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.
Before she looked at the book, she capped the perfume. Having wasted enough already, she couldn't bear to lose more. She clung to it like a child to a stuffed animal as she looked at the book. It was an obscure book she'd forgotten she'd brought from Sloane's side table. On the open page, words and phrases were circled. "Be back, wait, love."
Sloane's perfume bottle slipped from Francesca's hands. To catch it, she hit her knee on a small knot in the wood and slid a little on the uneven floor. Her knee throbbed. Looking down, she saw reddened skin. Francesca stared at the forming bruise and lost time. She put the perfume back in her suitcase and rubbed burning eyes that had nothing to do with her knee.
The only sound Francesca heard throughout the house was Mama's slight snore. Whatever time it was, the sun's glow barely peeked over the horizon. Taking advantage of the alone time, Francesca took the book with her out into the tiny garden. She read aloud from the page with the circled words.
"Sloane, if you're there… God, I haven't done this in ages." Francesca continued to read. She didn't understand it. She hardened her resolve. "Sloane, if you're there, give me a sign. I need you. I'm so sorry."
Tears made her reading sporadic and pointless after that.
Mama came out during the third chapter. "Oh, Essie!"
"It was only a dream," Francesca cried softly, wet cheeks trembling as she said it.
"Let's get you inside."
As she shakily stood and hobbled in to eat the inevitable breakfast Mama would fix for her, Francesca made a decision she knew would be unpopular. She waited until after they'd finished a nice meal, until after they'd gotten ready for the day, until after Mama had asked what she wanted to do for the day.
Francesca stared at a blue tile below her swollen knee. "I'm going to go home."
Mama blinked. "Are you serious?" She must have believed her at least a little because she didn't laugh or ignore her.
"Yes." More serious than she had been about anything except for loving Sloane.
"Essie, no! Not now; now you need to be with Mama," she said without her usual vigor. She knew it wasn't a battle worth fighting. Still, it seemed she couldn't help but go through the motions.
Unable to deal, Mama cleaned. She grabbed their plates and shuffled over to the trash can to scrape off crumbs. The scrape of the fork on porcelain filled the large kitchen and made Francesca's eardrums wince. Mama took the plates to the sink and scoured them as though they were casserole dishes with cheese caked on, while there had only been a tiny smear or two of jam from their overstuffed biscuits. Drying the plates took nearly as long as the washing.
Francesca wouldn't wait for Mama to wipe down the counters with three kinds of cleaners, then sweep and mop the floor. She was just going home.
"Mama…"
Making the dishes an art form, Mama made an exceptional amount of noise as she put the two plates and butterknife away. Francesca could have filmed it, put a horror soundtrack behind it, and what a short it would be. The tension would have had an audience on the edge of their seat.
"Mama, look, I need to go through my apartment. If I decide to move here–" Mama stopped soaping the island. "I'll need my things. It's been a wonderful vacation, but real life is telling me I need to get my shit together. I need to make decisions that are a little less bohemian."
Sloane would have been fine living out of a pretty much useless suitcase. And if it weren't for the lack of Sloane, the lack of pictures of Sloane, and Cecelia, Francesca may be preparing for another adventure filled day.
"It's because of Rome isn't it?"
Francesca's eyes sprouted a leak as she inspected a soap glob in the sink.
"You should be with someone, not alone; Susan wouldn't want that."
"Stop! Stop pretending what you want is what Sloane would want. She would want me to figure my shit out my own way; she would want me to be happy. And you know what? She'd want to be here."
As if she'd said nothing, Mama continued, "Let Mama help. You could live here, or I could help you find a place. Just don't go back."
"Mama, stop." Francesca saw the letter in time to move. "No, not this time."
Her mother stopped moving for a second and nodded. "Fine. But you come back. This is your home now."