Page 137 of Top Shelf

“On the contrary, I’m admiring my excellent taste.”

Lucian hums from atop the stepladder near the corner trim. “Itisgood taste.”

Silas scoffs, giving Lucian a look as Ronan gives voice to his thoughts. “Like you have any idea what good taste is. You once wore a yellow top with cargo pants. I’d have thought you were high if you hadn’t passed your drug test the week before.”

Lucian makes a noise of protest. “That speaks more to your poor taste than to mine.”

Fully caught up in their easy bickering, born from decades of knowing one another, a laugh erupts from me.

God. When was the last time laughing felt this easy?

The thought catches me off guard enough that I still slightly, roller lowering slowly toward the paint tray at my feet.

Because it isn’t just the apartment changing.

It’sme.

I glance around the room again, really taking it in this time.

Ronan in gray sweats with paint streaked across his forearms while he methodically works along the wall with frustrating competence. Silas kneeling near the baseboards, touching up the edges as his blond hair falls into his eyes every few seconds. Lucian balanced recklessly on the ladder despite repeated threats from Ronan about how he won’t be playing in next week’s game if he breaks his leg.

And somehow, seeing them here feels…right.Real.

“My mother would absolutely hate this color,” I blurt, lips hitching in a grin that slowly spreads to encompass my entire face.

Ronan’s mouth curves slightly as he glances over at me. “You seem pretty happy about that.”

“I am.” I recognize I’m grinning like an idiot, and I don’t give a single fuck. “Anything that goes against my mother is a win in my book.”

“Let me guess,” Lucian begins, turning from his perch on the ladder to look down at me. “Everything was her way or no way growing up.”

“My brother and I…we were expected to fit into certain boxes. In fairness, that goes for everything in her life. We had to get good grades. Wear certain clothes. Only specific hairstyles were appropriate.” Rolling my eyes, I gripe, “God forbid I consider getting pink stripes in my hair.”

With a twist of his lips, Ronan gestures to the now brightly colored room. “Hence the bright colors?”

I nod. “The more she tried to shove me in that box, the louder I tried to live.” I gesture toward today’s lime-green frames. “Bold glasses. Bright colored walls. Going to a university not of their choosing.”

Everything you did was a rebellion,Silas writes.

“Did you ever get the pink streaks?” Ronan asks, head tilted in curiosity.

I grimace. “Even when living life loud, there were certain lines I knew not to cross. Facial piercings, visible tattoos, and dying my hair were the main ones.”

“Are any of those things you’d want to do?” Lucian asks. “And I mean, whatyouwant to do. For yourself. Not to get back at your mom.”

Tilting my head, I give his question the consideration it deserves before answering. “Facial piercings, no. Not my thing. But I’ve always thought a small tattoo on my wrist would look cute, and pink streaks in my hair? Maybe. I’d like to do it to see if I like it. Whether I’d keep them long-term or not, I don’t know.”

“You’d look sexy as hell with a tattoo,” Lucian says flirtatiously, wagging his eyebrows when I look his way and making me smile.

“If there’s one thing I’ve learned from parents who have your entire life planned out before you’re born,” Ronan muses, “It’s that their expectations don’t matter. This isyourlife, and you only get one. Why waste it fulfilling your parents’ dreams when you could be fulfilling your own?”

Ronan’s words stun me into silence because the truth is, he’s right.

“How do you get that across to them, though?”

He makes a frustrated sound. “It’s definitely not easy. I struggled with it until I found something worth pissing them off for. Something that was worth the arguments and endless discussions.”

“Hockey.”