Paul McCartney Imagines

34

The flight home had been suffocating, an endless stretch of hours filled with the image of Paul tangled up with Peggy Lipton. No amount of tears could wash away the sight; no amount of pleading with yourself to forget could stop the nauseating ache that had taken root in your chest.

You hadn't even looked back after leaving the hotel. You couldn't bear to. Every second spent in that place felt like a second longer of drowning. By the time the plane landed, you were numb—an empty shell moving through the motions of returning to a life that suddenly felt hollow.

But the pain didn't stay numbed for long. By the time you curled up on your couch that night, the memories came rushing back, vivid and unrelenting, tearing you apart all over again. You sat there, wrapped in a blanket that still faintly smelled like him, silently screaming into the void of your mind.

You didn't expect to see him. You didn't think he'd follow. But your heart dropped when your front door suddenly burst open, slamming against the wall.

"Love," Paul's voice cracked as he stepped inside, looking like he'd aged a decade overnight. His hair was messy, his clothes wrinkled, and his eyes were red. He hadn't slept, you could tell. "Please... we need to talk."

Your blood turned to ice. You stood up from the couch, gripping the back of it to steady yourself. "How did you get in here?"

He held up the spare key you'd given him when things had still felt perfect between you. "I couldn't... I couldn't not come," he said, his voice breaking.

The sight of him, the sound of him, made your stomach churn. You wanted to scream, to cry, to throw something at him, but all you could do was stand there, trembling. "Get out, Paul."

"No," he said quickly, shaking his head. "No, not until I've said my piece. Please, I can't leave it like this."

You stared at him, disbelief mingling with your fury. "Like what? Like me walking in on you fucking another woman? Yeah, I really enjoyed seeing that you know. Just when I thought I would spend the rest of my life with you. Just when I finally was able to really trust you. You go and do this to me, to us. Can you really not keep your dick in your pants? Is it really that hard to be faithful?" You screamed

"I'm sorry," he choked out, his voice raw. He stepped forward, but you raised a hand to stop him, and he froze. "God, I'm so sorry. I don't even know where to start—"

"Start with why," you interrupted, your voice trembling with restrained rage. "Why her? Why... anyone? Was I not enough for you, Paul? Was I just... convenient?"

"No!" he shouted, the word echoing in the room's quiet. He ran his hands through his hair, pacing as if trying to outrun his shame. "It wasn't like that. It wasn't about you—it was never about you."

You flinched, his words cutting deeper than he realized. "Not about me?" you repeated bitterly. "Well, that makes me feel so much better. So, what was it about, then? Hm? Was she prettier? More exciting? Tell me, Paul, what could Peggy Lipton give you that I couldn't?"

He stopped pacing and turned to face you, his expression shattered. "Nothing," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "She gave me nothing. It wasn't about her. It was... I was drunk, and I was stupid, and I—I wasn't thinking."

Your laugh was bitter, almost cruel. "You weren't thinking," you repeated, shaking your head. "That's your excuse? You weren't thinking?"

"I know it's not enough," he said desperately, his voice breaking. "I know I've hurt you, and I can't take it back. But I love you. I love you more than anything, and I'll do whatever it takes to prove that to you."

"Love?" you spat, tears streaming down your face. "Don't you dare talk to me about love, Paul? You don't get to use that word after what you've done."

His shoulders sagged, and you saw tears slip down his cheeks for the first time. "I'm sorry," he said again, his voice trembling. "I know I've broken your trust and don't deserve a second chance. But please... please don't throw us away. Don't throw me away."