My annoyance melts away. Archie spends a lot of time with his head in the theoretical clouds, but when he does come down to earth, there’s no one more appreciative.

“One of my many talents,” I say modestly.

“You should put it on your résumé,” he says, “right next to Uncanny Ability To Burn Anything—Even Water.”

“Oh, be quiet.” I shove his shoulder. “Or I’ll never make you burned water again.”

“Speaking of your unparalleled flair for fashion…” His body is all at once in motion: knees bouncing, fingers drumming, elbows vibrating. “I asked Maggie to prom. She said yes.”

I blink. “That’s great.”

Maggie Falk said yes. I can’t believe it, but I’ll wish on every star I find that she’ll be able to see past my brother’s eccentricities. That she’ll be the one who makes him happy.

“Are we, uh, still going shopping?” he mumbles.

I smile. My brother is always brilliant and sometimes vulnerable—but hardly ever shy. “One hundred percent. Now, can you please get dressed—in something other than Marie Curie’s head? Dad’s waiting.”

He grabs the tie and stands up. An object falls from his lap and rolls along the concrete floor, bumping against my bright-blue toenails. I pick up the cylindrical piece of wood—and the blood drains from my face. “What…?”

“It’s a spindle that forms the back of a chair.” Archie pushes the glasses up his nose.

“I know what it is. Why do you have it?”

When my mother still lived with us, she made and sold furniture with inspirational quotes carved into the wood. Once, she was written up in a big wedding magazine, and for a year, our house was swarmed with would-be brides and grooms searching for the perfect manifestation of their love.

Personally, I wouldn’t want other people’s butts parked on my declaration of forever. But maybe that’s just me.

“Give it back,” my brother says, ignoring my question.

“In a minute.” For reasons I can’t explain, I curl my fingers around the rod. Maybe it’s because I didn’t know we had any remnants of my mom’s old furniture. Or maybe I just want to hold something of hers again. Since her hand is out of the question, this piece of wood is the next best thing.

“It’s mine,” Archie says roughly. Without warning, he plucks the rod right out of my grasp.

I gape. “What, are we two years old?”

He runs his thumb along the etched letters. “It’s mine,” he says again, more softly.

When he looks up, his eyes are glossy.