Before
I sat in the passenger seat, duffel bag between my feet, as Mr. Sinclair backed out of the driveway. On the other side of the windshield, Alice clung to her mom, her small back quivering. She released her mom suddenly, her face wide with alarm when she spun toward the car.
Mr. Sinclair hit the street at an angle, foot firmly on the brake, and then threw the SUV into drive.
I raised my hand in a final goodbye as Alice ran a few steps toward us, the pain on her face shooting doubt through me for the first time.
Her mouth circled around my name, calling out, and a lump formed in my throat.
I looked down at my feet to the rectangular package.
It was wrapped in red Christmas paper with a multicolored candy cane pattern.
There wasn’t a bow, and I suddenly remembered Alice asking her mom if they had any in a hushed voice.
Her mom had said she hadn’t bought any yet, but would next week.
I hadn’t given that conversation a second thought, but now it filled my chest with dread—that I wouldn’t be around to overhear mundane conversations like those anymore.
So many little things would pass—small moments that seemed inconsequential but weren’t—and soon I’d be someone on the outside. Someone who had to ask, when was this? And, who is that?
I lifted the package onto my lap.
“Alice give that to you?” Mr. Sinclair asked.
“Yes, sir,” I mumbled, afraid to speak for fear of losing my composure.
I wanted to wait to open it. To keep a piece of home for when things got hard at Camp Inwood.
But I had to face reality. The moment I arrived at boot camp, they’d strip me of my clothes, my hair, my privacy.
They’d break me down and rebuild me into a new man.
I’m sure some Marine recruits feared this process, but I welcomed it.
Take my past and kick it to the curb. Good riddance.
Sliding my finger beneath the tape, I carefully tore it open, trying to salvage the paper for some absurd reason. I pulled it away to reveal a leather-bound photo album. On the cover, embossed in gold script, was a single word: Family.
I opened to the first page, and a smile touched my lips.
It was a collection of photographs. But it was also…more than that. Alice had painstakingly curated the photos to capture the last three years of my life. She must have worked on it for weeks, digging through prints and her family’s phones to fill in the gaps.
There I was at my first Easter with them, looking stiff and uncomfortable in one of Grant’s button-downs, a bright blue egg just visible in my closed fist. I flipped the page.
The next shot was taken at the river, all of us in our bathing suits, Alice with her arms above her head like she was about to do a handstand.
Then Galveston. I remembered that trip—the first time I’d ever seen the ocean.
Someone, I can’t recall who, had taken a picture of me staring out at the horizon, looking small against the Gulf.
My feet were in the sand, red swim trunks dry.
I glanced at the opposite page and saw me and Grant sitting on rocking chairs, watermelon rinds bit between our teeth, forming ludicrous, oversized grins.
The next few shots were of me, Grant, and Dalton in our football jerseys, followed by a selfie of me sandwiched between Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair at Alice’s tennis tournament.
I lingered over a photo of myself in a navy work shirt.
On the pocket was the Sinclair Systems logo.
I remembered the pride I’d felt wearing that shirt, seeing my name stitched on the fabric beneath the logo.
But that pride had been complicated. Because Grant had left for Louisiana Tech the August following our graduation, and it was then that my situation became glaringly awkward.
I was living in their son’s bedroom, sharing a house with two people who weren’t actually my parents.
Eating their food. Sitting beside a girl who, god love her, wasn’t actually my sister.
I’d just turned nineteen and needed to pave a path through my own hard work. I’d considered college, but a classroom didn’t feel like the right fit. I needed to see the world, to grow into a man, and bring something to the table that was mine alone.
Before I closed the album, I returned to a particular picture.
In it, Alice was sitting in a restaurant booth next to me, arms crossed, lips pressed together in frustration.
That must have been when Grant and I had just started hanging out, back when she resented my constant presence.
And who could’ve blamed her? Her parents accepted me like I was one of their own, but never put pressure to excel on me like they did her.
I laughed under my breath as I took in her little face, and then closed the album, sliding it into my duffel bag. After sitting up, I folded my arms and leaned my head against the headrest, staring out the passenger window.
Mr. Sinclair cleared his throat. “I know I’ve already said this, but it’s an admirable thing you’re doing, Colt.” He shifted in his seat. “I hope you didn’t think you needed to leave or…prove anything to us.”
I shook my head, watching a passing fence line. “No, sir. I know I could’ve stayed. You guys made that clear.” My voice was strained, emotion heavy in my chest. “You’ve done enough for me already. More than enough.”
“Well.” His tone shifted into one of familiar practicality.
“Since you’re set on this, be smart about it.
Stay in the barracks as long as they’ll let you.
Eat on base and avoid buying a vehicle if you can.
Save a few thousand, and invest the rest in a mutual fund.
Have you looked into their Thrift Savings Plan? ”
I nodded along, murmuring Yes, sirs where appropriate, but my mind was miles behind us. I was still thinking about Grant telling me not to get syphilis, and Mrs. Sinclair saying she’d kill me if I got hurt, and Alice…
I was still thinking about Alice, who gave me this gift to remind me that I have a family and people to return home to. But more than that, though this may not have been her intention, she’s reminded me I have people to fight for.
Because the Sinclairs rescued me from the life I was living, and the future that awaited me had I remained at my mom’s. But now it was time for me to take care of myself. And maybe I also hoped that by becoming a Marine, it’d finally be me doing the saving.