"Why did you waste your money?" Cecelia asked. "He robbed you blind. I wanted to argue for you, but you pulled out your wallet so quickly it would have been a waste of breath."
"Possibly because it isn't my money; it's Mama's. But more than likely, it's because that apple and I have a connection. Besides, it's a better snack than fried dough." She smirked and added hastily, "Which I still plan to have."
Cecelia cocked one eyebrow and took off towards wherever they were headed. Sloane would have understood the apple connection. Francesca focused on that, not Cecelia's fingertips as they grazed her hand at an unnatural angle now and again as they moved in tandem towards the Trevi Fountain.
She tried desperately not to glance sideways. The one time she did, Cecelia's lacy bra had peeked out from under her loose top. Francesca had not expected ever again to feel the stirring the indigo fabric brought on.
She groped for Sloane's face. Her current feeling, coupled with the image of Sloane's fire hair and green eyes, blonde eyebrows and pale lips, had a visceral memory of Sloane's taste entering her mind.
A noise nearly escaped Francesca as she recalled the sounds Sloane would make as she painted swirls inside of her. She rubbed her thumb on her palm as Sloane often did. Something was comforting about the endearing motion, but also erotic.
Usually, that touch led to Sloane running her fingers along Francesca's arms slowly. She’d pause at the soft spot at the crook of her arm; Francesca always moaned at the seemingly un-erogenous zone. Fingertips would trace her collarbone, walking their way down to her wanting breasts.
A sharp pain rippled through Francesca's toe as she ran into a small kiosk in the middle of the square. Cecelia spun around to catch her, despite her lack of falling. Their breasts grazed each other, and chills ran down Francesca's spine. She gasped. In an attempt to cover it, she shouted, "Ouch!" Her mind spun, and she reminded herself that Sloane, not Cecelia, had her worked up. Francesca wanted to create a mantra about that to ease the knot forming in her stomach, but Cecelia was already talking to her.
"–not the day I'd hoped. Are you okay?"
Francesca thought to laugh. "It'll sting for a bit, but I'll be fine. Speaking of, should we check on Tony?"
"He's a big boy. He'll be okay. We'll call him before lunch."
Could it be lunch yet?
"That sounds good. Where could a girl get some fried dough around here?"
"What happened to this apple being a good snack?" Cecelia bit into it for emphasis. The crisp sound of the skin breaking seemed louder than the newly wedded couple's exclamations about being over-charged. Apple juices dribbled down Cecelia's plump lips, and Francesca frantically looked around for relief.
Finding one, her voice echoed down the thin corridor. "Look! A snack!"
"What? That butcher shop?"
On the window, a smiling pig had a pitchfork through his stomach. The awning above the shop read, 'Meat'. A large picture window gave passersby an in-depth look into the life of a butcher. No hidden, backroom chopping and tearing down for 'Meat’.
"They may have sandwiches, and I could go for a sandwich."
"If you're that hungry, let's go to a restaurant. We could get a real lunch," Cecelia said. She'd stopped walking to stare intensely into Francesca's eyes as if she were about to say, 'I love you'.
"Not that hungry, but I couldn't finish breakfast." Tony's gagging had turned her stomach. "Still, I need a little something to tide me over until lunch," Francesca said. Her gaze squirmed away, and her irritation began to rise. "And you just ate my apple."
"Do you want me to get you another one? I can do that while you check out the butcher shop. Or we could find something along the way?"
Francesca agreed. Her nerves had calmed her sex drive so she felt she could handle more alone time with Cecelia, but a few minutes apart would still do her some good. After all, she had been excited about Sloane, not Cecelia. Cecelia would only be a cheap replacement for Sloane. Francesca was having to remind herself of that often.
Their arms had inched back towards each other some time during the day, hands grazing now and again.
By the time Francesca could see the parking lot, both elation and self-loathing consumed her brain like a Celtic knot. Francesca decided the only way to keep anything from happening was avoidance, but she hadn't decided if she wanted that yet.
"Looks like Tone made it to the car alright." Cecelia pointed to the long dark hair plastered against the interior of the car window. "Told you he'd be fine."
