Find My Way (A Paul McCartney Fanfiction)

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How about that photo above that I found on Pinterest? It's got Paul in modern clothes, and it works for this story, but I still find it really funny, haha. Now, please enjoy this chapter!
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What was my explanation, you ask? Well, my reasoning was simple, and it was that Paul only felt ill when something about him or one of the other Beatles was nearby him. It was like whatever supernatural force that had placed him here was trying to make sure that he didn't find out anything about the future that he shouldn't, so it caused him illness in the situations where that opportunity was offered, hence the magazine and news story.

Was that valid reasoning? I certainly thought it was, but later in our adventure, I'd find that I was actually only partially correct.

Still, my current dilemma was how to get away with not telling Paul all of this, which was difficult considering he was staring at me with those big, puppy-dog eyes of his.

"Well? What's making me ill, then, Molly?" he asked again.

"Well..." I faltered, my face warming with guilt, for I knew I was going to have to lie to him. "Um, I think that you just don't eat enough, so it's making you weaker, and, you know, ill..."

"Oh that's tosh! I could see by the look on your face that it was a bigger reason than that," he sassed with a fold of his arms.

"No, that's the truth, honest! I just remembered that you didn't eat a lot at the fish 'n' chips shop, and, uh..." I stumbled, obviously hiding something.

Paul's face had turned from curious to irritated as I'd spoken my lie. He knew I wasn't being honest, and it seemed to truly disappoint him. A guilty pang went through my heart, and I unconsciously frowned as I looked upon his unhappy countenance.

"Look, Molly, if you're not going to tell me everything you may or may not know..." he began, struggling with what to say through his emotions, "then I'll have to search for answers elsewhere."

My stomach dropped at his honest response. This was the first time yet that he'd expressed any sort of frustration (ignoring our first meeting, that is), and it hurt me a bit more than I ever imagined it would.

"Paul, please," I said, grabbing his arm as he turned away. He looked at me with a mixture of confusion and vulnerability in his eyes, before I continued, "there's just some things I can't tell you. I shouldn't have said anything earlier at all, because this could have been avoided."

His expression didn't soften at that. In fact, it did very much the opposite. "Oh, so you always planned to not tell me everything, then?"

"No, no, of course not," I declined, feeling more and more desperate. "I just meant that I knew there were things about the future that I couldn't tell you."

"Yeah? Like what?" he countered.

"Oh, baby. If only you knew," I thought sadly.

"I'm sorry, Paul, but I just can't tell you. I don't want you having to carry the weight of it."

"I see," he frowned with an expression that told me he understood, but he was nonetheless saddened and disappointed. He then looked deeply into my eyes and said, "Molly, be straight with me here. If you knew how to get me back to 1963, would you tell me immediately? Or better yet, would you even tell me at all?"

I was hurt by his sudden lack of trust in me, but I nonetheless answered immediately. "You know I would, Paul. I'd never keep anything from you, unless it was for your own good."

"Thank you," he replied in an unreadable tone, before he disappeared into the living room and laid down.

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