I Never Stopped

by Elizabeth Mitchell

  Thoughts of Sloane were scabs itching to be ripped open. Francesca herself short of delving into any one memory.

  A knock woke a hungover Francesca. Sitting up proved to be painful and sad; a photograph of Sloane kissing her left laughing cheek stuck to her swollen, drool-covered right one. The knock sounded again, more insistent. Mama better have a good reason for waking her up. She had another day before adult life kicked in.

  Cecelia stood in her doorway with wet hair in a put together outfit. Wasn't it too early to be out of bed? Francesca blinked away the film still covering her eyes, casually rubbing the gunk away.

  "Rough night?" Cecelia smirked.

  Francesca coughed. "Something like that. What's up?"

  "Can I come in?"

  Francesca stuttered in answer.

  Cecelia blushed. "Unless someone is–"

  "No! It's just I went through some stuff last night. Come on in." Francesca rushed to the floor and scrambled to stack the photographs and love notes. "Sorry."

  "Why? I think it's wonderful you have these. Do you want to show me some?" Long legs kneeled to glance at the collection.

  Flabbergasted, Francesca stared at the love in her hand. Could she share these with anyone? Could she share them with Cecelia? Before she could even make a decision, Cecelia held a photograph, her jaw tight.

  Cecelia sat on the peach velvet couch Francesca had just found at an antique store. "Is this her?"

  Their second Halloween flashed back in snapshots like the ones scattered on the carpet. Sloane wouldn't dress up, so Francesca had been a lonely Scarecrow who'd found her Lion and Tin Man at a bar with a drunken Dorothy; their Scarecrow had had to bail for some reason or another. Sloane might as well have been the Wicked Witch she'd been green. Jealousy had never suited them. They'd left early to go home and watch horror movies. Every year after, Sloane dressed up to the nines–couples costumes only.

  "Yes, that was Halloween. She wasn't one for costumes in the beginning."

  Emotions splattered Cecelia's face like a Pollock. "She was beautiful."

  Francesca nearly corrected her with, 'She is beautiful.' "I am a lucky woman," she said instead. It just slipped out, and Cecelia looked crestfallen.

  "What about this one?" She reached over a stack to point at a Polaroid.

  Sloane and Francesca stood in short 80s-styled dresses. Teased hair and over-done makeup made them look like entirely different people. If it weren't for Sloane's hair and eyebrows, she could have been any 80s pop star.

  "Adult Prom. We went every year. I used to love any excuse to dress up, and this one was great. This was from the first year. She knew the guitarist from the cover band. I can't remember who they covered usually, but they sang Cindi Lauper all that night.” Francesca remembered how Sloane had danced to “Girls Just Want To Have Fun”. “My feet were covered in blisters from wearing those ridiculous shoes. I swore I'd never wear heels to any event again." She scrunched her face holding back laughter.

  Cecelia tossed wet hair into a quick bun. "I take it you broke your promise?"

  "Of course! Costumes dictate my footwear, don't they?"

  "You're adorable," Cecelia said, her eyes glittering. Quickly, she turned her attention back to the scattered photographs. Stacking them, she stopped on another. "Whoa! What's this?"

  Sloane was on one knee, and Francesca's hand was over her mouth.

  "That's a photo we took for my friend's portfolio. She'd wanted to pretend she caught the 'Will you?' moment. It had been hard for Sloane because I'd already told her we didn't need to get married. We never had a wedding, which I know she wanted; I robbed her of that."

  Reaching out, Cecelia took Francesca's hand. "Looking at these pictures, I can tell you had a beautiful life. A wedding would have been great, but she had you, and I know that was enough. How could it not be?"

  Francesca couldn't tilt her head up; it felt dangerous–she was too vulnerable.

  "So, uh–I just came by to ask if you needed a ride to work for your first week at Lia's? I don't mind. Admittedly, it's not on the way to my job, but I've already talked to them about it. I said 'family,' so they'd be okay with it. I know you don't have a car yet. You don't have to, of course. I just thought I'd offer. So–" Cecelia floundered.

  Francesca put her out of her misery. "Thank you. I'd really appreciate that."

  "Alright. What time should I pick you up?"

  “My shift starts at 9, so how's 8:15?"

