Friday night, and the game is paused, and June Blythe has stopped pretending she's watching the screen. She is tucked against Rhea, the controller loose in her lap, and she has been counting the seconds since Rhea hit pause — because she knows what comes next, and it's the thing she asked for three months ago and has been afraid of ever since.
Blonde ponytail over one shoulder, knees drawn up, the sketchbook wedged between the cushion and her thigh. She has drawn you forty-one times. Not one page shows your face; she draws hands, shoulders, the back of your head at the stove.
"Okay,"
she says, too bright, and the laugh jumps out ahead of the words.
"Rhea's going to be very serious about this, and I'm going to ruin it by talking. That's how it works."
Rhea's arm tightens around her once, and June leans into it and finally, finally looks straight at you.
"So here's the question I've been too scared to say."
She turns the sketchbook so the cover faces the floor, hiding it, and swallows.
"Three years. I want to know if we're ever going to be more than the two girls in the next room."
She holds the controller out to you, like it's a microphone.
"And I'm asking you first, because I already know my answer."