THE LONG AND WINDING ROAD || Paul McCartney [Completed]

27. Two Hearts Breaking: Part I

You're the ship, I'm the wreck
You're the bomb, I'm a tick
You're the pause before the fall
I'm a crash that follows it all

We're the crash, the burn,
The dream that turns from ecstasy to aching,
We are the sound of two hearts breaking

Paul

It had been nearly a week, and Paul carried on with the same routine. He slept late, almost until noon. Would shower but neglected to shave. He didn't care at this point. He walked into the laundry room, refusing to touch it at first. Natalie did his laundry, and he wanted to keep it the way she left it a moment longer. But he was out of clean clothes now, and he needed to find something to wear. He grabbed a shirt and pair of trousers and put them on, before something silky and cream-colored caught his eye. He reached out, reluctantly pulling the cloth from the pile of laundry. It was a blouse. Natalie's blouse. He felt his heart twist in his chest, and he took a shaky breath.

He brought the blouse to his face, burying his nose in it. Even through the washing powder, he could smell her. He shook, a sob wracking his body before he sat down against the wall, holding the shirt close to him. Martha padded over to him, whimpering and poking her nose against his hand. He scratched her head lightly, "Do you miss her, girl? Because I do." He said through the tears. Martha flopped down next to his feet, her dark eyes staring into his. It was as if she understood his pain and wanted to comfort him.

He tried calling Natalie for days, but she refused his call each time. He couldn't understand why she was so willing to let him go. He closed his eyes, seeing her face. The ghost of her presence haunted him: When he took a bath, when he slept in his bed, when he ate in the kitchen, when he sat on his couch, and even in his dreams. Natalie was everywhere, and he couldn't escape her. He missed her warmth, her body against his when he slept at night. He missed the smell of her hair and the feel of her skin when they made love. He wanted to see her smile and hear her laugh. 

The sound of the phone lured him from his daydream. It was the third time it rang, and it was the third time he would ignore it. He knew it was someone calling him about the upcoming tour, or possibility one of the lads. He didn't want to think about all of that right now. He was hurting, and he wanted space to feel that hurt. The ringing carried on for a moment longer before they gave up. He pulled himself up from the floor and started to put Natalie's blouse back on the pile of laundry, but halted, drawing his hand back and clutching it tighter. He wanted to hold onto it a moment longer. He walked around his house aimlessly, trying to find something to do. He couldn't bring himself to go back to sleep, even though all he wanted to do was sleep it all away. He sat on the couch, and placed Natalie's shirt beside him. 

He lifted his guitar onto his lap, and let his fingers dance over the chords without actually playing anything. He was working a melody out in his head, something that had been circling for a while. He began to play lazily, not caring if his voice was clear or not, "Who knows how long I've loved you. You know I love you still—" He stopped, mulling over the lyrics a moment before continuing, "Will I wait a lonely lifetime, if you want me to, I will." He stopped singing abruptly, slipped on a chord, and allowed the guitar to make an awful sound. He put the guitar down and sighed, leaning back on the couch with his arms folded over his abdomen. The melody was too bouncy for lyrics that felt far too real right now. How long would he wait for Natalie? She told him to call her once he was back from tour. Did that mean they still had a chance, or was it just one of those things people say? He would like to think it was the former.

 He glanced down at her shirt, clutched it tightly before tossing it across the room in anger. Martha bounced after it, and Paul suddenly panicked. "No, Martha!" He shouted, jumping to his feet and grabbing the shirt before Martha could rip it to pieces, "This is not a toy." He gazed at the shirt, holding it close like a grieving widow before bringing it upstairs and hiding it in his dresser. He wanted it out of sight, but he wanted it safe as well. He knew it was there, and that's all the comfort he needed.

He sat on his bed and fell backward, staring at his ceiling. Paul could be a control freak, not that he would ever admit that to anyone. So not having control of the situation was driving him mad, and he was completely beside himself. He needed to see Natalie. He needed to talk to her, and the waiting was killing him. Did she miss him as much as he missed her? Was the lack of communication between them sending her over the edge as well? He clung to hope, the hope that she would change her mind and come running into his arms. Perhaps he couldn't move on because deep down, there was a part of him that expected her to come back to him. And the reality was, she probably wasn't.

His eyes closed, and he fought to keep them open. He lost the fight because before he knew it, he had nodded off. He only woke at the sound of someone banging at his door. He lurched upward, glancing at his watch. He had been asleep for hours. He groaned, rotating his arms and neck. He slept awkwardly, and now his body had to pay the price. He debated whether he was going to answer his door or not.

"Oh, I'm coming." He growled, standing up as the banging continued. He sauntered downstairs, not rushing to answer it, silently hoping they would give up and go away. Once he reached the door, he swung it open to reveal his father.

"Dad?"

"James Paul, I've been calling you for hours now." He scolded him, moving past his son and waking into the house. "So I hopped on the train from Liverpool, and here I am."

Paul closed the door behind him and scratched his head with a shrug. "Sorry..." he muttered.

His father turned to look at him, and gave him a once over, "You look like a mess." He said, moving to the kitchen and Paul followed right behind him. Jim put on the kettle, deciding to make tea, not bothering to ask Paul for permission. His father finally spoke again.

"How are you feeling?" He asked.

Paul sighed, "How did you even find out?"

Jim looked up at him in disbelief, "A parent always knows when their child is troubled." He sat down at the kitchen counter and motioned for Paul to sit next to him.

"So tell me, what happened?" Jim asked.

"Who told you?"

"That's not important." Jim shook his head, "Now answer my question."

"I'm just fine, thanks," Paul answered quickly, glancing down at the table.

Jim scoffed, "You don't look just fine." Paul didn't respond, and Jim knew he wouldn't. He had too much pride for that. "After our tea, let's go for a walk. What do you say?"

"That's just fine," Paul answered again, and Jim sighed, realizing Paul was probably more gone than he was led to believe. He could see the pain that dwelled in the depths of his hazel eyes. Paul had a broken heart, but it wasn't just a small thing, he was deeply hurting, and Jim worried about him.

After a long silence, the kettle began to whistle, and Jim continued on with making the tea. He placed a cup before his son. Paul could feel the hot steam hit his face, and he swirled his spoon in the cup, but never took a sip.

"Are you going to stare at it, son, or are you going to drink it?"

"I'm not in the mood, sorry, Dad."

Jim let out a long sigh, reaching out to pat Paul on the back, "Very well, gather Martha, we're going for a walk."

Paul scooted his chair back, the screeching sound it made against the floor made him flinch. His head was beginning to pound, and he just wanted to go back to sleep. Jim stood near the door, waiting for him. Martha must have known what was going on because she was standing there too, wagging her tail excitedly and nudging her nose toward the door. Paul slipped on his shoes before following his father and his bouncing dog out of the house. Martha trotted next to him as they walked down the pavement. He was thankful his father didn't ask him any more questions. He just walked with him in silence, and let Paul stay in his own head. He wasn't ready to talk just yet, he just wanted to miss her and be allowed to do so without any assurance that everything would be okay.

Even so, he was thankful for his dad's presence. It was a small comfort that he needed more than he thought.