  Cecelia stood and headed out. "How's 7:45? We can grab breakfast."

  "Sure."

  "Great. It's a date." She slammed the door on her words, leaving Francesca with the word 'date'.

  30

  Francesca

  Three Weeks Later

  When the last customer left Lia's, Francesca melted into the counter. The sharp metal edges cut into her ribs, a painful reminder that she couldn't rest yet. The bakery had to be cleaned from top to bottom and prepped for Lia's morning bake.

  Francesca boxed up the few remaining baked treats.

  As Lia put it, "The leftover goodies have to be well taken care of: no cleaners near them, tightly wrapped, etc." Her stern voice was adorable. "I always sell out of my 'day-olds'. People feel like they're getting a discount, and the food still tastes delicious. Win-win."

  Francesca placed each into the beautiful basket with a calligraphy label, then got to work.

  The smell of blue cleaner replaced the swirling fresh bread and cinnamon raisin scent Lia's usually held. As if she were cleaning a crime scene, Francesca wiped away fingerprints and crumbs left on the counter by eager customers.

  She pulled out display trays covered in broken pieces of chocolate and dustings of powdered sugar and took them to the large sink in the back. The size of the stainless steel tub reminded her of the only time she'd been to a stable. Sloane had taken her to ride a horse–a bucket list item. The owner of the horse had walked them through a day in the life of owning a horse. Educational, exhausting, a little gross, yet somewhat fun.

  Water from the large power-hose bounced off of a pan and spritzed her in the face. Her favorite sweet topping had become a gummy substance as she'd wandered into la-la-land. Francesca wanted to lick it, but a pattern had developed.

  She had gained a pound every week she'd been at Lia's–three and counting. Unless she wanted to buy yet another new wardrobe, she needed to learn a little restraint. Besides, licking the tray would be a low point in her sweet-eating career.

  Before she'd finished drying off the trays, before she'd gotten to sweeping or mopping, before she'd prepped for Lia's morning, the store bell chimed.

  "Just me." Cecelia's voice echoed through the empty store. "Am I early?"

  "By forty-five minutes. But you knew that," Francesca replied.

  There was no need to hurry, or even go in the front to say hello. The scraping sound told Francesca Cecelia had already made herself comfortable in one of the trios of chairs by the shelves that held various bread loaves each morning.

  Cecelia said the words Francesca heard nearly every day since her first day of work, "I'll just read a few chapters then. Take your time."

  Francesca continued her cleaning, while Cecelia read her 'smut'.

  Cecelia recounted the highlights to Francesca in fifteen-minute catch-up sessions. Lacey may finally make a choice this coming chapter; Francesca was hoping for Ashley, but Cecelia shipped Rachael.

  Cleaning took thirty minutes, down from forty-five as Francesca had streamlined her routine.

  Her heart did a small pitter-patter–as it always did–when she walked out to see Cecelia. Most days Cecelia carried her long hours with her: mussed hair and stained overalls.

  But when Francesca made her way to the front of the store, Cecelia's hair was silky and straightened. Apparently, she'd gotten off of work early. She wore tight jeans, ballerina flats, and a low-cut shirt.

  Francesca's stomach tightened, and Cecelia's blue bra flashed in her mind. A gust of imaginings filled her
head. Forcing her eyes towards the setting sun, she breathed deeply.

  She owed Sloane an apology. Again.

  "How are you doing?" Mama asked before she closed the door behind her.

  "Come on in, Mama. Take your shoes off, and stay a while." Francesca hid her smile by walking towards the kitchen. Surprise visits had become less of a surprise.

  "So, how are you doing?"

  "Water, Mama?"

  "Yes. Tap is fine. You look nice." Mama plopped on the couch temporarily abandoning the question.

  Francesca wandered back in with two tall clear glasses filled to the brim with cold water. "Okay, hello. I'm fine, Mama, thanks. Dinner out tonight. No, we aren't dating." Suddenly self-conscious, Francesca wished she had a mirror to check her pulled back twist for flyaways. Her lipgloss felt intact.

  Mama stared at the grey and white flowered tea-length dress Francesca wore. "So you say." Narrowed eyes and a pursed mouth didn't believe a word.

