They faced each other, Perry in her granny gown and LaFontaine in the matching pajamas that Perry had given them last year. They sat in their room, on the bed, on LaFontaine's bed— because even though they'd pushed them together, they still made their beds separately— with just the fingertips of one's hand touching the fingertips of the other's.
Perry was right.
Perry was always right; she just felt right. Perry, redolent of unscented, dye-free laundry detergent and unscented, dye-free shampoo, a whiff of ammonia, and always, always a touch of vinegar, just smelled right. Her amber and tiger's-eye curls bounced in just the right way. Everything about Perry was right. The moment was right.
LaFontaine leaned in.
It was tiny, the flinch, the infinitesimal shake of her head, but LaFontaine caught it. They leaned back out.
Perry looked at the floor. LaFontaine looked at the ceiling.
"Sorry," whispered Perry.
"It's okay."
LaFontaine knew it was a lot of responsibility to say 'no'.
LaFontaine knew it was a lot of responsibility to hear 'no'.
But how many times can a person hear 'no'?
Perry's grip on LaFontaine's fingers strengthened. Her other hand found LaFontaine's cheek. Their eyes, bright, met.
LaFontaine stepped again into the abyss.
"Can I hold you?" they said.
Perry smiled.
"Please."