33. Wren
WREN
Sunday mornings in Valehurst have a strange kind of energy.
The town wakes up slowly around the edges while the university district stumbles through hangovers and caffeine addiction.
Students clog sidewalks in oversized hoodies, clutching coffees the size of their heads while local businesses drag chalkboard signs onto the pavement outside their storefronts.
Since the guys typically have a game the night before, we rarely get the opportunity to go out on Sunday mornings, but they had the night off last night, so we took the opportunity to grab an early breakfast in town.
Hardware store. Silas writes as we approach Ronan’s SUV.
“Why do we need to stop at the hardware store?” I ask as Silas opens the front passenger door for me to climb in, while Ronan slides in behind the steering wheel.
“Because somebody,” Ronan says pointedly, glaring at Lucian, “snapped the leg off the coffee table.”
A scoff from the back of the car has me twisting in my seat to look at Lucian. “It’s hardly my fault it couldn’t support my weight,” he defends.
“It’s your fault for climbing on top of it in the first place,” Ronan argues in an exasperated tone that suggests this isn’t the first time this argument has taken place.
“I’d just won the Stanley Cup. What else was I meant to use as a platform to accept my trophy?”
“What?” I ask, looking between the three of them in confusion.
It’s a video game. Silas writes, clueing me in.
I snort. Only Lucian could destroy a coffee table while pretending to accept a trophy as part of a video game.
Because Valehurst is a small college town, it doesn’t take us long to reach the local hardware store.
Piling out of the car, we head inside. It smells faintly of lumber and fresh-cut wood mixed with industrial cleaner.
Weekend shoppers drift through the aisles, pushing carts overloaded with plants, power tools, and enough supplies to survive the apocalypse.
“Wow, look at that thing!” Lucian races toward a display of power tools like an overgrown child seeing a dinosaur exhibit at the museum. He snatches up the nail gun, waving it around like it’s not a deadly weapon.
“Absolutely not,” Ronan states, laying down the law.
“Aww, come on.” Lucian puts on this dramatic pout that has me hiding my laugh behind my hand.
“You are not buying that. If you don’t kill yourself, you’ll kill someone else, and I don’t want to deal with that fallout.”
Huffing, Lucian reluctantly sets the power tool back where he found it.
“Buzzkill,” he gripes, making Ronan roll his eyes. Silas and I share a look behind their backs, the two of us stifling our laughter.
“What aisle do we need for whatever it is you are looking for?” I ask, reading the signs above each aisle, but I’ve no idea what Ronan needs to fix the coffee table.
“Aisle 18,” he says, pointing it out before moving in that direction.
We follow him up the aisle, passing tins of varnish and tubes of superglue. I slow as shelves are replaced with rows and rows of color.
Soft sage greens.
Dusty blues.
Warm creams.
Deep jewel tones.
Muted terracottas.
Each paint sample card feels alive with possibility.
I don’t even realize I’ve stopped moving until my gaze catches on a rich, muted green somewhere between emerald and eucalyptus. It’s not too bright, but not too dark either. There’s a beautiful warmth to it, almost as though the color itself is alive.
Without thinking, I reach out and pull the sample card free. The tiny rectangle sits cool against my fingertips as something strange twists low in my chest.
I can suddenly picture it. That color spread across the wall behind my couch. Some plants growing in oversized pots near the windows. Paired with some warm mood lighting and books stacked haphazardly across the shelves, I could almost see my apartment as a…home.
Not just an apartment that my mother decorated without any care for my likes or comfort.
My old place at BSU comes to mind. That apartment had bright, mismatched furniture I found at thrift stores and yard sales. Walls painted ridiculous colors. Crooked gallery walls full of random art prints and concert posters.
Despite the guys suggesting I decorate, I haven’t wanted to do that here.
Haven’t wanted to consider this place home.
Not when I was brought here against my will.
However, the longer I stare at the sample card in my hand, the more I realize that somewhere along the way, I stopped not wanting to be here.
I’d go so far as to say I’ve actually started enjoying being at Valehurst.
My classes are challenging and engaging. People are starting to respect me and see me for my worth at my internship. And while I haven’t made any real friends, I do have the guys and the other players on the team with whom I get along easily.
“Found something?”
Ronan’s voice breaks through my thoughts.
I glance over to find all three of them have backtracked to see where I disappeared to. I notice he’s holding a box of replacement screws, so he must have found what he was looking for to fix the coffee table.
