Family Pride

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“My parents want to meet you.”

I dropped the thick ceramic mug in the sink. It bounced once before landing in the inch-deep soapy water. The clanging sound bounced around my skull, settling behind my left eye and throbbing.

“Your parents are dead.” I turned and leaned against the counter. “Are we attending a séance?”

Bran bit his lower lip. He hadn’t bothered to put a shirt on, choosing to pad around my house barefoot in a pair of jeans that fit perfectly in all the right places. We’d finally dragged ourselves out of bed for lunch, ordering in pizza because we had run out of groceries.

His dark eyes met mine, apologetic and pleading.

“They’re not, ah, dead. They’re sort of alive.”

I picked up the mug and contemplated how much strength it would take to smash it. “Your parents are zombies?”

“My parents are alive and well and very much human.”

I weighed the mug in my palm, letting him watch my fingers curl around the cool clay. “You lied to me. Four months ago you lied to my face.”

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