Hours he'd been there, yet she seemed so blasé about it. Maybe he got sick often and ended up hanging out in cars more often than the average person. It's not as if there was a ‘type’ for that kind of thing.
"Yeah. He's asleep at least,” Francesca said, hoping her voice wasn't as guilty as her conscious.
Cecelia stopped short of the car and turned, her face flushed from heat and hours worth of skin brushing skin. "I had an amazing day," she commented, testing Francesca's resolve.
Francesca probably matched pink for pink. "Me too. Thank you for showing me Rome. It was–" She searched for a word. "–different than I remember."
Disappointment shadowed Cecelia's face; Francesca's hesitation must have signaled something she hadn't meant it to.
"How so?" she asked quietly.
"Well, I remembered it being stuffier. I truly appreciate you taking me to the Musei Vaticani."
Francesca wished she could say more, stop being so short with what she said, but conversations felt too much like opening up as of late.
"I've driven to Rome to wander through the Sistine Chapel, so I completely understand. The Vatican is a holy place; sometimes you just have to breathe that in." Cecelia smiled and reached for Francesca's hand.
As if she were a small animal in the woods, Francesca didn't move as the wavy-haired hunter grew ever closer. Her heart tried to rip through her chest while she decided if she would run or embrace the bullet.
Cecelia took a step forward.
"Yes, very holy," Francesca said, grasping for words.
Closing her eyes, Cecelia leaned forward. Her full lips separated ever so slightly. Francesca held her breath. With a feather's worth of space between them, a small flock of pigeons cooed loudly and flew up in a swoop of grey and white. Francesca's heart did a flip-flop, and her eyes flicked towards the racket. She stepped back. Gravel crunched under her sandals.
Cecelia's eyes squinted before they opened, and a sad sigh escaped her lips before they closed and retreated. Silently, she strolled towards the driver side and knocked on the glass. It took four hard knocks before Tony woke up.
Francesca wondered if she should stand there, one step away from kissing Cecelia, or head to the car, miles away from kissing Cecelia.
Tony rolled the window down. On the drowsy side of alert, he questioned, "You coming, Francesca? Hurry up and close the door. It's so hot!" He had no idea.
"Coming."
Though he'd had the air conditioning on, it came out forced, dry and angry, warm and suffocating. Francesca should have walked home. It would have only taken, what? A few days at her pace?
Holding onto both seats, twisted like a pretzel, Tony turned to Francesca. "So, how was the day? Sorry I missed it!" The left side of his face had a seatbelt indention and a line of drool. He wiped it away and rubbed the slime on his khaki shorts. "I feel much better now. Want to stop for a late gelato and dinner? I know you two worked up an appetite running about Rome for… what? Eight hours, or so?"
Cecelia didn't respond. She just put the car in reverse and started driving away.
"Sounds about right," Francesca said. Tony hadn't done anything, so she tried to keep it natural between them. "And I'm up for dinner."
Dark eyes and thick eyelashes flicked towards her in the rearview mirror. They narrowed. It pissed Francesca off.
She hadn't made the flock of pigeons go nuts; she hadn't ruined the moment, and neither had Tony. He needed to eat after a horrible day in
the car.
"Great!" His head swiveled to Cecelia. He was right by her ear. "Cecelia, where do you want to go?"
"Home. I'm too tired. You two can go eat after you drop me off."
"I can't wait three hours. I was sick!" Tony emphasized the ‘sick' with an inflection matching no emotion Francesca knew.
Cecelia sighed.
"And I can appreciate that. You getting sick was bad and all, but it doesn't matter. I still want to go home."
Tony plopped back in his seat with a muffled sigh. "Home it is then."
14
Sloane
For Sloane, no word could describe the prospect of touching Francesca again. Though she knew she shouldn't get her hopes up, a little glowing ball of it still grew in her chest.
"Okay," Sloane muttered as she began to focus on the night that had ended her, had ended everything: their six-year anniversary. Sloane could hardly believe it had been so long, yet she felt she'd known Francesca forever.