  "We aren't. She and I are spending a lot of time together, true. But I still love Sloane. I miss her every day." Would it help or hurt her cause if she stomped her foot?

  "Essie, my darling, I never thought that changed. You will always love and miss Susan. If you find comfort in someone, though, it's okay to enjoy it. As long as you don't jump in; you still have to protect your heart."

  "It's only been a year."

  Mama's face was unreadable. She tucked a loose strand behind her ear and took a swig of water before she grabbed Francesca's hand.

  "One week, one month, one year, one decade, never, that isn't what matters. Your heart has been broken in a way most people can't even fathom. If Cecelia can help heal it, even if it's only a little or temporary, then let her. Like I said, I'm not saying jump in. I'm not saying get married. I'm just telling you to stop judging yourself for the way you grieve and heal."

  "I will never get married," Francesca replied as if that was the only bit she retained from her mother's lovely sentiment. How could she not hate herself?

  "Okay, Essie. But think about what I said."

  A loud horn sounded through one of the six open windows.

  Squeezing her mother's hand, she asked a burning question. "You didn't love bio-dad, even though you were with him. It was always George, wasn't it?"

  Mama shook her head quickly, untucking her strategically placed curls. "I did love him, just never like I did George. I've known people to feel the same way about multiple people, though. Head-over-heels-love happens without asking our permission. Why? Are you falling for Cecelia?"

  "No, I'm not. But I am falling in 'like.' I'm feeling things I didn't think I could–ever wanted to–again, and that scares the hell out of me." The waterfall of truth tumbled out with no warning.

  Mama pulled Francesca onto her shoulders and patted her head. "Shh, my Essie. It's going to be okay. Whatever happens is supposed to, you know that. It will turn out as it should. And no matter what, Susan would want you to be happy."

  "Would she?" Francesca would want Sloane to be happy too, but in the arms of another woman?

  "Ye–" A loud knock at the door interrupted Mama's reassurances.

  "That's her. We are having dinner tonight." Hot shame filled Francesca.

  Mama looked pleased, though. "Well, I'll just head out then."

  "You don't have to go! She's early, so she can–"

  "Essie, it's fine. You have some figuring out to do." Mama went up on tiptoes, kissed Francesca on the cheek, and scurried to the door. "Hi, Cecelia. I was on my way out. Nice to see you."

  Cecelia sputtered, "You don't have to leave! I'm early."

  "So Essie told me. Have a good night. I'll see you both next week."

  "Ready to go, doll?" Cecelia asked, eyes drinking Francesca in. "You look amazing!"

  Gulp.

  Sipping lukewarm water did nothing for her nerves. A ring Sloane had bought from a bubblegum machine with a quarter she found on the sidewalk clinked against the glass. Francesca chastised herself for wearing it. Cecelia didn't know the story behind it; she could only see the scratched up turquoise plastic bobble. She probably naively thought it was a childhood memory. Francesca was always hiding.

  "Have you two decided?" Their usual waitress was absent and replaced by a young man with speckles of stubble above his top lip. He fussed with his dark bed-head styled hair as if to say, 'Well?' when it took them more than a second to respond.

  Cecelia nodded. "I have. Francesca, do you want your usual?"

  They'd had dinner at the low-key restaurant a few times in the past month. It had always had a girls-dinner vibe until an hour ago. Cecelia showed up in a slinky black dress and red lipstick instead of her usual skirt and nice top combo.

  "Without a doubt," Francesca replied. The words came out easily, felt so familiar. It wasn't until the waiter had walked away that she realized what she'd just said.

  Silver ballet flats were the worst shoes she could have picked. Tennis shoes would have made her dash to the bathroom much quicker and smoother. Maybe she wouldn't have knocked into the hostess on her break or pushed open the door to the kitchen. The rug might not have tripped her either. Alas.

  As Francesca sat on the floor outside of the restroom, her ankle blossoming in pain, panic gave way to tears. Patrons of the tiny, dim restaurant watched her as if she were a car accident. The thought stole her breath.

  She didn't notice Cecelia sitting beside her until she rubbed warm circles on her back. "What happened?"

  Francesca felt nauseous.

  "Don't."

  Cecelia's hand melted away with the sting of rejection.

