"Piers has a sensitive constitution, and with the baby to look after, he caught a bit of a cold this afternoon when he went out. Just a precautionary quarantine." She paused, studying me. "Weren't you supposed to be out of town? You said you couldn't make it back."
I smiled. "You forget what Mom used to say? Whichever one of us gets married first, the other has to be his best man."
Through the glass, I raised my hand gently and pressed my palm against his.
"I knew you'd come!" He tilted his head, grinning wide. "I already picked out your suit. You're going to be the second most handsome guy at my wedding!"
He cocked his head to the side, eyes squinting with delight as he pictured it.
My smile froze.
Our mother died when we were four years old. She never lived long enough to say anything like that.
The glass was thick and cold. My hand was already ice.
But his palm, pressed against the other side, was still flushed pink with warmth.
"Stay this time, okay? Just get rid of those disgusting zombies already!" He pouted, wheedling, one finger tracing lazy circles against the glass where my palm rested.
That was his habit. Exactly his habit.