Paul McCartney Imagines

51

Title: "Reckoning"
Set in 1965

Paul was restless. He had been pacing your flat for the last twenty minutes, running his hands through his already disheveled hair, his frustration radiating off him in waves. His shirt was wrinkled, untucked from his trousers, and he smelled faintly of cigarettes and whiskey. That, combined with the deep crease in his brow, told you this wasn't just another spat with Jane. No, this was something worse.

"She's being impossible," he muttered under his breath, kicking the leg of your coffee table hard enough to make it wobble.

You shot him a warning look. "Watch it."

He barely acknowledged you, too caught up in his anger.

"She just won't listen," he said, voice rising. "Kept going on about how I've embarrassed her, how she's 'sick of this,' like she doesn't know what it's like! Like she doesn't know the position I'm in." He scoffed, shaking his head, then looked at you as if waiting for you to agree.

But you didn't.

Instead, you stayed by the counter, arms crossed, studying him carefully.

"What happened, Paul?" Your voice was quiet and measured.

He exhaled sharply. "She came back early."

You already knew where this was going. A pit formed in your stomach, but you stayed silent, letting him talk.

"She was supposed to be in Bristol until tomorrow, but she got home tonight and—" He hesitated, his jaw tightening. "She caught some bird in my flat."

A heavy silence fell between you.

You had suspected it for a long time—his wandering eye, the way he let the attention linger, how he leaned into the adoration of all those beautiful, wide-eyed girls who saw him as more than just a man, but a fantasy. You weren't naïve. You knew what went on when Jane wasn't around. But hearing him say it out loud, admitting it so bluntly, still made something inside you twist painfully.

"She lost her bloody mind," Paul continued, laughing bitterly. "I tried to calm her down, but she just kept shouting, saying she's sick of feeling like a fool, that I've been doing this the whole time she's been away." He ran a hand through his hair again, frustrated. "She wouldn't even let me explain—just packed a bag and left."

Your fingers curled around the counter's edge. "And what, exactly, were you going to explain, Paul?"

He frowned, looking at you as if you had asked something ridiculous. "That it wasn't a big deal."

That did it.

You let out a sharp, humorless laugh, shaking your head. "Jesus Christ, Paul."

His expression darkened. "What?"

"You don't get it, do you?" you snapped. "You think Jane is the one being unreasonable here?"

"She's blowing it out of proportion!" Paul shot back, his voice defensive. "She knows what it's like for me, knows how it is! People throw themselves at us daily; it's not like I look for it!"

You stared at him, incredulous. "And that's supposed to make it okay?"

He huffed, shifting his weight. "I'm not saying that, but I—I dunno, I wasn't thinking."

"No, you weren't." Your voice was sharper now, the frustration building in your chest. "And that's the problem."

Paul let out a breath through his nose, eyes darting away. "You're supposed to be on my side."

"I am your friend," you said firmly. "And because I'm your friend, I can't stand here and pretend like you're the victim in this." You pushed off the counter, taking a step closer to him. "Jane has been nothing but loyal to you, Paul. She puts up with the tabloids, the endless women throwing themselves at you, the late nights, and the fact that you barely give her the time of day when she's here. And she's still stayed because she loves you. Because she believes in you."