Cody looked at the photograph for a long time. He did not cry. He had cried five years ago, in a hospital corridor, at a funeral, in his mother's kitchen, and then he had stopped, because crying had not brought Michael back, and anger was easier to carry than grief. He had been angry ever since: at the road, at the driver, at the doctors, and angriest, although he had never said it aloud, at every old rider who had survived.
Every old rider who had ridden for twenty years, for thirty years, and had come home, with grey in his beard and stories to tell, and a bike that had carried him through it all, seemed to Cody like an accusation. Why him, and not Michael? Why had Daniel Hart lived long enough to die of cancer in his own bed, with his wife holding his hand, when Michael had died on a road, at twenty-four, with nobody holding his hand at all? Cody did not put it in those words, even to himself. He put it in jokes. He put it in laughter. He put it in the tap of a knuckle on a fuel tank, and in a bottle of beer poured over a seat, and in the word "museum," said loudly enough for a whole lot to hear.
He heard footsteps, and he shut the phone off, quickly, guiltily, the way a boy shuts a diary when someone comes into the room, and he looked up, and Brent was standing there, back again, with his helmet under his arm, and his face unreadable in the orange light.
I forgot my gloves, Brent said, and it was a lie, and they both knew it was a lie, because Brent's gloves were in his pocket, and had been all evening, but Cody did not call him on it, because Brent had come back for a reason, and the reason was standing in front of him, waiting to be named.
You all right? Brent asked.
I'm fine, Cody said, and he said it too quickly, and too loudly, and Brent did not believe him, and Cody knew Brent did not believe him, and for a moment neither of them said anything, and the lot was quiet, and the orange lights buzzed, and the far corner stood empty, and the stain on the concrete was dark in the light.
That was Michael, wasn't it? Brent said, quietly. "On your phone."
Cody's jaw tightened. "Don't," he said.
I'm not saying anything, Brent said. "I'm just saying. I knew Michael. He taught me to ride. He was patient. He never laughed at anybody for stalling."
Cody looked away, out at the road, at the warehouse district, at the sky with no moon in it. "He'd be twenty-nine now," he said, before he could stop himself. "Same age as that bike. That old bike everybody loves so much. He'd be twenty-nine, and he'd have a grey beard by now, probably, and stories, and he'd be the one sitting in that lot, and I'd be the one laughing at his jokes. Instead he's dead, and the bike's still here, and she's still polishing it, like polishing it is going to bring somebody back."
Brent was quiet for a moment. Then he said, very carefully, "Cody. The bike isn't Michael. And she isn't the road. And pouring beer on a seat isn't going to bring him back either."
I know that, Cody said, and his voice cracked, just a little, on the last word, and he hated the crack, and he hated Brent for hearing it, and he hated himself for letting it happen, in a parking lot, at midnight, with the orange lights buzzing overhead.
I know you know, Brent said. "I'm just saying it out loud, because somebody ought to. You're my friend, Cody. I've ridden with you for three years. But tonight, when you poured that beer, I didn't laugh. Luis didn't laugh, not really. Jake laughed because Jake always laughs. But Luis and me, we looked at each other, and we both thought the same thing, which was that you'd gone too far."
Cody did not answer. He put his phone back in his pocket. He put his helmet on. He started his bike, and the engine caught, loud in the quiet lot, and he sat there for a moment, with the engine running, and the orange light on his new chrome, and he thought about Michael, and about the photograph, and about a woman polishing chrome in small circles, and about a scratch on a black tank, and about a wet seat, and about Murphy's warning, delivered in a small office behind a bar, and he thought about all of it, and he did not know what to do with any of it, except to ride home, and to ride fast, and to let the noise of the engine drown out the quiet for a while.
See you Friday? Brent asked, over the engine.
Yeah, Cody said. "See you Friday."
He rode out of the lot, fast, too fast, past the tire shop and onto the road, and Brent watched him go, and stood in the lot for a while longer, alone, looking at the far corner, and at the stain, and at the orange lights, and then he, too, rode home, slowly, thinking about Michael, and about Cody, and about a grief that had never been named, and about how a grief unnamed does not go away, but only finds other places to live, in jokes, and in laughter, and in beer poured over a seat in a parking lot, late on a Friday night.