Above Us Only Sky (Paul McCartney/Beatles Fan Fiction)

Chapter 37 - A Day in the Life

"What do you mean Tara's gone?" Marisol said shakily. "Gone back to Ireland?"

Paul blinked at her. "He's gone, Marisol. He's dead. Dead and gone."

She threw a hand over her mouth. "How? Oh my god, was it...an overdose?"

"What? Chrissakes, Mari. Why would you even ask that?" He closed his eyes, his fists clenched at his sides. "He wrecked the car."

Marisol's eyes filled with tears. "Was he alone?"

"Suki was in the car. Barely a scratch on her. Mike's been to see her. A Volkswagen pulled out in front of them and Tara jerked the wheel so that he took the impact. It saved her life."

A flood of emotions swept over her—shock and sadness at the loss of someone she knew and cared about, a flash of relief that her beloved Paul hadn't been in the car with him this time, followed by guilt at feeling any sort of relief at a time like this. "That is...that is so like Tara."

Paul stood silently while she embraced him and kissed his face and slid his coat off his shoulders. "I'm so sorry, sweetheart."

"I need a drink."

"I'll open some wine—"

"It's not a bloody hen party," he said, staggering into the room. I need a drink!"

"Okay, okay. I'll look for something stronger. Let's get you on the couch." Linking her arm through his, she sat him down. He immediately flopped over on his side and brought his knees up to his chest. Cookie jumped on top of his feet and Marisol pushed her off.

She slid the quilt off the back of the couch and spread it over him before ushering Cookie and Beau into the kitchen. The dogs stood staring at her, their tails in constant motion, probably thinking it was time to party now that Paul was here.

She pointed at their beds by the door and told them to lie down. Then she took stock of her alcohol situation. There was red wine or white wine. Paul would have to deal with it. Her hands shook as she opened a bottle of Cabernet. She poured it into a glass and downed half of it. What an end to an utterly emotional day. Truth be told, she'd like to dissolve in a puddle of tears and red wine and grieve for the sweet blonde boy who a couple of months ago wrapped his scarf around her neck because she'd fancied it. How could someone so full of life be gone so young?

Taking a fortifying breath and another gulp of wine, she reigned in her emotions. She'd deal with her feelings later, alone, in a hot bath with more wine. Her husband needed for her to be the strong one tonight.

Back in the living room, she set two glasses on an end table. Paul was lying perfectly still with his eyes closed.

"We used to get in cars and drive to Staffordshire to look for UFOs," he said in a hushed voice. "Last spring it was. Tara and Our Kid Mike and me, sometimes Suki. All of us, just lying on a hillside, looking up at the sky. We'd stay up all night, then we'd drive back to London."

"That's a beautiful memory." Marisol knelt in front of him and stroked his hair.

"He rented two 707s and flew everyone to Ireland for his twenty-first last summer. Mike was there. I should have been there. We were finishing Revolver. I'm always in the middle of some shit, y'know? Who'd have thought it was his last birthday, for chrissake."

"I'm sure he understood."

"He was twenty-one. Christ. Twenty-one. And a more loyal friend I've yet to meet."

Marisol gulped back a sob. "I know sweetheart. It's a tragedy. Will the funeral be in Ireland, or—"

He opened his eyes, and the color seemed to drain from his face. "I can't go to any funeral. I can't be there with all those people sobbing and shit. I can't deal with that."