⇾ 𝐊𝐄𝐄𝐏 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐒 𝐎𝐅𝐅 𝐌𝐘 𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘 | 𝐉𝐨𝐡𝐧 𝐋𝐞𝐧𝐧𝐨𝐧 𝐈

Chapter Eighty-Six: Out With the Old (Round Two)

August 15, 1962

Pete hadn't left the Cavern, contrary to what we had all thought. When we found him, he was downing a drink, being serenaded by a girl we'd never met. I felt John's hand tighten around my waist when he spotted him. He'd always been wary of all of his friends when drunk. I'd noticed this only recently. Whenever I'd go around any of them, he'd always keep a watchful eye on me, like a bird stalking its prey. I couldn't pinpoint exactly how it made me feel.

Once John had downed a beer or two of his own, he was already starting to get tipsy. I was careful to not let him go around Pete. I knew that if he did, he'd explode. It was just who he was.

Unfortunately, my watchful eye didn't prove as helpful as John's. It wasn't John who spoke first. It was definitely Pete, coming up from behind us where I couldn't see him. He tapped me on the shoulder and I turned around, surprised to see him behind me.

"Pete—?" was all I'd managed to get out before he spoke.

What happened next was a blur. I didn't hear what Pete said, and I'd never come to find out. All I heard was Paul yell for John and quickly pull him out of the Cavern and onto the street. I thanked God we'd been next to the door.

"John, stop it, you bloody idiot!"

Paul was holding John back against the wall by his arms. John was fuming, glaring at Pete, disgust front and foremost in his eyes. Pete was drunk, you could tell.

Pete had stumbled up to us sitting by the door and immediately began hitting on me. John, being John, went livid with jealousy and threw himself at the drummer. The poor guy was already on the brink of being dropped out of the band.

It now seemed John had made his final decision. Pete had just driven the final nail into his musical career's coffin.

"You're out, Best. That's it," John spat, wrenching himself from Paul's grip and taking me by the hand, leading me away.

"I'm so fucking done," he mumbled as we strode away. I stayed silent, trying to decide what had just happened in the midst of my onsetting anxiety.

Suddenly, he stopped and turned to me. "Are you okay?" he asked. I gained my senses back pretty quickly.

"Why is it always me?" I asked blankly, pitifully. "I'm sorry," I said. "I just—."

"Didn't do anything," he finished angrily. "Why do you always think it's your fault when it never fucking is?" he asked frustratedly, raising his voice.

I felt tears slide down the side of my face. "I don't know. Maybe I should take it up with the person trying to help me be normal." He frowned down at me. "I just feel like everything I do ends bad and when I try my best to get something right i-i-it's never enough a-and I just don't get why it all has to be so hard when I clearly can't handle it—."

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. I sunk down to the ground against a wall and buried my face in my hands. "I'm sorry," I said.

John knelt down in front of me and lifted my chin up so I'd be looking at him. He had a gentle grin tugging at his lips. "If you say that one more time, I'm gonna have to show you how much I wish you wouldn't say it ever again."

I laughed half-heartedly and wiggled my way out of his grip, wiping my face with my hand.

"Don't be silly," he said, pushing my hand away and replacing it with his sleeve. I shook my head.

"You're unbelievable," I blubbered

He didn't say anything; he just put his lips on mine and that alone said everything he could have needed to say in a lifetime.

August 16, 1962

Meeting with Brian at NEMS was awkward, to say the least. John's drunken yelling wasn't enough to fully sack Pete, but Brian's word was. John had walked home with me the previous night and had, rather forcefully, told Brian that he was ready for Pete's dismissal. Brian had told him it was okay and that he'd take care of it. John tried to hide how crushed he looked, but couldn't hide anything from me. Pete didn't look surprised when he heard the news. The rest of the band weren't present, but I was there helping Brian out, so I heard everything.

As Pete was leaving, I caught him.

"I'm sorry," I said sheepishly.

He turned around, his face sullen. "What?" he asked annoyedly. To keep myself from fainting on the spot, I moved towards the door to flip the sign around to show the shop was now open.

"I'm sorry," I said again. "This was my fault and I'm sorry." I would have successfully sent John into having a stroke with how many times I was apologizing for something he had bluntly told me wasn't my fault, but I shamefully still didn't believe him.

Pete snorted. "It wasn't your fault. It was mine."

I shook my head as I rushed back to the other side of the room and put my lanyard around my neck. "Well, I have a gut feeling I was a soul cause of it," I mumbled.

"No, Donna, you're a great person," he said. "This is all my doing, but it's okay. The others deserve fame more than me." I could hear the the thick onset of remorse in his voice and I felt a twinge of sympathy towards it. "Well," he said with a sigh. "I'll see you around maybe."

I nodded. "See you around, Pete."

And with that, he left.

Brian joined me out in the main shop a moment later. "Well, he said, looking down at his watch. "I've got two hours to find someone to fill in as a drummer. How the hell am I supposed to do that?"

"Er—," I responded. "Absolutely no idea."

A moment later, Thomas joined us.

"Morning, Thomas," greeted Brian with a brief nod.

"Morning, Mr. Epstein. How are you today?" Thomas sat his backpack down under the counter and I fell back onto a couch against the front window and listened as they fell into a pleasant conversation, only coming back to life when Brian called out that he had an idea and ran out of the shop without another word.

"What's got him running away, then?" asked Thomas.

I rolled my eyes. "You won't believe how my night went," was all I responded and I was met with an understandably confused look.