July

Fourteen

FOURTEEN

 July 16th

It was time for band practice and Paul wasn’t able to push down the nerves completely. It hadn’t helped that Mike had made a joke that it looked like he was getting ready for a date, and Paul got angry before remembering that they made these kinds of jokes all the time before… Before. Paul wasn’t ready yet to put a name on what he’d mentally dubbed “the John thing.” He had to convince himself that he was still the same outwardly—the same face, the same voice, the same clothes, the same habits. No one would be able to know what was raging inside him.

When Paul grabbed his guitar case and loped towards the door, he heard Mike tearing down the stairs after him. “Wait for me!” Mike panted, running to the dining room, and re-emerging with a crumpled piece of paper.

“What for?” Paul asked, trying to look nonchalant.

“I’m coming with you,” Mike said, like it was completely obvious, even though to the best of Paul’s knowledge, even being in the same room as Paul during mealtimes was utter torture to Mike.

“Fine,” Paul said. “Where are you going?”

“Out to meet a girl,” Mike responded, shoving the paper into his pockets, and pushing Paul aside, taking control of the half-open door.

Mike closed behind the two of them. There was no need to shout across the house that they were going as Jim was out, going to visit someone. Paul felt a vague sense of worry because his father had been uncharacteristically quiet these past few days. But then again, just about everything about Jim had been uncharacteristic since Mary left them.

Mike fell into an easy, loping gait, and Paul hung slightly behind, his hands in his pockets. He squinted at the sunlight that hurt his eyes and let out a breath. He studied the back of his brother’s head—but there was nothing there to see, really, just hair.

Suddenly Mike stopped, turning to Paul. “What’s wrong with you?”

Paul felt an unpleasant shiver run down him. He knew Mike would eventually reveal why he was being so friendly.

“Nothing,” Paul sighed, glaring at his younger brother.

“There is most definitely something,” Mike said. “Why can’t you tell me?”

“I can’t tell you because there isn’t something to tell,” Paul said, irritation taking over his voice. 

What would you do to help me, anyway?

“Paul.”

“Yes,” he parroted, with the same intense tone.

Mike held Paul’s gaze for a moment and Paul looked into the other’s eyes. They were the same color as his—Mike did really look a lot like a younger, distorted version of him. Less chubby. A sharper jaw, more determination, his hair a lot messier.

“Fine,” Mike said, tearing away first. Paul sighed, and followed his brother to the bus stop.

  *   *

At John’s place, Mimi was there, looking out suspiciously, her eyes landing on Paul at the very last minute, though he’d been trying to shrink slightly and somehow disappear in the empty street.

She caught sight of him and her eyes narrowed in recognition. “Come along,” she called out impatiently, and Paul hurried up to the doorstep. “Hello, Mrs. Smith,” he said hurriedly.

“John’s been waiting,” she said, before closing the door behind Paul.

“Has everyone gotten here already? They’re waiting for me?” Paul asked, his eyebrows shooting up.

“Don’t be silly, boy, there’s no one else here. John is upstairs.”

Paul opened his mouth to say something else, then thought better of it. He nodded slightly and started climbing up the stairs. The ever-present fluffy carpet muffled his footsteps, so he cleared his throat loudly to let John know he was going up.

He didn’t have time to even knock on the door; as soon as he’d raised his fist up to the wood, John called out, “It’s open.”

Paul opened the door and was immediately struck by the darkness. The shutters and curtains were closed, and a single lamp on John’s desk was the only light source. John was sitting cross-legged on his bed, his guitar on his knees, looking down at the strings and tuning. Paul noticed, swallowing with difficulty, that John was wearing only a t-shirt and boxers. 

Without looking up, John said, “It’s to keep the room cool. The dark.”

“Makes sense,” Paul said quietly, clearing his throat to dispel the slight waver, and shutting the door behind him slowly. He placed his guitar case on the floor and opened the latches one by one.

He picked up his guitar and sat on the chair that was at John’s desk, wheeling it towards the bed. John finally looked up, and smiled so sunnily that Paul was taken aback. 

“Wasn’t this supposed to be band practice?” Paul asked.

“It is.”

“…with the whole band?” Paul added, frowning slightly at John.

“Well, I had a few beers at the pub… I’m a little pissed and I didn’t really want to see anyone else,” John explained.

Paul felt a strange, queasy shiver of a feeling run down him. No, he scolded himself internally. John thinks I’m his friend.

Then he immediately felt guilty for corrupting what John surely thought was a normal, regular friendship between two normal blokes.

Paul swung the chair around so he had his back to John. The other bloke’s voice floated over to Paul from behind him. “Show me some chords?”

“Don’t you usually get a music teacher for these kinds of things?” Paul asked irritably.

John spun the chair around, and Paul looked up, forcing himself to make eye contact. John’s eyes were flecked with green, Paul suddenly noticed, and he felt his chin jerk back as he realized how he’d been unconsciously leaning forward.

Paul kicked at the bed and sent the chair rolling towards the other end of the room, stopping only to bump gently against the door. Paul sighed and rubbed his eyes with both palms of his hands.

“What’s wrong?” John asked.

“Tired,” Paul muttered, trying to keep inside how much it jarred him every time he heard John’s voice, and he was reminded of everything, how he was betraying everyone at once and there was no real way out of this.

“Here, come sit on the bed. You’re making me nervous, rolling about on that chair,” John ordered. Paul stood up and sat next to John obediently. The dark-haired lad tried for a smile, letting himself take a deep breath.

“There, that’s better. The old McCartney we all know and love,” John said.

You don’t love me, Paul thought bitterly.

“Yeah,” he said.