Alec’s dark hair was too long but he’d always worn it too long, even as a kid. But he’d done it then because his mother was such a shit mother. She never remembered to get it cut. My mom finally ended up taking Alec to the barber when she took Morrie. Later he kept it long just because he was Alec. It curled around his ears and neck now and, as with everything Alec, it looked a little wild.
I stood there and watched silently as he made it to me and Marty, his eyes never leaving me. He didn’t even look at Angie.
“Feb,” he said on a short nod.
“Alec,” I replied.
His eyes were a weird color; light brown with a hint of gold. His dad had the same eyes but his dad’s eyes weren’t exactly like Alec’s. Alec’s dad’s eyes were mean.
Those eyes got hard as did his mouth when I called him Alec. They always did. Everyone called him Colt. Everyone. Even my mom and dad started calling him Colt after what happened years ago.
Only his folks and I called him Alec anymore, not that he talked to his folks since his dad was in prison for the second time and his mom was never sober and he never spoke to her. Not that I talked much to him either.
He hated it when I called him Alec but I didn’t call him Alec to be a bitch or anything, just that he was Alec to me, he always had been.
“Colt,” Chris said, calling his attention and Alec looked his way.
That was when he caught sight of Angie.
I looked at her too and wished I hadn’t. I’d already seen enough, too much, so much I’d never forget.
I’d gone to high school with Angie. We’d been friends once upon a time, good friends. You could say we still were, but not good ones.
No, we weren’t anything anymore because now she was dead.
Alec’s midsection came into my vision and cut off sight of Angie. I lifted my eyes to Alec’s face, which was still hard but now he was directing his hard look at Marty.
“Why’s she out here?” he asked, sounding pissed-off.
“What?” Marty asked back, sounding as usual, confused.
“Jesus, Marty,” Alec muttered, still sounding pissed and his eyes cut to me. “Go inside, Feb.”
I stared at him and didn’t move a muscle.
“Feb, inside,” he repeated.
I still stared at him.
He took a step toward me and said low, “February.”
My body jerked and I nodded. Inside would be good. Inside would be fucking awesome.
I went inside, headed directly to Morrie and my office—Mom and Dad’s old office, the office Morrie and Alec and I practically grew up in—and coffee. I could still taste the vomit in the back of my mouth. I hadn’t actually puked but it had threatened.
I was pouring a cup when Morrie came in.
Alec was big but my brother was enormous. He was also demonstrative.
He walked right up to me, took the coffee cup from my hand, plunked it down, yanked the coffeepot out of my other hand, slid it under the filter and then engulfed me in a hug.
I should have started crying then, I suppose. But I didn’t.
“You okay, Feb?” Morrie asked, and I nodded, my cheek sliding against his big, barrel chest.
I wondered briefly why he was there. It wasn’t his turn to open, it was mine.
My guess, Alec had called him.
“Sis,” he whispered at my nod and I closed my eyes. He didn’t call me “sis” very often anymore. Hadn’t since we were kids. I missed it.
Still, no tears came.
“You want coffee?” I asked.
Morrie pulled away and gave me a look.
He didn’t like what he saw, I knew it but he still said, “Yeah.”
I made him a cup and we were taking sips when Alec filled the doorframe.
In the light I caught sight of the scar under his left eye. It was a little, puckered crescent moon, about the size of your thumbnail. I thought that was weird, it being that small, considering at the time it was made it bled a whole helluva lot.
As it did anytime I saw it, it made flashbacks flood my brain. Flashbacks of Alec, sixteen years old and sitting silent on the toilet seat in my mom and dad’s bathroom and me, fourteen, standing there wiping the blood off his face with one of Mom’s wet washcloths. Morrie coming in, giving me ice, me wrapping it up and holding it to the gaping cut under Alec’s swelling eye. My dad walking in, taking in Alec, his bloodied face, his knuckles torn, bleeding and swollen, the way he held his body like if he moved it would be torture, and saying, “Police are going to your place, Colt, you’re going with me. Jackie and the kids to the hospital.”
That was the first time my father called him Colt. He never addressed him as anything else since.
“Jesus, what the fuck, Colt?” Morrie said upon seeing him. “Mom and Dad’s bar? Seriously? Who the fuck would do that?”