Sloane hadn't wanted to wait to pop the question, but Francesca had told her they didn't need to get married; it didn't make a difference.
"You'll always be mine, without a doubt." Francesca would say, whenever she brought it up.
Sloane didn't care; Francesca was going to marry her.
They had arrived at Francesca's favorite diner late because she hadn't been able to decide which dress to wear for dancing. "I want to look perfect, Sloane. Six years is a huge deal. We'll want to take a hundred pictures, of course."
"But we'll forget to take more than a few at the beginning, because we're so caught up, just like every year," Sloane had reminded her, a smile spreading across her lips.
She'd stood behind Francesca–once again in awe of her beauty and her luck–as Francesca had tugged at her slinky red and black geometric patterned dress. Their full-length mirror hung on the back of the closet door they left open to pretend they had a wardrobe. It barely fit Francesca's dresses.
"Not this year, we have to do better. We don't have enough pictures of us lately. We will take some side by side at dinner and make sure we ask people to take pictures of us dancing too."
Francesca had slid her dangly coral earrings in and stared meaningfully at Sloane in the mirror, adding a wink for emphasis.
"Of course, baby, whatever you want. The salsa club has terrible lighting, though. We can have ice cream after and take photos there."
"I hate this dress," Francesca had muttered.
Before Sloane could stop her, Francesca had stripped, tossed the dress behind her, and grabbed a lace dress with the tags still on she’d been saving for "the right occasion”.
Sloane had decided on a turquoise maxi dress with paint splatter white hibiscus flowers before deciding on the evening's activities. It wasn't flashy, but Francesca had always purred when she slipped it on. Sloane'd wanted to give her a night she'd love before they ended up in what would forever be "their spot," so a purr was a good sign.
Sloane's eyes had lit up as Francesca spun around and shifted her hair over her shoulder. "Oh, my love," Sloane had gasped. "You look beautiful."
The cream of the cap-sleeve dress brought out the tan of her skin and stood in stark contrast to her near-black hair. So striking, Sloane had hesitated. "We could stay in?" she'd joked. Even if Francesca had agreed, Sloane had plans.
"Love, we're going. Now, it's your turn," Francesca had said. "Take my breath away."
And Sloane had, when she died. But that had been then.
Sloane's lungs burned as The Gray ripped her to a parking lot. To her right stood something she and Francesca had sworn they'd see together one day: the Colosseum. To her left, rows and rows of parked cars filled with luggage awaiting visitors' return. But betrayal stood right in front of her.
Cecelia was leaning into Francesca like the hussy she was. And Francesca stood there waiting with such anticipation she'd been struck still.
Molly gasped as The Gray rippled around them. Unlike the hole Sloane had torn through the other side, any shifting she'd caused then was from rage. Her anger had Molly clasping her hand over her mouth. She was shocked Francesca couldn't feel it too. The pigeons did; as if Sloane had charged at them, they dispersed with vigor. The flock flew up chaotically, desperate to escape the enmity.
Sloane spun around, unable to face Francesca moving on.
In such a small voice, it was almost lost, Molly told her, "She pulled back".
To crumple or not to crumple? "It doesn't matter," Sloane said through a tight jaw.
It took Molly a moment to respond. She watched Francesca watching Cecelia. Curiosity almost had questions coming from Sloane's lips, but she held them. Her fists were tight, and she hated that she could feel her nails cut into her palms.
Being dead should hurt less.
"I need to be anywhere but here," Sloane barely said.
Hectic thoughts raced through her mind. Fights, makeup sex, promises to never have makeup sex again, Thanksgiving traditions, a trip to the Grand Canyon.
With nausea she shouldn't have to have in The Gray, Sloane was sucked away to a full square. It matched her chaotic mood. "Where are we?" she questioned Molly, who hovered beside her.
Molly shrugged. "You chose this location. I only followed you here."
A bewildered Sloane swiveled her head. "I didn't, though. My thoughts were too jumbled to pick a place; I just needed to get away."
"Well, we are away," snarked the irritating peasant girl. No, it wasn't Molly's fault Sloane felt empty.
