Paul McCartney Imagines

66

The plane touched down just after noon. The sun was blazing hot over Ohio, casting a golden shimmer on the endless patchwork of cornfields you'd grown up around. As the engines cooled and the passengers shuffled toward the exit, you glanced sideways at Paul, who was peering out the tiny oval window with curious eyes.

"So this is Ohio," he muttered in that lilting Liverpool accent. "Bit flat, innit?"

You snorted. "Don't start insulting my homeland already."

He turned toward you with a sheepish smile. "Wouldn't dream of it. Just—never seen so much sky."

It was a lot of sky. Blue and open, stretching endlessly, like it swallowed the horizon whole. London didn't have skies like this. Neither did Liverpool.

You reached for his hand. "Wait until you smell Mom's cooking. Then you'll be in love."

"Darling," he whispered as the line inched forward, "I already am."

⸻

The cab ride into town was slow, scenic, and packed with Paul's questions about everything. "Why's that house got a porch swing but no fence?" "Is that a real mailbox shaped like a cow?" "Is everyone flying a flag here?" You answered with amusement, your chest swelling with that strange sort of joy that only comes from showing someone your world.

When the car finally pulled into your childhood driveway—your white clapboard house with forest-green shutters, your dad's dusty Ford truck parked out front—your stomach tightened. It had been nearly a year since you'd been back. And this time, you weren't alone.

Your mom was already on the porch, drying her hands on a dishtowel, her eyes bright and wide. Your dad stood just behind her, tall and reserved, arms folded across his chest like he was gearing up for a job interview.

Paul leaned close. "You sure they'll like me?"

"They're going to love you," you whispered. "Just be yourself. Except maybe don't talk about smoking weed."

He smirked. "Right. Save that for dessert."

⸻

The moment your mother saw Paul step out of the car, she was down the steps like a bullet. "Oh, honey," she cooed, pulling you into a quick hug before turning to Paul. "You must be Paul!"

He barely had time to extend a hand before she wrapped him in a warm Midwestern hug. "Ma'am!" he said, laughing, visibly caught off guard. "Hello! Lovely to meet you."

Your dad approached more slowly, eyeing Paul with a mix of skepticism and curiosity. You could practically hear the gears turning in his head. British. Musician. Long hair. Dating his daughter.

"Dad," you said gently, "this is Paul."

Your father stuck out a hand. "Robert," he said.

Paul met his grip firmly. "Paul McCartney, sir. Pleasure to meet you."

Your dad raised an eyebrow. "Heard a lot about you."

Paul smiled, holding eye contact. "Hope most of it's true, then."

There was a pause. Then your father's lip twitched slightly, as if he was trying not to smile.

"Well, we better get you two inside before you roast to death," your mom interrupted, tugging Paul toward the porch like he was already one of the family.

⸻

Your mother went all out that night. Fried chicken, mashed potatoes, baked beans, deviled eggs, and a cucumber salad with too much dill. Everything was served on fine china, and the dining room smelled of roasted corn and vanilla candles.