. “But your dad was dead-set against it.”
“And you built a coop for them," she adds, looking at me with gratitude I don’t deserve.
"Grant helped.”
“Barely,” Alice deadpans. “Even with the coop and Grant pestering Dad, he wouldn’t budge. He even called down to ensure they didn’t sell us any. Told me how they carry diseases, which, now that I think about it, was pretty disloyal of him considering poultry paid our bills.”
I grin. “And so Grant stole them. Tucked them under his shirt and walked right out.”
“Yeah, and you were the getaway car!”
“Was not.” I try to hide my smile.
“Absolutely you were. What’s more, days later, when my dad was set to return them, you said that Grant had been playing better ball since the chicks showed up.
” Laughter pours out of Alice. “You knew damn well that would freak my dad out. Even if he knew it wasn’t true, he wouldn't have chanced it. But he did pay the feed store.”
“Did he?”
“Of course. You know my dad.” Alice swooshes her arms in the water. “I still have them, you know.”
I blink. "Seriously? They're still alive?"
“Old ladies now. Pickles still bullies the other two. She’s a tyrant."
We laugh together, and it’s easy and effortless and foreign. After that, it’s quiet for a long while, just the sound of the river moving past us and the crickets buzzing in the tall grass.
"Colt?" Alice is floating on her back now, her hair fanned out. "Let's do like we used to."
“What’s that?”
"Secrets. Remember? We’d float on our backs so we didn't have to look at each other, and we’d say one thing that was true. No judgment."
I hesitate, gawking at the moonlight bouncing off her skin, the swell of her breasts inside her lace bra.
I trace the dips and valleys of her waist and hips, and then roll onto my back before I do something I’ll regret.
The sky above has shed its vibrant colors, the first few stars blinking into existence. "Ladies first."
I can hear Alice breathing, the gentle slap-slap of water against her skin.
"I want to open a bookshop.” Her voice is tiny, as if she can’t risk saying this boldly. "In my parents’ house. I want to fix it up, put in floor-to-ceiling shelves, and a big window near the front so people can read by sunlight. I’ve wanted it ever since I was a kid, and I want it even more now.”
I turn my head in the water to look at her, but she’s staring straight up at the stars. "Is that why you came back here after college?"
"Yeah," she whispers. "Everyone thinks I'm here to sell the house. But I don't want to, and I don’t want to live in Shreveport either. I want to stay here and build something."
"Thank you for telling me.” It’s a beautiful dream.
One that fits her perfectly. Alice always had a book with her, stuffed into her tennis bag, lying near her cereal bowl, laid open in her lap.
I think she enjoyed the escape books gave her, because her parents had high expectations, and I think—no, I know—that they often came down too hard on her.
Alice would make for an enviable entrepreneur. She’s creative, and though her parents might doubt this, Alice Sinclair sticks to things when they’re important to her. I know, because I have eight years’ worth of her letters.
"Your turn," she prompts.
I stare up at the vast, empty sky. My secret feels heavier, but also simpler.
"I just want to sell the house," I concede. "I want to sell my mom's place and get the hell out of here. Everywhere I look in this town, people are celebrating. I used to kinda like that, but now it seems…empty. Makes me feel like there’s something wrong with me. I mean, I always felt that way, but now it’s worse.”
Alice doesn't say anything at first, and I start to worry that I’ve admitted too much. Her confession was commendable, full of hope, and I just deflated the moment. When she speaks, though, she simply mirrors what I said. “Thank you for telling me.”
We float silently for a moment longer, and then Alice lowers her voice to mimic a man’s. "Did you know the tides affect the river, Colt? The water moves differently when the moon is full.”
I chuckle because I know exactly who she’s imitating. “Even this far from the coast?”
Alice punches her arm toward the moon. “Yes, Colt! Even this far from the coast!”
“Your dad used to use that as an excuse for why the fish weren't biting. ‘Tide's wrong, boys. We ain’t got a chance.'" I turn my face to look at her. "You really want the bookstore?"
"More than anything," she admits.
"I can see it," I tell her, and I mean it. "You were always a dreamer, Alice."
She lets out a forlorn sigh, and the current pulls her a few inches further from me. "That's all it is. Just a dream."
I want to reach out and grab her hand, to tell her that dreams are the only things worth holding onto. But I’m the man who wants to run, and she’s the girl who wants to plant roots, so who am I to talk?
The sun is long gone now, leaving only the silver glow of the moon on the water.
I stay on my back, floating in the dark, wondering if the tide is indeed turning, and if it’s time to let it carry me somewhere new—or if, for the first time, I should try swimming against it.