“What about his mom?” I ask, causing Gabe to spit a little of his beer out with a laugh.
“What, Shelly?” he says, almost shocked that I would suggest it. “Damn, girl. You really don’t know these people well, do you?”
I just shrug, starting to think that maybe I don’t.
“Shelly’s a drunk. Like, completely dysfunctional. She was that way before Jake died, but when he passed, she got a whole lot worse,” Gabe says, looking at his beer like he’s ashamed of it now. “Shell ain’t gonna do shit.”
I suck in a deep breath and reach down for my beer, cracking it open to join Gabe. I don’t drink much, but something about tonight feels like I should. And for some reason, I feel closer to Gabe than maybe anyone else in the entire damn household. “So, how do you know Cody?”
Gabe smiles at my question, and looks up, like he’s searching through a slideshow of memories. When he drops his head back to look at me, his smile is warm and his eyes are bright. “Cody and me have been friends since kindergarten. Man, I’ve got stories, I tell you what!” he laughs, taking a drink of his beer and then setting it down to lean forward, his elbows on his knees. “That dude, he’s talked me into a lot of crazy shit!”
“Oh yeah? Something tells me you don’t need a lot of help finding crazy shit to do,” I smile, but then worry instantly that I’ve gotten too comfortable with Gabe. He laughs right away, though, setting me at ease.
“Maybe now. But back then? Hell no…it was always Cody starting shit up,” he says, closing his eyes a little, and leaning back again on his palms. “Like when we first started racing motorbikes and doing jumps off crap? That was always Cody. My mom could’ve kicked his ass. Especially the first time I came home with a broken arm!”
“The first time?” I ask, my brow raised.
“Yeah, I’ve broken it three times. Leg, once. Ribs? Hmmmmm, I don’t know, maybe a dozen?” Gabe says, looking over his own body, taking inventory like he’s trying to remember where all of the scars are. “Damn, it’d be easier to tell you shit I ain’t broke.” He laughs and takes another drink before settling his gaze back on me.
“How about Cody?” I ask, holding my breath, hopeful that I didn’t cross a line. Gabe just looks at me, his expression falling a little while he nods and looks down. “He had some bumps and bruises, sure. But nothing bad before the big one,” he says, sliding back to his feet and walking to the back of the garage. I hear him moving around a few boxes, and finally he comes back to the table with a heavy one that’s covered in dust. Curious, I stand up and join him.
Gabe bends back the lid and starts pulling out a few old cards, posters, and magazines. He flips one of them open to a page that’s dog-eared, and then slides it over to me. It’s a picture of Cody leaning on a dirt bike, his arm around a cute girl with long black hair and bright blue eyes. They look right together, like they match. I recognize my own jealousy immediately, and I feel my ears starting to burn from my blood pressure, but I swallow hard and keep it hidden.
“That was right after Cody won gold in Austin, about a week before Jake died. He pulled this sick-ass trick, flipping the bike one way on its side, and his body the other, letting go with his hands,” Gabe says, the pride for his friend bleeding through everything he says. He turns the page to show me a picture of the trick, and I lose my breath seeing it—Cody’s body more than fifty feet in the air, hanging onto a 200-pound bike with only his thighs. I look up at Gabe with wide eyes, and then back down at the page.
“I know, right? He was so f**kin’ good. Still is,” he says, sliding back up to sit on the table.
“Still is?” I ask, confused at how Cody could ride. I watched him struggle just to climb a set of stairs a day or two ago.
“Yeah, he still does tricks and stuff for fun. He modified a bike at the shop, moved the clutch, put all the gears and power on his strong side. He hooks his leg in when he rides. He can’t do it long, though. Riding really makes him hurt,” he says, looking down at the page I still have open.
“How’d it happen?” I ask, boldly. I hear Gabe’s breath stop, and I know the memory is hard.
“Same trick, but it was a week later,” he says, looking down at his hands, slowly balling them into fists, and then relaxing them again. “Jake had just died, and Cody was a f**kin’ wreck. He didn’t even make the turn, the bike just flew from his hands and came crashing down next to him. But the wheels spun and the metal got all tangled up with his leg,” I can tell Gabe’s having a hard time sharing, so I put my hand on his knee and pat it to let him know I understand. He places his hand on mine and squeezes. It’s strange how close I feel to him, but I do.