I Never Stopped by Elle Mitchell

Author:Elle Mitchell [Mitchell, Elle]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Elle Mitchell

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'm turning in a little early," Francesca had said.

Mama had just nodded and said she loved her.

Francesca only remembered tears and pain. Sloane was her once-in-a-lifetime love, and she had been there with Cecelia. If it weren't for those pigeons–if it weren't for those pigeons, what? Would she have let Cecelia's lips touch hers? Would she have kissed her back? Yes.

Betrayer.

Francesca cried for Sloane, not for herself. She didn't remember opening Sloane's perfume, though. But she must have. She didn't remember opening a book. But she must have. So, she stood to see what her grief-drunken-self had left for her hungover-self.

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