The open air around John's scout is warm and wet, and Matthew does not object to slipping into the backseat among the rat's nest of blankets now stuck with twigs from the last windstorm. John quietly slides his trumpet case beside him, and climbs in.
We follow the taillights of Brad's Fiero, which swerves across 2 lanes of the freeway, prompted I'm sure by Grady's nimble hands or hot breath. John swears under his breath.
"Christ."
Matthew ignores the toss of his hair in the wind, gazing over the night like he's been cast in a melancholy music video. His heavy brows furrow over his pale green eyes, striking in their contrast. He curls a damp sweatshirt of John's around his bare forearms, the missing finger on his left hand making a gap in the shadows my brain recognizes immediately as one of the hundred ways he's been maimed that I have yet to get used to.
His shadow against the headlights of every car behind us is gracefully punctuated by his nose, an Athenian bust of frowning disinterest at Brad's entire childhood of antics.
Adam catches up to us on Grady's bike, flipping up the visor to yell.
"Evelyn!" he shouts, as if he were apologizing to me like Marlon Brando. He's hugged tight in Grady's black jacket, and I see a smile in his eyes I don't return and blush around instead.
"Uh. Your chariot is here, Eve," Matthew snorts, and John glances at me, concerned. It's the concern of an older brother who doesn't approve of my date; obviously shown up drunk to our parents house.
"You're gonna get yourself killed!" I shriek at him, and the twinkle in his eyes becomes malevolent.
"What?" he asks, and the front of the motorcycle waivers as he turns his head to me and back again to the road.
"GO AWAY!" I scream at him, and he gestures to the seat behind him.
"GET ON!" he laughs, and Matthew groans in complete disgust.
"Fuuuuuck."
I hit the dashboard with my arm, and John's trumpet is thrown against the back of his seat as he slams the brakes, and Adam flies past us, veering a course around the Fiero.
"What the fuck?" Matthew yells, and I look at John, whose mouth is pressed into a line that is as white as his skin.
"Brake check," he nods at the Fiero, and from the driver's side there is a clearly-seen middle finger hovering out of the window.
John accelerates enough to put us on the bumper of the Fiero, and repeats calmly twice that he is going to run it off the road over Matthew's cackles before I convince him to slow down again.
The rest of the trip to Lafayette was uneventful.
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