Before
I watched through the living room window, breath fogging the glass, as Grant and Colt stood on the front porch.
Beyond them, my dad’s SUV idled in the driveway, exhaust clouds extinguishing as they hit cold morning air.
I couldn’t hear what they were saying and longed to.
At least then, I might have some semblance of what to say when it was my turn.
My mom stepped up behind me, her hand rubbing soothing circles on my upper back. “I know this is hard, Alice.”
“I’m fine,” I clipped, my eyes glued to the boys.
Mom paused. And then, “He’s scared, baby. Even if he doesn’t act like it, he is. So when you get out there, do your best to just…encourage him.”
I didn’t want to believe that. To me, Colt was never scared.
He was the one who’d climbed our oak tree, far higher than I’d dare go, to collect my kite.
He was the one who’d never seemed nervous before football games and had faced down seniors when he was only a sophomore.
But my mom sniffled as she pressed a kiss to my temple, and doubt crept in, uninvited.
Mom walked away, heading toward the kitchen, and I watched as Grant laughed at something Colt said.
I leaned closer, trying to overhear the exchange.
But then Colt and Grant were hugging, and it was like seeing my teacher at the grocery store.
It didn’t seem possible until I caught them, red-handed, testing the firmness of an heirloom tomato.
Grant and Colt didn’t hug. They wrestled over cellophane-wrapped popcorn balls on Halloween. They tripped each other while going up the stairs and argued about who flew furthest off the river rope swing and sword-fought with pool noodles until they both had angry red welts.
But here they were, hugging, and Grant—who always joked when things were serious—wasn’t letting go.
Colt patted Grant on the back, and Grant hugged him a moment longer and then released him, stepping back.
They nodded and exchanged a few more words before Grant came through the front door.
He bolted for the stairs, his face turned away.
I watched him go, horrified, listening until I heard the sound of his bedroom door slam.
I turned back to the window and saw Colt leaning against the railing, his head lowered.
With one boot, he toed a dead leaf. His canvas duffel bag sat nearby.
Mom had insisted Colt pack it with a few belongings, and then she’d added a package of Funyuns, a bottle of Gatorade, and a fifty-dollar bill, even though Dad said Colt wouldn’t be able to bring much of anything in with him.
I pulled in a deep breath and forced myself to move.
The cold air nipped at my cheeks as I stepped through the screen door.
Colt didn’t look up as the door slapped shut behind me.
I studied his face then, searching for any trace of redness, and finding none.
He looked older than nineteen standing there, and I felt far younger than fourteen.
Hanging out with him and Grant, I’d always wished to be older.
But right then, I wanted to be younger than I was.
To have an excuse for delivering only shallow words and a mediocre goodbye.
My hands shook as I clutched the rectangular package.
“I got you a Christmas present,” I said, my voice quiet. “I know it’s not for a few more weeks. But I didn’t want you to…” I bit off the thought and shoved the package toward him. “Here.”
Colt finally looked up. His eyes fell on the package, and he smiled softly. Reaching out, he took the gift from my trembling fingers and then, with a sad kind of slowness, he set it on top of his duffel bag. That done, he straightened and met my gaze.
“I’ll write you,” I blurted out. “All the time. Real letters.” I jabbed a thumb over my shoulder toward the house. “Mom got me envelopes already, and she’s taking me to get stamps this weekend. I’ll write you…” I glanced down, trying to find the words. Shaking my head. “The whole time.”
Colt nodded slowly, his eyes falling to his boots again. Silence stretched between us, filled only by the low rumble of Dad’s SUV.
“Alice,” Colt said after a while. “I want to thank you for tolerating me being around so much these last few years. I know it must have been…annoying at times.”
I stepped toward Colt, wanting to hug him the way Grant did. “No,” I said. “It wasn’t annoying. I liked you being here.” I wanted to say more, but my throat was tightening, and my eyes were stinging, and I knew if I said anything else, I’d start crying. And Mom had said to be encouraging.
Colt reached out and put a hand on my shoulder.
It felt warm and comforting and I didn’t know what I would do if he took it away.
“I want you to do me a favor, okay? I want you to…keep dreaming. Keep…reading all those books. And drawing. And painting those little rock monsters and thinking about all the big things you want to do. I know your parents want you to focus on practical stuff, and that’s good too, but not everyone has the opportunity to dream and take chances.
And you do, so you need to seize that opportunity. ”
Colt looked over his shoulder, and I followed his gaze to find my dad staring at us through the windshield. Dad tapped his watch, signaling that they needed to go.
Colt glanced back at me, and there was an urgency in his expression. He gripped my other shoulder. “You let the rest of us worry about practicality. You just keep dreaming, okay, kid? Promise me.” Here, Colt’s voice broke, just a fraction.
I nodded, unable to force a single word past the lump in my throat. I could feel my bottom lip quivering. Colt must have seen it, because he pulled me into a hug then, his arms wrapping around me like a warm blanket. “Thank you for being a family to me,” he whispered into my hair.
I hugged him back, hard, my eyes clenching shut as the first hot tears spilled down my cheeks.
Colt released me abruptly and grabbed his duffel bag and gift and marched toward the porch steps, his boots thudding heavily.
The absence of his embrace was jarring. Almost violent.
Watching him go, panic flared white-hot through my body.
My eyes widened and my breath came fast and the earth tilted beneath my feet.
He was leaving.
He was really leaving.
“No!” I cried. The word tore from my lungs as a sob broke in my chest. “No, don’t go. Please don’t go!” I ran after him. Colt turned at once, dropping his things and catching me when I flew into his arms.
“I’ve got to, kid. I’m sorry.” His broken words were muffled against my shoulder.
“No!” I wailed. “Don’t go. Don’t leave. Please!
” I heard the car door open and my dad calling out, telling me to let him go, his voice pained.
But I only clung tighter and tighter. Humiliation burned my face and twisted my stomach, but I couldn’t summon the will to care.
I pulled Colt closer, and he did the same to me.
My dad’s hands came down on my shoulders, hauling me backward. The second he dislodged me, Colt pivoted, snatching his things off the ground and striding toward the SUV, his movements becoming clinical, detached.
Mom came out onto the porch, her own face wet with tears. “Alice. Baby.”
The moment she reached the bottom step, I turned and threw my arms around her waist, crying.
“It’s okay,” she soothed, her hand stroking the back of my head. “It’s alright.”
“But what if he doesn’t come back?” I wailed into her sweater. The question cut through her composure, because with it came the fear we’d refused to address.
What if something really bad happens to Colt?
The shock of naming that fear aloud rattled me to the bone. I turned back to the car, intent on running after him again. But the SUV was already backing out of the driveway. As I stood watching, Colt raised a stiff hand—a silent, final goodbye.
My chest heaved as the car reached the end of the road. It paused for a second, blinker ticking. And then it turned the corner, tail lights disappearing behind winter-bare hedges.
And just like that, Colt Mitchell was gone.