They wandered through the crowds, through the living: the natives and tourists, adults and children in search of a landmark. Without warning, as if caught in a flytrap, she became stuck inside of a woman with large clogs and a short patterned red dress. She pulled up short and stood still with Sloane inside of her.
Their thoughts mingled as if they'd become one person. Sloane could hear her thinking about her useless boyfriend and how she'd dump him as soon as they got home. The woman hoped she could wear him out with sightseeing so they wouldn't have to have any more sex. It wasn't terrible, but he got too sweaty.
Sloane's thoughts on how weird it felt to be living snuck in, which confounded the woman. She followed the idea with her own of how being a ghost may be ‘cool’.
With serious effort, Sloane mustered the energy to step out of the nameless, unsatisfied woman. Speechless, the woman seemed no worse for the wear. Sloane watched the woman acknowledge the man who'd brought her a bottle of water.
"Here you go, babe," he said with a smile that read, 'I want to marry you.'
"K, thanks," she replied with no interest at all. Her eyes weren't even looking in his direction; they were checking out a GQ model practically running through the square.
"What the hell was that?" Sloane asked aloud. Could this day get any worse?
"You are much quicker than I had expected, especially considering your lack of ability to interact with the living in other ways." Molly's compliment took the sting away from the insult, as intended. "You body-melded. My first time was an accident, as well."
"Okay, so you can do it too…" Sloane wasn't sure if that made it better or worse.
Nodding, Molly sighed, "Yes, but I do wish I knew more about it. Much is still unknown to me, and I am unable to do much while I'm in another person."
Sloane had so many questions. "Can I move with them?"
Molly tightened her clasped hands. "Yes. It will take some time, and it does not last long, but you can."
"Can I body-meld with anyone?"
15
Francesca
Strands of red tickled Francesca's collarbone. The weight of Sloane's head made her breathing shallow but satisfying. She stirred but didn't wake up until Francesca began stroking her hair.
"Hm?" she murmured sleepily.
Yellow light streamed in through the cracks of the curtains. Particles from dusty books glittered above them as if life was an art film with everything perfectly framed and expertly angled. Even Sloane
's face seemed flushed just so.
Lucky didn't cover it.
"How long have you been awake?" Sloane asked as she slid across Francesca and pulled herself up to meet her face. She sighed, probably because of the chilly pillow–she loved that.
"Long enough." Francesca kissed her sticky forehead. "You don't have to wake up."
A dimple formed on her cheek. "I do. I need to tell you something that's very important."
Francesca leaned forward. Their lips touched so lightly it wasn't enough. They became greedy. Sloane pulled her close and kissed her as only she could. When she pulled back, they were gasping.
"I still need to tell you something."
Francesca took a deep breath. "Is it a good thing?"
"The best." Sloane cupped her cold and clammy hand on Francesca's cheek.
"Okay." She leaned into it and stared into Sloane's emerald eyes, flecks of gold danced as she tried not to blink.
"I'll be with you soon," she said. "I need you to wait for me."
Before Francesca had a chance to question what her lover meant, Sloane began fading away. She tried to grab her hand, hold on to her forever, but she just felt her own cheek.
"You can't leave me," Francesca whispered to the dusty nothingness.
Her mouth still formed the word "me," and her hand was still resting on her cheek when she woke with dried tears on her face.
Sloane was dead; Francesca's chest shook as it came back in waves.
The smell of pink and strawberries swirled in the room–a fleeting memory. Touching her lips, Francesca jerked up from the mounds of tangled sheets. Sloane's glass strawberry sat on the chair with its cap off. An open book lay beside it.
Standing felt nearly impossible, but the bed offered a haven she didn't deserve.
After Tony and Cecelia had dropped her off, she'd rushed in and had dinner with Mama. Mama knew. Somehow, she knew something had happened. Silence could have been an indicator. Or it could have been the solemn, disappointed look Francesca's face held. Mama didn't ask about the trip, only if Francesca wanted seconds of her ravioli. She didn't.
I Never Stopped Page 10