And Your Girl Can Sing

Chapter 87: The End of the World: Not January 2000, but October 1961

 "... Anyways, no one else knows, but we're going to Paris," John finished.

Michael's words kept blossoming in my brain, filling my head with the scent of promises that I had done nothing wrong, that everything was all right. History played out, it folded me into its grasp, as neatly as John fit together with me.

"Um, all right," I said.

Paul's brow wrinkled. "All right? Cora, did you know that Dot nearly threw a fit when I told her?" The left side of his mouth twitched into a grin. "Ha! She's scared I'll run off with a young Parisian bird."

John bit back a joke. I could always tell when he did this. One of the boys would comment something and I knew John would retaliate with something, and I would glance over at him, only to see him swallow his joke.

Paul waved at the waiter for the check. The cafe we were sitting in reminded me of Germany, and I felt a pang of sadness for the older days with Mila as I glanced over behind the counter, almost expecting to see her counting money, the jade around her wrists clanking against the metal of the cash register. Anna was enjoying art school and had sent me a photograph of her and a young red-haired man, both grinning as they made a face at the camera. Initially, there was no mention of George, but he seeped back, and so did her forgiveness.

I breathed out, choosing to stop avoiding the thought of the inevitable—taking the trip. Paris. The boys would go to Paris and return and we would go on tour and I would step back when Ringo came into the picture. That seemed like an appropriate transition time. What did it matter if Paul wasn't the bassist? Things would work out.

I reached for John's hand. "I just don't want to be away from you for so long."

"D'ya want to come, love?" he asked me, taking my hand in both of his, looking at me intently from across the table.

"I... shouldn't," I said instead of no.

John reached across the table and tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. My hair reached long and straight past my armpits, almost hitting the bottom of my brasserie. I bit my lip, thinking of how long the Paris trip would be without him. The last time I was without John was when he had gone home early from Germany. Other than that, we were inseparable and I liked it that way. "I want you to."

"No," I said. "I need to stay here."

The waiter arrived with the check. I reached for John's hand next to me, but he was pulling change out of his pocket before Paul could.

***

I almost mentioned Paris to George several times over the day before their departure, but I always caught myself.

"D'ya know if there are any gigs in the next few days?" George asked me as he chopped potatoes for tonight's dinner—a classic bubble 'n' squeak.

"I'm... not sure," I bit back my silence between the first word and the second as I took leftovers from the Sunday dinner and moved them into a the pan on the stove.

"What do you mean you're not sure? Hasn't Lennon told ye everything? Now that the two of ye are—" his voice changed tone "—fu—"

Louise stuck her head into the kitchen. "How's the squeak going?"

"Good, mum," George answered. His back was toward me; mine was toward Mrs. Harrison, and she couldn't see my burning red cheeks.

George dumped the potatoes into the frying pan and finally faced me with a smirk, to which I sighed out of relief, until he started again. "Fu—"

"Shut it, Geo," I snapped, turning away from him, opening the refrigerator even though there was no need. When I turned around, George was looking out the window, repeating what had been said into the air by many mouths for the past few weeks. After a few minutes he spoke. "Macca's getting married."