witchy woman | george harrison

8. | Ruby Lips

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October 9th, 1961

Ever since she found out, the anxiety was eating her alive.

Every time she thought about it, her heart nearly beat out of her chest. She was nauseous, exhausted; terrified.

It had been a few days since she'd heard from George. He assured her it was a busy stretch; the Beatles were traveling a few cities over to play a benefit concert.

It was perfectly logical, but a tiny part of her brain threatened to poison her. Maybe with each day that passed he was losing interest.

Maybe if she didn't do something soon, let him kiss her lips sore, guide his hand under her sweater, he would find someone else.

After all, he'd met her at a show. It was probably just a matter of time.

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As the next day of classes came to an end, she nearly had a heart attack when her eyes found George, waiting at the gate for her.

Alone.

Mary and Frankie eyes grew wide. They hastily blew her kisses goodbye, giggling and scampering away.

"Hi," he said, smiling sideways. He gently took her books to carry.

"Hi, George," Sloane smiled, reaching to take them back. "You really don't have to do that."

"I do!" He teased, running ahead of her in his black boots and worn jeans, keeping them out of reach.

"Fine," she huffed, catching up to him. He placed a cigarette between her lips, his knuckle grazing her mouth ever so softly as he pulled away. Lit it for her.

His touch shot through her body like a bolt of electricity.

She really was starting to like him.

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They walked a few blocks in silence, a silly grin on George's face. Just being near her... he felt like a kid on Christmas.

"This is nice," she said, pointing to his leather jacket. The collar was popped so stiffly it almost made her laugh, but she decided not to.

He grinned back at her. "Found it for sale in the newspaper."

He started with his questions. How was school? Did she listen to the radio last night?

This was another surprising thing about George: he had a wonderful habit of making her feel like the only person that mattered.

Most boys couldn't shut up about themselves. George couldn't stop asking questions, and he listened to her answers.

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Sloane was excited when he stopped her at a coffee bar.

The place was loaded with teenagers, kids she knew from school. Some records played on a jukebox while smoke and laughter hung heavy over the narrow booths.

Finally, she was doing the things everyone else was doing. It was a wonderful change from passing the hours away, locked in her room.