Colt
The mattress springs groan under my weight. I’ve been sitting here in my room at the Stagecoach Inn for two hours, staring out at the street, thinking about what Alice admitted earlier in the river.
A bookstore.
She said it was just a dream. But the way she said it, with a dejected little sigh, had pierced my chest like shrapnel.
I stand up and pace the carpet as the sky finally breaks. A low rumble of thunder shakes the windowpane, and it starts to drizzle. The smell hits me through the cracked-open frame, the metallic scent of rain hitting hot August pavement.
Why the hell is she hesitating? If she’s wanted this since childhood, and she has a college degree and family money, what’s stopping her?
The answer comes swiftly: her parents. They always preached practicality over passion. Said they’d watched countless businesses in Holly River fail because the owners focused on what they wanted to do instead of what was needed.
Maggie’s words echo in my mind:
Depressed. She was depressed, Colt.
I snatch my bag from the chair and dig through it until my fingers hit paper. I pull out the first letter I touch.
I check the date. Five years ago. Alice would’ve been a junior in high school. I was twenty-two, a corporal and a grunt still stationed at Camp Inwood, spending my days calculating trajectories for 81mm rounds and my nights wondering if I’d ever feel happy again.
I unfold the paper.
Dear Colt,
I’ve been thinking about what you’re eating these days.
Are you getting enough? I bet my mom’s peach cobbler will taste so good when you get back.
I’ve learned how to bake it myself, so now I eat it too often (which is still not enough - ha!).
Oh, guess what?! I’m running for Student Council Historian!
There are five other candidates, and they’re all really smart, so it’ll be a tough campaign (do I sound like a politician?).
But why not try, right? Life is too short to sit on the sidelines.
You’ll appreciate the effort I just made to include a football analogy.
I also joined a book club! We’re reading ‘The Heart is a Lonely Hunter.’ It’s a bit sad, but sad things can be beautiful, don’t you think?
Do you ever look at the sky at night, Colt?
The other day, I had the whole house to myself.
I went out onto the balcony and stared straight up for hours.
The stars looked like little doorways to other worlds, so bright they made my ears ring.
Look at me being literary! It’s that book club.
And maybe all the other books I’ve read over the last seventeen years.
Can you believe I’m seventeen?! One more year, and I’ll be old enough to vote, which I’ll do of course, because people like you work hard to ensure I can.
It’s a very important thing you’re doing, being a Marine.
Anyway, when I was looking up at the sky, I wondered if you were looking at it at the exact same time. It makes the world feel smaller, doesn't it? Like we aren't that far apart even though it might feel that way.
You know, when you return, you'll have so many stories to tell and an appreciation for simple pleasures in a way few would. You're lucky in that regard, to see the world so clearly. Watch the sunrise tomorrow. Promise me? And tell me what colors you see in your next letter.
With Love,
Alice
I refold the letter slowly. My throat feels tight, like I’ve swallowed a handful of red clay.
Because after what Maggie said, I see things I didn’t before.
Like how Alice was alone and had the house to herself, and how she yearned to feel nearer to me.
With painful clarity, I realize why Alice’s letters read as if she were relentlessly happy when she wasn’t.
For my sake.
Alice was struggling, dealing with her own shit, yet every word she wrote was designed to keep my head above water. She was my scout, clearing the path ahead of me when I was too blind with misery to see it myself. Even as she herself was drowning.
She did that for me. And now she’s standing in a big, empty house, dismissing her own dreams like they don't matter.
"Fuck that," I mutter.
Stuffing the letter into my pocket, I grab my boots and head for the door. I don't bother with a jacket. I hit the lobby and the old guy behind the desk looks up from his crossword.
"Hey, son! I wouldn’t go out there. It's coming down cats and dogs—"
I push through the heavy oak doors and step into the deluge.
The rain is coming down in sheets, making the towering trees lining the street sway. I march down the sidewalk, my boots splashing through puddles. A decorative hay bale on a porch sags, soaking up water, and a plastic pumpkin bobs along, riding a current toward a storm drain.
By the time I reach the Sinclair house on the corner, I’m soaked to the bone. I stop at the edge of the lawn, rain blurring my vision.
The lights are on inside. Through the front window, I see her.
Alice is shoving a heavy couch across the floor, her face tight. She stops, rips a piece of art off the wall, and sets it on the ground. Her hair has escaped her ponytail, damp strands sticking to her forehead.
She disappears into the kitchen and comes back with a red spray paint can. She hesitates, then holds it erect and sprays a defiant X on the main wall.
She freezes, staring at the mark. Then she spins toward the window. Her eyes narrow, squinting through the glass and the rain until they lock onto mine.
Alice doesn't wait. She lunges for the front door and swings it open. "Colt?" she shouts over the storm. "What are you doing out there?"
I don't say a word.
I just stride toward her.