Ronan’s gaze flicks toward the color card in my hand before returning to my face. “That color is very you.”
Something about the simple certainty in his voice makes my chest ache unexpectedly.
“Mhm,” I respond noncommittally.
I look back toward the wall of colors.
Plucking the sample card from between my fingers, Lucian studies it for half a second before nodding decisively. “Yeah. That’s very Little Moth.”
Much better than all that white, Silas writes for everyone to see.
“Anything would be better than the white,” Lucian agrees, looking disgusted.
“What room were you thinking of it for?” Ronan asks, taking the sample card from Lucian and holding it up.
“Oh,” I start, trying to pull the card out of his tight grip. “I wasn’t thinking of it for anything; I was just looking.”
Lucian scoffs. “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter, baby. You were staring at it in a daze for the last five minutes, so you were clearly picturing it somewhere.”
Rolling my eyes, I admit, “The living room.”
Lucian tilts his head, while Silas nods as though he can visualize it too.
“I think three tins should do the whole room,” Ronan muses aloud, glancing up and down the aisle as though looking for the tins.
“What are you doing?” I splutter.
Stopping his search, he turns to face me. I can feel the intensity of his stare pressing against my skin.
“Do you want to paint your apartment?”
There’s nothing in his tone beyond simple curiosity. He’s merely asking the question.
I give it some serious thought. Do I?
I haven’t wanted to do anything with that apartment. It’s not mine. Has never felt like mine.
But something has changed these past few weeks. Valehurst has gone from feeling like a foreign entity to feeling strangely like somewhere I could call home.
And that feeling extends to my apartment.
“Yes,” I say so softly, it’s barely more than a whisper.
“Sorry, what was that?” Lucian asks with an overexaggerated gesture of cupping his hand around his ear. “I didn’t quite catch it.”
Rolling my eyes, I don’t bother to fight back my smile as I repeat louder, “Yes, I want to paint my apartment.”
Ronan flashes me a broad smile laden with pride.
“Alright, so the living room is green, what about the other rooms?”
Lips pursed in thought, I return my focus to the wall of color. Excitement thrums through me. I’m really doing this!
Reaching past me, Silas plucks a terracotta colored sample card from the range.
“Oh.” My eyes light up. “I like that.”
It’s got a cozy warmth to it, yet it’s bright and refreshing.
“What room are you thinking of?” I ask him.
Your bedroom.
I nod. I can totally picture it there, and the thought of drifting off to sleep and waking up to the relaxed, earthy hue instead of stark white walls sounds perfect.
“We could color-drench the entire room,” I muse aloud, visualizing it. Some sandstone bedding and little green plants dotted around the room. I’d feel like I’m in an oasis.
More paint colors are picked out, and Ronan goes in search of a cart to carry them all.
“We need brushes, rollers, tape, and drop cloths,” he begins listing off.
“Wait,” I call as they disperse to gather everything. “We’re not doing this today…are we?” I glance between the three of them.
“Why wouldn’t we?” Lucian asks with a quizzical expression, like my question confuses him.
“Uhh, because I’m sure you all have better things to do?”
“Ronan, do you have something better to do?” Lucian asks him.
“Nope.” He is quick to respond, arms folded over his chest. “Nothing I can think of.”
“What about you, Silas?”
Silas shakes his head, stare dead set on me.
“Well, I know I have nothing that’s more important than making my girl feel at home in her apartment,” Lucian declares with a clap of his hands, oblivious to the way my insides go all gooey when he refers to me as his girl. “So let’s get this show on the road.”
Something deep in my chest wobbles unexpectedly.
I look between the three of them. At the casual certainty each of them bears. The complete lack of hesitation, like helping me rebuild pieces of myself is the most natural thing in the world.
“You really want to spend your Sunday painting my apartment?”
Lucian snorts. “Baby, we would help you bury a body if you asked us to.”
“Yeah, that’s not something I’m ever going to ask of you.”
Lucian shrugs, unperturbed.
“I think what Lucian is trying to say,” Ronan takes over, coming over to squeeze my shoulder, “is that there’s nothing else we’d rather do.”
Well, maybe a few things, but all of them involve you. Naked. Making those delectable little noises.
Silas presses the note into my hand, barely giving me time to read it all before he silences my splutter with his tongue. It quickly turns into a moan as I melt into his touch. Oh, how these men unravel me.
We only break apart at the clearing of a throat.