Dear Sean

Thirteen

Our first movie wasn’t really about us, and the second one was even less. We were supposed to go on crazy adventures, rescue Uncle Ringo from kidnapping, and on the whole act unrealistically, trying to be people we weren’t just to make fans happy.

It was appropriate, then, that they called it “Help!”.

We were incoherent by lunchtime, like every other day.

“Boys…” Dick Lester muttered, looking at us with an almost pitying face, which at the moment I found impossibly hilarious. So funny, actually, that I had to hold onto Paul for support, my giggling working its way into a roar of hilarity.

Paul laughed also, clutching onto me, his bloody perfect teeth uncovered. Teeth that I’d like to explore with my own tongue… I leaned forward, towards Paul, before Brian broke us apart.

I looked at him with disappointed confusion. Why’d he have to be so uptight?

“I think… time for a break,” I hear him mutter to the director.

I nodded. I thought it was probably time for a break, too. George and Ringo had disappeared, I didn’t really care where, so Paul and I went over to my dressing room, that had on the door a shiny star with “John Lennon” on it that I’d never really noticed before. It was rather pretty, actually, all sparkly and gold, with those perfectly shaped printed letters, so regular and precise, much nicer than handwriting—

Paul pulled me into the room, his lips suddenly on mine, and the sweet taste of the grass coming from both our mouths mixing and melding. He poked his tongue into my mouth and I swiped my thumb across his cheek, feeling the rough, unshaven stubble.

Someone stumbled in and I didn’t turn to look, but it was George and Ringo who’d reappeared, and were probably looking for us. I turned away from Paul, who whimpered slightly at the loss, to look at them. Apparently they’d taken our cue and were making out too, though I was pretty sure they both had girlfriends—the sight made me laugh even more than the funny director, and Paul joined in, giggling until tears spilled out of his red-rimmed eyes.

We were young, and we weren’t really focused on our work. We thought it was boring, so we treated it as a joke.

“Shit, did we really make out?” Ringo worried. “I mean… I’m married now…”

“Relax, we won’t tell anyone,” I said.

We were back to our usual states of mind, and Paul was sitting cross-legged on the bed of our shared hotel room. Paul and I had gotten into the habit of rooming, wanting to squeeze every possible moment alone out of the days we were out working, and George and Ringo shared rooms too, thinking it was less lonely that way.

“’Sides,” Paul said. “John ‘n I have got girls, and look at us.”

That probably wasn’t the most reassuring thing to tell Ringo. I was usually the one to throw out insensitive remarks, but ever since we’d started this movie it seemed Paul had stopped giving a shit. I didn’t know which was worse—this stubborn state of not caring, or the insufferable professionalism he’d shown last year when we were filming.