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“You used to wear chains.”

Laurel turns toward me. “Chains?”

“Decorative ones,” Briggs continues helpfully. “Wallet. Boots. Once attached to a leather vest for reasons I’m sure nobody understood. I’ve seen the photos.”

I maintain focus on the road. “Fashion experimentation is considered normal among teenagers.”

Torin grins. “Ashby went through a phase where he thought brooding required accessories.”

“I hate all of you,” I tell them calmly.

“Laurel,” Briggs says, choking back laughter, “this man once quoted Nietzsche during a bar fight.”

She stares at me in disbelief.

I sigh. “The quote was contextually appropriate.”

“Not when you were about to get hit over the head with a bar stool,” Torin says, snickering annoyingly.

That destroys her completely.

Laurel laughs hard enough she has to cover her mouth with one hand while turning away toward the window.

Minutes later, she wipes beneath one eye, still laughing softly. “I can’t believe you survived your twenties.”

“Neither can we,” Torin says.

Briggs leans forward between the seats. “Your turn, sweetheart.”

“My turn for what?” Laurel asks, looking puzzled.

“Embarrassing teenage history. Spill.”

She immediately looks suspicious. “No.”

“Yes.”

“I refuse.”

“Cowardice,” Briggs accuses.

Torin nods solemnly. “Spiritually weak.”

She glares at all three of us, then mutters, “I had a debate team phase.”

Briggs blinks once. “That’s not embarrassing.”

“I carried color coded flashcards… voluntarily.”

“Still not hearing the issue.”

She thinks hard. “I corrected a substitute teacher’s citation formatting.”

The silence lasts half a second. Then Briggs loses his mind laughing. Torin folds forward into his knees. Even I fail at maintaining composure.

Laurel looks deeply offended. “It was academically valid,” she protests.

“I swear you were born forty-five years old,” Briggs wheezes.