I laugh, grabbing Jake’s hand when he reaches for another shot. What the hell has gotten into him? He scowls. I raise my eyebrows. “Enough.”
“Since when did you become such a spoilsport?” Jake asks, but he relents, settling for his beer instead. “Have you met his new girlfriend?”
“Uncle Carmichael’s?” I don’t know why I’m asking. The whole family is talking about it. Mum and Dad looked like they were about to self-combust when Dad’s little brother, Carmichael, rolled up in his swanky Aston to pick me up for a lunch date with his new, younger girlfriend in tow. Sarah. She’s only a year or so older than I am. There are only ten years between Jake, me, and Uncle Carmichael, but still. Even I raised a brow, and not much shocks me when it comes to Carmichael.
Regardless, it’s a moot point. She won’t be around for long. They never are. “I’ve only met her a few times,” I say. “She seemed nice.” Almost too nice, to be honest. Very touchy-feely. It was slightly uncomfortable, but Carmichael seemed oblivious. Or perhaps his open-minded approach to all things didn’t give a fuck. “You should’ve come with us,” I say, giving Jake my attention. “Uncle Carmichael has a way of making everything so fucking right.” Acceptance. No expectations.
“Mum and Dad ranted and raved for a solid hour after you left. If I’d gone too . . .”
He’s right, of course. It’s bad enough Uncle Carmichael could potentially lead the wild child astray. God forbid he got his hands on the saint. Shit, my parents’ faces. They warned me. Told me if I left, I wouldn’t be welcome back. The judgmental arseholes. Carmichael is the most accepting, kindhearted, patient man I’ve ever met. And even though my granddad and father hold him firmly in contempt, he does nothing but smile and be civil. He’s a better man than I am. I want to be him when I grow up. So in control, respected, highly thought of, even if not by his family. Everyone else loves him. But I’m not allowed to see him. I mustn’t be poisoned by his sinful ways. I’m not going to lie, what goes on at Carmichael’s place always has my curious mind racing. I can’t help it. He always looks so fucking happy. So free. So unbothered by criticism. I want some of that. I don’t think he’s an embarrassment; I think he’s a fucking legend. Fuck society. Fuck expectation. Fuck my parents. I don’t know what I’d do without Carmichael to vent my frustrations. “You know, if you want to do something, you should do it,” I say wistfully. “We’re nearly seventeen, Jake. You can’t let Mum and Dad dictate everything.” Guilt grabs me again. I hate leaving him at home, but I also can’t stay in that house facing the constant disdain. Constantly trying to win their approval. So I’ll be leaving the moment I can. “Come on.” I get to my feet. Jake’s starting to slur, and it’s already going to take us hours to get home if I have to carry him. “Time for me to tuck you up in bed.”
He rolls his eyes. “Let’s get a few for the walk home, yeah?” He half stumbles half jogs to a nearby table and claims a few beers before returning with a big cheesy grin, handing one over. Instinct tells me to decline. To take the beers away—he’s had enough. But since we’re going home now, and I’ve only had two tonight . . .
We say our goodbyes and head toward the main road. “Tell me,” I say, taking a sip of my beer. “Do you really want to go to Oxford, Jake?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s the lamest yeah I’ve ever heard.” I put my arm around his shoulder to support him when I catch a slight stagger. “We’re twins, remember? I can literally read your mind.” I watch as those cogs start spinning again, and I wait for the answer I know I’ll get.
“No,” he breathes, as if the word is a hindrance he’s glad to be rid of. “Shit, no, I really don’t. I don’t want to be a doctor. Jesus, I can’t think of anything worse.”
“But you could be one,” I point out. “Quite easily. And you’d be really good at it.” I can’t deny I’d be super proud of him—to tell people my brother is a doctor. He’s got that polite bedside manner people talk about when it comes to doctors. He's empathetic. Considerate. All those good things doctors need to be.
“But being capable or good at something doesn’t necessarily mean you should do it.” Jake’s words are quiet, as if he’s ashamed to admit it out loud. “Mum and Dad won’t see it that way, though, will they?”
“They’d have to accept it.”
“What, like they accept that you smoke, drink, and shag around?”
“They don’t know I shag around.”
“They really do, Jesse.” He laughs, swigging the rest of his beer. “Do you know what I want to do?”
“Tell me.” I smile, blinded by the excitement in his eyes, just from thinking about it.
“Superbikes.”
“Build them?”
“Race them. God, Jesse, all that power between your legs. The wind in your hair, the freedom of the open road. The adrenalin, the speed, the race.” He looks up at the black sky. “Could you imagine it?”
I smile, tossing my beer bottle in a hedge. I don’t need alcohol. I need this. The truth. I’ve seen him watching Moto GP. I’ve watched his concentration. I’ve found the superbike magazines under his mattress that he’s tried to hide from Dad like they’re sordid porn shit. “Then fucking do it, Jake.” He could do anything he puts his mind to. He’s just that type of person. I pull him to a stop and take his arms, looking him in his drunk eyes, hoping beyond all things I’ve ever hoped for that he’ll break free of the chains and do something he desperately wants to do. “You must do it.”
His floppy blond hair falls across his eyes, and I knock it away, knowing he’s probably incapable of coordinating his hands to do it himself. I’m going to have to start carrying him soon. “Yeah?” he asks, his grin crooked.
“Fuck, yeah.”
“Will you tour with me? Help fix my bike? Ride with me? Me and you, together?”
Fuck, fuck, fuck, yeah. “I’m there, bro. All the fucking way.”
He clumsily falls into me, giving me the fiercest hug. The mushy twat. But, of course, I embrace it. “We’ll detail the finer points tomorrow,” he slurs, breaking away and pulling a miniature bottle of whiskey from his front pocket, opening and raising it. “But for now, we celebrate.” He downs the lot as he walks backward, taking him and the bottle out of my reach. “To freedom!” he chants raising the bottle, stumbling into the road. “And doing what the fuck we want.”
“Doing what the fuck we—” I blink, being blinded by the headlights of a car. And then I hear them.
Tires.
Screeching tires.
The sound of a horn.
“Jake!” I yell, my head snapping back and forth between him and the car. He’s frozen. Looks startled. “Jake, get out of the fucking road!” I start running, but my legs are lead, not carrying me as fast as I need them to. “Jake!”
My heart. I can feel it cracking.
“Jake!” I roar. “God, Jake, no!”
The car hits him, hurling him fifty yards up the road, and I slow to a stop, suddenly paralyzed. “No,” I whisper. “Please, no.”