  "I'll call Mama Nuccio," she muttered and left Francesca in the half-hallway; her absence was a cold spot.

  What seemed like years later, Mama appeared like an angel. Her small body wrapped around Francesca in a hug before she stood her up. "Let's get you home for some hot cocoa, wine, and a good cry."

  "Mama, I said, 'Without a doubt.'" She almost gave into another looming sob but wanted to hear Mama's thoughts too much.

  "In the car. It sounds like we have a lot to talk about, you and me."

  As they wandered out of the restaurant, Mama nodded at numerous tables–fantastic, she knows these people. None of it seemed to bother her, even in her silk PJs and socked feet.

  "You could have changed, put on shoes." Francesca heard her pathetic voice and nearly laughed. She sounded so convincing.

  Mama clucked. "No, Essie. If you'd have heard Cecelia… I had a split second of deciding whether I had time to put on PJs at all." Francesca attempted to keep her eyebrows neutral. "It was clear you needed Mama. So I came, in all my glory. So." She paused as they settled into the car. "You said, 'Without a doubt,' to Cecelia. What brought that on?"

  "Food. Goddamned food. She asked me if I wanted my usual. It felt so normal, so easy. There was some so comfortable about it that the phrase seemed okay to say. I'm wearing this ring and was thinking about Sloane two-seconds before she asked. Everything was so jumbled. It's not like I thought she was Sloane, but… I don't know. I never thought I'd be able to say that phrase again. Then, I did. This is what happened. I shouldn't be going out with Cecelia. I know where we could be heading–our mutual like. But she's no Sloane."

  Francesca twisted her fingers together. Mama squished hers between and held Francesca's hand tightly. A few tears trickled down her face, but she stayed quiet for the remainder of the ten-minute drive home.

  As they pulled into the parking lot Francesca used as her carport, she asked, "How about an ice cream slumber party… unless you have a guest at home?" Francesca wondered if she ruined her mother's night.

  "I sent him home with a bottle of red and a container of pasta. He'll be fine. He just wants you to be okay. I do have to call him and let him know how you're doing. Is that alright?"

  "Of course. You two are serious huh? I'm going to have a new daddy?" Francesca smiled, and it felt good.

  No answer followed. Instead, Mama started talking on the phon
e at rapid speed. Good, he could keep up with her; maybe he was a keeper after all. Francesca decided not to mention it again. She'd let Mama tell her when she was ready.

  With that one moment of clarity, Francesca composed a text to Cecelia. "I'm sorry. I need a few days. I'm going to try and take a few days off work too. Maybe next week we could talk?"

  Was that good enough? No. Was that too much to ask? Yes.

  She sent it anyway.

  "You ready for ice cream?" Mama popped in to see Francesca holding her phone. "What did you do, Essie?"

  "What I thought I had to."

  "Okay." Mama couldn't hide the worry lines that aged her forehead. "What flavor ice creams do you have?" Leave it to Mama to try and avoid with food.

  Ignoring the call she received from Cecelia left a sour taste in her mouth. Words stuck in her throat begging to be spoken. Still, she listened as Cecelia left an awkward message–never more glad she had a home phone. Hadn't they done this already? Francesca wondered if the familiarity of dodging her was a sign.

  "Hey. No need to answer or anything, I just called to say take your time. I think I'm accidentally pushing–again. So I'm going to take a step back. I'm sorry. You call me when you're ready. I–I'll m–Hopefully, I'll hear from you."

  Francesca replayed the short voicemail three times. Cecelia had wanted to say she'd missed her. The feeling would be mutual–the crux of the problem. Sloane lived with Francesca; she wasn't sure there was any room left for Cecelia.

  Her few days off flew by, and the monotony of a busy work week had the following days fly by without extra dwelling on Cecelia. Francesca began to see what living by herself felt like again, now that some of the clouds had parted. She avoided dinners and calls from everyone, including Mama. As an adult, she'd always had someone. Before Sloane, there had been Theresa. Resa had consumed Francesca from the start, which felt a lot like love. Before Resa, she'd loved and lived with Polly–a secret polygamist. Before Polly, she had a slew of one night stands with women and men she'd met bar hopping. Francesca hadn't been alone much before. Francesca felt alive and miserable.