Let It Be (A Beatles Story)

Chapter Thirty-Five

A soft knock on my door dragged me out of my thoughts.  I was resting quite close to my open window, which I shut quickly as soon as I realized it was still open.  Brushing off my skirt, I said, "Come in."  My voice felt strange, for I hadn't spoken in awhile.  

It was Paul, and he stood expectantly in the doorway, teetering on his heels and toes.  

"It's rather late, Paul," I yawned.  "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"Come with me to my room.  I want to show you something," He reached to take my hand, but I slipped it away.  

"That's wonderfully sweet of you to think of me, but I'm quite tired."

"You can stay in my room tonight," The statement was a bit more enthusiastic than we both expected it to be, and he blushed.  "I mean, I stayed in your room last night, so I thought I could return the favor."

I tried to offer him a small smile.  Eleanor's words were coming back to haunt me.  He'll come running back to you, begging for love.  But will that love he wants be sincere?  For in that moment, I couldn't help but wonder what George was thinking of me.  "Thank you, Paul, but I feel a bit uncomfortable with that right now."

His face fell.  "Why?  You've stayed with me at my house before."  

That was before you cast me aside like an old boot.

"That was...different.  Don't you think it's strange for you to be rebounding so quickly after everything that happened?"

Paul was clueless.  "After what?"

"After Eleanor?  The girl you were in love with for ages?" I offered.  He just nodded.  

"Elle, I love..." He began, before quickly changing his mind.  "I want you to see something.  Please come with me."

"I'm sorry, Paul.  Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Elle."

Paul's POV

I trudged back to my hotel room, passing an old man walking along to his own.  He must have overheard some of the conversation Elle and I were having, because he said, "I pray this isn't your honeymoon."

Forcing laughter, I said, "No, sir.  She's...I care about her a lot."

He gave me a nod before reaching his room.  I slipped into mine, and flicked on the lights.  On the bed I had laid out tons of flower petals, but mostly roses.  It seemed like she always came home smelling like them.  She must have bought a new perfume.  I thought she would have liked that I noticed.  

Taking off my jacket, I felt around in the pocket for thing I wanted to give her most of all.  It was a beaded blue bracelet I had gotten for her ages ago, before I met Eleanor.  I had been caring it around in my jacket pocket since the time I had bought it, and I felt so guilty whenever I was with Eleanor and I could feel it.  It was like a weight in my pocket, holding me down.  

I love you.

How hard was it to say that?  

Eleanor was a mistake.  I need you.

Would she ever hear those words from anyone else?

You don't have to be afraid of love anymore.  I would never hurt you.

But what about all the times where I kissed Eleanor in front of her?  All the times I waved to her and ignored Elle?  All the times I sent her away with George?  Discarding her?  No second thoughts?  

Would she ever forgive me?  

Or was I just mistaken?  She wasn't angry with me; it was just different now that Eleanor was gone.  She wasn't used to me now.  

Then the thought occurred to me.  What if Elle was in love with someone else?  

A feeling of anger, jealousy and frustrated swept over me.  Of course she would fall for another man!  Why would she still love me when I treated her in such a way!  

But who could it have been?

John acted as if he didn't understand her at all.  Ringo fancied other girls.  George...

George knew how I felt about Elle.  He would never do such a thing.  He was my best mate, and I had known him longer than any of the lads.  He was too timid, too scared to do such a bold thing.  

Unless...

George's POV

As hard as I tried, I couldn't concentrate on anything that night after the concert.  I couldn't even smoke.  What was wrong with me?  

You're guilty.

Why was I the one to feel guilty?  I saw Elle kiss Paul at the bar the night before.  She never cared.  She just wanted someone to hold her until he was available again.  Someone disposable.  

Someone like me.  

But why was she so sad when I snapped at her?  Was it an act, or was she actually hurt?

My thoughts ran wild, and I imagined myself running out my hotel room door, knocking on hers and as soon as she could say anything, I would kiss her.  I would apologize.  I didn't want to kiss other girls that night; I was just frustrated.  The only girl I wanted was her.  

Then I would take her back to my room, and I would tell her the list of lovely things to say.  

I love you.  

I made a mistake.  I need you.

For if I didn't say them, who would?