Candy [MCCARTNEY]

THIRTEEN

ENTER THE RED ZONE

✞

My mind was a blur the entire next day. How could I have been expected to focus on anything else but the fantasy (or was it anxiety?) of Paul inside my house. His skin would be so close to mine. . . god, the intimacy of it all was making me tremble.

"Should've brought your jumper, idiot. You've got goosebumps all over."

George was waving the half-smoked cigarette in my face, not paying too much attention to me besides a quick glance to make sure I didn't drop mine from between my motionless fingers.

All around us was rain. The sky was a deep, angry grey as we sat on the cold metal bench behind the school, an hour after the last bell had rung. Perhaps it was an omen? A slight grin formed on my lips at the idea of God being mad with Paul.

"What's wrong with you?" George pushed his phone into his pocket before grabbing the smoke from my fingers. I hadn't even taken a drag.

"I don't know, I'm just out of it today."

His dark irises scanned me briefly. "I can tell. Is there, uh, anything you want to talk about?"

I shot a strange look at my friend. He was facing me, hunched over by the crisp breeze, his hair getting in the way of his eyes. "Huh? No?" Silence. "Actually – did you maybe wanna go looking for records? I haven't played any of mine in ages."

Dammit, Becca, stop trying to sabotage yourself. What's wrong with you? You asked for a miracle and now you're unsure of it.

It's too much, I argued back to myself, Paul around mum? That's not what I asked for.

"Nah, I gotta practice with John," George said, tossing the finished cigarette to the wet concrete.

I lifted one knee onto the bench and rested my chin upon it, watching the rain softly smack onto the ground.

"Besides, they're too expensive," George added, his voice soft.

I sighed. "Not if you only buy one every three months."

George laughed at my absurd statement. "You need a job."

"Fuck off, you need a job."

"Sometimes I help dad on the weekends, thanks."

"Well," I shrugged. "I'm too busy being the family scapegoat."

George got to his feet and pulled at his hoodie sleeves to cover his palms. "C'mon, it's gonna rain. Why don't you want to go home?"

"Louis' already home, so I'm taking my time. And I just told you, I want to buy records."

"We'll do that this weekend if you want? We can get John and Ringo to come."

A frustrated huff left me as I stood up beside George. He was examining me strangely again, his eyes flicking from each different feature on my face. I looked down, suddenly insecure. Could he read my thoughts? It was definitely a genuine question — sometimes those dark, brown eyes seemed to sparkle a bit too much.