Chapter 1: Dear Fate, You Sent me the Wrong Beatle

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"Your room is an embarrassment."


She laughed, and her short blonde hair fell over her eyes. I smiled a little, one hand hovering protectively over the doorknob of my bedroom door.

I don't show people my room because it looks like America's pop culture of 1964 threw up all over it. As in, the walls are covered in Beatle posters, Beatle newspaper clippings, Beatle... Beatle stuff.

You might say I'm obsessed. Maybe just a little. But who can resist? Who can resist the greatest band to ever exist?

My denim jacket hangs in a corner, the back of it painted Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. I tried to get Paul to sign it when I went to his concert, holding up a neon pink and blue sign that said I am Amazed, Sign My Jacket?, but with no avail (I forgive you, Paul). Every remotely elderly looking person I meet at my retail job I try to talk to about the Beatles. They look at me like I'm crazy and say, "They're out of your generation."

"You're crazy."

"June, where is the encouragement here?" I asked her, a little annoyed. She dropped her backpack on the floor and spun around in a circle, her index finger going around in a huge circle. "Everywhere I point. Here, and here, and— I see the Beatles."

"You," I shot back, "have an obsession with Harry Styles. Probably even crazier than mine with Paul McCartney." I rummaged through a bag on the ground and stuffed my wallet into my denim jacket pocket.

"He's current. McCartney is, what, eighty?"


"Old enough to be your grandfather." She fell in a heap on my bed. "Oh, god, please don't tell me that's a poster of McCartney. Over your bed."

"Let's go," I told her. "I want to get the good stuff."

"It'll be there. Oh, lord am I glad that you have the twenty two year old version instead of the seventy two year old one hanging over your bed..."

June and I have been friends since we were twelve, when she noticed I was too shy to play hopscotch with the other girls and dragged me into the game. I suppose she does get a little bossy sometimes, but when it's come down to it, she's really proven herself to be a supportive friend.

But she doesn't get my hype over the fab four. And my McCartney. The prettiest left-handed bassist to ever exist. What do I love about him? Well, I'm not too sure, actually, what exactly I love about Paul, but he's definitely my favorite.


June and I happen to be avid thrifters, except our styles are completely different, which makes it nice for us to shop together, seeing as we won't fight over stuff. She likes bold, neon colors and leopard prints. I'm more of a fan of earthy tones and vintage. Right now, she's wearing a pair of leopard print boots and a little black dress, with a neon pink leather jacket that matches her nails. I'm in a corduroy skirt and doc martens, with a black cami and a mustard cardigan.

"Y/n, I still can't believe it," she said in concentration, an index finger hovering over the little plastic screens we call our phones as we waited for the tube.

"What's up?" I asked her, pulling my cardigan over my shoulders. It was summer, but inside the tube it was chilly.

"The love of my life. Dating Taylor Swift."

"At least he isn't married," I muttered, thinking of Paul.

"But why could he date her when he could have me?"

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