“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.”