Two Of Us ⎯ Paul McCartney

15. Cavendish

September, 1968

My bracelet made a sharp noise against the bottle of scotch as I poured myself another glass of the stuff, half-considering the option of just drinking it straight from the bottle. I was alone, anyway, it wasn't like I was sharing with anyone. Of course, that's how I always seemed to end up. Alone on a Friday night with a bottle of booze.

I felt terribly guilty about the whole thing for the millionth time. I knew that my dad would get upset if he knew I'd gone back to my splurging, but I couldn't help it. I'd had a nasty headache all day after I'd tried yet again to cut it, and it all became too much, so I'd gone out and bought myself a few bottles that I figured would last me for the night. Besides, what my dad didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Right?

Funnily enough, the day hadn't started that bad. I'd gone out for lunch with Ellie and we'd ended up at this blues club seeing a band that reminded me of Canned Heat.

But of course, it inevitably turned into night, and I was already on my second bottle of alcohol.

I sat in the kitchen by myself with a deck of cards in front of me, playing a game of solitaire while the album Mr. Tambourine Man by the Byrds spun on the turntable. The album brought back memories of the summer of 1965, when my friends and I had moved into a pad in Laurel Canyon. As soon as the last track on the LP came to an end, I took another swig of the scotch and gathered my cards before getting up to go put the record away.

As I tucked the record away in its sleeve and slid it back onto the shelf where I kept most of my collection, I couldn't help but notice my copy of Sgt. Pepper's sticking out a little bit. I started to push it into the shelf a little more, but I ended up pulling it out all the way and looking at the gatefold album sleeve, unable to help the small smile that spread across my face.

I still didn't really believe the fact that Paul was my boyfriend. Sure, I didn't let him call me that in public, but he was pretty much my boyfriend at that point, anyway, with all the kissing and hand holding we did. I half-wondered if it was all just a joke. In some ways, I felt that the only thing that was different about our relationship was the fact that he'd constantly say cheesy pick up lines and steal kisses. Not that I was complaining.

And yet I still found myself alone most nights. It was obviously inevitable that Paul offered for me to come home with him on multiple occasions after recording sessions, but I'd turned him down every time. It was this constant inner debate that I had every for the past two weeks or so. I didn't want to be alone, but I also felt that it'd be really personal if we spent the night together, and even if we didn't end up doing anything, I still felt that it would sort of make things official with us. Was I ready for that? I honestly had no fucking idea. Just the idea of intimacy with another person — physically and emotionally, but mostly emotionally, I had to admit — scared the shit out of me.

I reluctantly put the record back on the shelf. It wasn't even that late yet — for my standards, anyway — but I was seriously about to do something stupid. I guess I'd just had it with being alone.

The thing was, I didn't want to do it. I didn't want to go over and pick up the phone and call him at almost twelve in the morning. There was no way I was calling him. I'd just look pathetic.

And yet I still found myself curled up on the couch with the phone against my ear as I waited for it to pick up.

I had no idea what the hell had gotten into me. I wasn't even drunk, and yet here I was, acting all stupid. I half considered just setting the phone down and pretending I'd never called him in the first place, but it was too late for that.

Five rings in, it picked up, and that lovely accent of his came through the receiver. "Hullo?"

"Hi," I said blankly, staring at nothing in particular. "It's me."