Chapter 15 - “Maybe When You Get Your Own”
The following spring, Jude rode the Siron across a legal off-road practice area outside town.
Helmet.
Gloves.
Chest protector.
No stunts.
He had become more cautious after the crash even though he was not the one riding when it happened.
That was another cost nobody could invoice.
Sasha came to watch.
She was eighteen now.
College decisions still unsettled.
Several smaller athletic offers.
No $110,000 package.
No guarantee that running would become the future Renee once announced online.
For the first time, Sasha seemed comfortable not knowing.
Jude stopped beside us and killed the motor.
Sasha pointed at the bike.
“Still hate me?”
“No.”
“That was fast.”
“It’s been a year.”
“Can I ride it?”
Jude stared at her.
I nearly choked.
Sasha laughed.
“I’m kidding.”
He pulled off one glove.
Then said:
“Maybe someday.”
She blinked.
“Seriously?”
“Maybe when you get your own.”
“That sounds expensive.”
Jude shrugged.
“Mow lawns.”
Sasha laughed so hard she had to bend over.
The relationship between them remained the one unfinished part.
They were talking again.
Texting sometimes.
She came to his birthday.
He watched one of her meets.
But trust had returned in pieces rather than all at once.
I liked it that way.
Nobody forced the cousins to become symbols of family healing.
They were allowed to decide what they wanted from each other.
Jude looked at me.
“Another lap?”
“You know the rules.”
“I know.”
He started the motor.
Before he pulled away, he looked at Sasha.
“You want to time me?”
She raised her phone.
“Actual time?”
He grinned.
“Obviously.”
Sasha started the stopwatch.
No filters.
No edited numbers.
No viral wheelie.
No adult standing behind her demanding a better version of reality.
Jude accelerated down the dirt straightaway.
The repaired bike still carried one scar near the frame.
He had chosen to keep it.
Three years of saving had bought the bike.
Another year had taught him something more valuable.
Other people could damage what belonged to him.
They could underestimate it.
Dismiss it.
Borrow it without permission.
Even tell him it was replaceable.
None of that gave them ownership over what his work meant.
He crossed the marker.
Sasha stopped the clock.
“Twenty-three point four!”
Jude shouted back:
“Write the real number!”
She laughed.
May you like
“I did!”
And this time, everybody did.
