New York, New York

Chapter 3

            “Sit next to John.”

            Paul shook his head, tight-lipped. Brian sighed deeply, dragging his handkerchief over his forehead, where beads of sweat were already blooming. He eyed the crowd that the policemen were barely holding back, then his eyes slowly shifted back to the stubborn Beatle standing next to the car.

            “Alright,” he sighed, shutting the car door. John shifted so that he was sitting next to the door Brian had just closed, taking the spot Paul would have occupied. Paul stepped into the car from the other side, sitting next to George.

            Along with Ringo, George formed a sort of insulation between Paul’s anger and its object—John. Lennon shifted uncomfortably in his seat, trying to look casual by first looking out the window, then scratching his nose, and finally trying to rest his head on his hand, but only succeeding in elbowing Ringo.

            “Careful!” the drummer hissed, giving John the two-finger salute with his glittering rings.

            “Sorry,” John muttered. It seemed everyone was against him that day. It wouldn’t help, either, that they all had to sit together and answer daft questions at the press conference. He wasn’t looking forward to being asked about his lifelong friendship with Paul and what Paul thought about the songs Paul wrote—it seemed no other Beatle interested the press.

            The car rolled to a stop and Brian hurried them out before too many fans started arriving. “Quickly, boys,” he said, looking over his shoulder like hunted prey, which wasn’t too far from what it was like to avoid the fans.

            While rushing into the lobby of the building where the interviews would take place, John felt his shoulder brush with Paul’s. McCartney shot him a dirty look and picked up his pace to avoid John.

            “Wait—“ John tried to call, but he felt a too-strong grip on his shoulder.

            “Beatle John, what’s your favorite color?”

            John frowned at the microphone being shoved into his face. He frowned slightly at the stupidity of the question. “Green,” he sighed, and his answer was met with frantic scribbling of the first reporter as well as others who had appeared at the scene.

            “How long have you known Paul?”

            “Forever,” John muttered, pushing past the man with the microphone.

            A few of the reporters stopped to jot down the fact that John Lennon had known Paul McCartney forever! The headlines were guaranteed for the next day.

            The sound of Paul’s voice made John suddenly change course. “Yes, you know, I spend a lot of time writing songs. It’s what I do, I’m a musician.”

            John chuckled at Paul’s sarcastic, bordering on rude answer and pushed past one last person to find that distinctive dark head of hair cut into a mop top. John pushed next to Paul just in time to be captured in a few pictures, the last of the many that had been flashing during Paul’s interview.

            “I write songs too, y’know,” John said casually, grinning stupidly and flinging an arm over Paul’s shoulders, overplaying the role of the old friend. Anyone who knew Paul well would have noticed the slight tensing in his left cheek, but the reporters all laughed and flashed more pictures of the pair.

            Slowly, John steered Paul to the side, where he’d noticed an exit. Paul was still stiff, as his way of showing John that nothing had been forgiven, but he let John lead him off to the side.

            John smiled, looking straight at the camera, and moved his mouth closer to the furl of Paul’s ear. “When I say, run,” he breathed.

            Paul nodded imperceptibly, offering the famous McCartney smile to the flashing cameras. John squeezed Paul’s shoulder slightly, and in a second Paul had tensed and sprung away from John and the flashing lights. He passed a row of columns and looked ahead to the empty space that led to a hall, the sound of John’s frenzied footsteps filling the hall and reassuring Paul of his presence.

            They stopped when the hallway did; and it finished in a dead end and a locked door. Paul bent over slightly, his hands on his knees, taking deep breaths. John leaned against the pretentious, deep red wallpaper, eyeing Paul and the strands of hair that escaped his well-brushed bangs.

            “So,” John said, before Paul could straighten up and look John in the eyes, which would invariably give him total control of the situation.

            “Well, you obviously wanted to talk to me,” Paul said, and it was too late, his hazel and green irises had taken hold of John. Lennon blinked once before he remembered how to speak English.

            “Yes, I did,” John said absently, still eyeing Paul, and evaluating his state. It was obviously getting worse; he couldn’t even function around Paul anymore, wondering what he would do if something betrayed what John really felt.

            Their friendship would be destroyed completely, leaving nothing but ashes; and John had already experienced heartbreak, and he didn’t want it to be like Julia all over again. He’d already lost too many people, Uncle George, Stu… Paul was, somehow, even more important, and the thought of losing his support was enough to shock John into speaking again.

            “I’m sorry I snapped at you,” John said, proud of his nice, coherent sentence.

            “It wasn’t just once!” Paul retorted. “You do it all the time, and it’s all part of your plan, isn’t it? The leader Beatle has to show his superiority and keep me in my place! I’m the dumb one, the cute one, aren’t I?”

            “No, you’re not,” John said, mentally adding that he wasn’t referring to the “cute” part. “And I’m really sorry.”

            John knew this wasn’t enough, and could see Paul crossing his arms out of the corner of his eyes, and could only imagine the stubborn face he was putting on.           

            “I’ve just been really stressed these days, and some days all I can hear is my mind telling me how pathetic I am, and then this thing happened, that was the last straw—“

            “What happened?” Paul’s eyes had turned bright and caring again. John’s mind raced. He shouldn’t have added that last part that had given him away; but he was too used to telling Paul everything, and he’d simply forgotten to lie.

            “Hm,” John muttered, pulling a face.

            Paul sighed. This was one of these things that threatened John’s pride, and he knew it would be nearly impossible to worm an answer out of John, and even if he did give Paul an explanation, John would resort to openly lying.

            “Tell me when you’re ready,” Paul said.

            Paul turned to go back to the press conference; he didn’t fancy having to face an angry Epstein.

            “That’s it?” John asked.

            “Yeah,” Paul answered, surprised.

            “You’re not angry?”

            “No.”

            “Good,” John said, offering a nervous smile. As he followed Paul back into the lobby, walking awkwardly a few paces behind and analyzing what he’d said for anything revelatory or strange, he couldn’t help but realize that things would never be the same; he’d never be able to be around Paul in the same easy way that he used to.