Till There Was You

Love Me Do

Paul POV

"Oi, where'd John go, anyway?" George asks as he munches on a sandwich. I look at the watch that sits on my wrist.

"I dunno, I thought maybe the loo?"

"He's been gone awhile." Pete says, with no worry at all in his voice.

With a slight hesitation, I strum a couple of notes on my guitar. Even though I'm probably over-reacting, something about his absence unsettles me. He wasn't acting normally and I could tell. I just...could.

I know him like that.

Pete breaks the silence. "He's just a lazy sod. If he doesn't want to show up, let's be done for the day."

I could tell him no, that he doesn't make decisions for the band, but I don't. I'm tired and stressed.

"Alright then," George says, shrugging. He finishes the last bite of his sandwich, grabs his guitar, and leaves. Pete soon follows suit, and I'm left alone.

Again.

I put my guitar down and rub my temples in frustration.

How could John continue to blow me off like this? I think, paranoid. Does he not care about me? I never think of myself when I'm around him, and yet he still is dramatic.

I pull my knees into my chest.

Why don't I matter?

After some time of panicking, and John not coming back, I decide to go look for him. Of course I'm mad at him, but I care about him. I feel like a clingy dog really, that has nothing else to do but follow the big dog around, even when he gets kicked to the side. That's what I am, kicked to the side over and over and over again. You think I'd get sick of it. You'd think I'd keep my distance.

But I don't.

I throw on my leather jacket, glancing in the mirror. A small, dramatic nobody stares back at me. I tug at my chubby face, wishing I could look older. I'm almost nineteen now for Christ's sake, why do I still look the same as I did three years ago? I pull myself away from the mirror and walk outside.

The air is brisk and I don't know where to look. I start to walk in the direction of John's house, lost in my own thoughts. What drove him away? Did I do something? Say something?

My thoughts are interrupted as I stop in front of Strawberry Fields. There's a faint sound of music from behind the polished red gate, so I creep inside.

Sure enough, is nestled under a tree, guitar in hand. I just stand there in awe for a moment. For someone so impulsive and cynical, he actually has a calm side.

Who knew?

I listen to what he has to play. It's soft, but I can make out the low hum of his voice along with the patterned strumming of his guitar.

"Love, love me do."

A love song.

"You know I love you."

One I'd never heard before.

"I'll always be true."

An original.

"So please..."

A personal cry out for love.

"Love me do."

He stops strumming, muttering to himself. My curiosity gets the best of me.

"Who's that about, eh?" I ask. Startled, he jumps in his spot.

"None of your damn business, McCartney," he grumbles. "What are you doing here?"

"Finding you," I retort. "If I do recall, you were the one who left without letting us know." He rolls his eyes.

"So, you found me," he says, holding his hands up.

"Why didn't you show me that earlier?" I question. "Why'd you have to go off and be away from us?"

"Needed some peace and quiet 'sall. You're really proving to be the contributing factor of the quiet," he remarks sarcastically. I could argue some more. I choose not to.

"Who's the song about though?" I ask again, calmer. "It sounded sweet."

"It's not sweet," he defends, then hangs his head. "The truth is, um. It's not really about anyone."

I falter. "What do you mean? It has to be. It's a love song." I sit down in the grass across from him.

"It doesn't have to be about anyone," he argues, looking at me. "There's no one for it to be about."

I'm shocked. It sounded so personal. "Why'd you write it then?"

"Every successful musician writes love songs, Paul," he says like it's the most obvious thing in the world. "And if I want to be destined for success, I have to fake emotions. That's how it works." I looks back down to the guitar, signifying the end of the conversation. There's an awkward silence.

"So," I start. "You're saying that you've never...that is, you don't-"

"For the love of God, please fuck off Paul."

"You've never been in love?" I persist.

"I said fuck off." He stares me down.

Bowing my head, I get up and walk away, tears in my eyes.