And Your Girl Can Sing

Chapter 11: Temperature's Rising, Jukebox Blows A Fuse

"Oh love... you don't want to. I'm ugly."

The last two words he said took the wind right out of my breath. "What? Of course you're not." His statement was unlike the girls in school who said "I'm so fat," and waited expectantly for you to respond, "Oh, you're not! You're so beautiful!" but it was something else, something he didn't want to admit. I said quietly, "What are you talking about? I love the way you look. You are so beautiful."

He didn't say anything for a while, but I felt him shrink away slightly. And then he asked, "Why do you want to be with me? I'm not worth it. I'm such a bad person." My mind flew back to Paul's words: "You know Lennon isn't the most faithful boyfriend in the world? He's probably cheating on you or something." But after John's words I knew right then and there he wasn't.

"Don't," I told him, choking up a little. "I like you. That's how it's going to be. It's going to stay that way."

Preludin made it impossible for the boys to distinguish day from night. Everything was a large blur of guitars, music, dancing, beer. Now that John was back in his home environment, it had brought back a harsher side of him, like he felt like he had to reinforce his teddy-boy looks with his attitude, but this, this was something else. I felt a little odd, standing in that room holding a man who I had just met and professing my feelings towards him. How odd, I thought. I swore I wouldn't do it again and here I am.

"Did you know," I said as I stood on tiptoe to match his five foot eleven frame. "That night of the party. I was looking for you but got smacked on a brownie. I was thinking of your nose and how much I love it." I laughed a little, embarrassed. "I've always loved that part of you. It's so defining of your character. John Winston Lennon, I love your nose. Watch and see how perfectly it fits with mine." I got on the last of my tiptoes and kissed him square on the mouth, feeling the gentle touch of his mouth.

He laughed, and the motion broke the kiss, but only for a few seconds as he whispered softly, "I love you, Cora," and kissed me back. We stayed like that for a while in the room, our bare feet on the concrete floor. My jacket soon came off, leaving the white bralette and black capri pants on. John ran his hands across the bare skin on my arm. "I'm mad about this top. If you can even call it a top."

"You forgot to buy me one," I breathed as his fingers made contact with my lower back.

"Maybe it was a purposeful mistake," he grinned back at me, dragging out the 's' in "mistake", his cold hands digging into my back.

"Lennon!" The door burst open and I heard the voice of my bloody favorite: Paul McCartney. "We're on again, get your arse out here." He stepped into the room and flicked on the light, catching me and John in an awkward position. "Oops. Anyway, we're late." His eyes took a quick glance at my chest and my coat on the floor; I blushed but didn't blame him, the bralette really couldn't pass for a top.

"Macca," John growled. "Get the fuck out of here."

Paul looked as if was about to say something and thought the better of it. "Be out in five." He quickly shut the door; I could hear fading footsteps as he walked away as fast as he had come. John muttered a swear underneath his breath.

"Let's get you to bed, love," John told me. "We'll have to take a rain check on this night." He strode over to a bed and looked around for the corresponding covers. Thanks to Paul, I could now fully see the entirety of the small room. John's bed had a pile of clothes at the end of it which he threw on the floor and said, "All new." He tossed me a t shirt. "You can sleep in this."

I was too tired to argue. I pulled on the t shirt; it was made of the same material of John's, and pulled off my pants, folding them neatly and placing them at the foot of the bed. I crawled into bed and John pulled the covers over me. I was surrounded by his smell.

"Smells like you," I said sleepily.

"Good," He smiled and kissed my cheek. "Good night, love. Dream of me tonight. I'll be in soon."

***

When I woke up for the first time in over twenty-four hours, I thought I was in Chiswick. John was lying next to me, turned towards me, sleeping on his side with his back against the wall. I could feel things like jeans and shirts as well as the bedsheets against my bare skin. The clock on the edge of the wall read 14:00—14:00?! Blimey, it was late.

Light was streaming through the windows. I remembered drinks and laughter and preludin and kissing the night before and my glance bounced away from my sleeping boyfriend to the T shirts and dirty underwear which hung scattered across the room. Guitar cases were piled in a corner. An empty plate with a few crumbs lay near one of the boys' bed. A movement caught my eye: Paul, rising out of bed, shirtless. We both looked at each other and turned away awkwardly, and he noiselessly got up and left, wearing nothing but boxer shorts.

The little white slip of paper from John's pile of clothes at the foot of the bed stuck out like a flag of surrender. Against my will I reached out to grab it. I opened the letter and read —but you must understand how I will always feel about you. I have no words to describe the hurt you've caused me in your phone call—

I dropped the letter like a hot coal. The signature stuck in my head, refusing to budge, a pair of familiar initials: CP. Cynthia Powell.

"Morning, love." I turned around slowly, still holding the letter, feeling like I was in a dream. John was sitting up next to me, still in boxer shorts and a t shirt. His hair was only halfway combed and he was wearing his glasses but to me at that moment he looked so beautiful and I felt awful. Half of his face was hidden in shadow, but the other half I could make out was hopeful, vulnerable.

"Who's this," I told him, holding out the letter.

He cursed under his breath. "Me ex girlfriend. Please, love, ignore it. I don't even know why I still have it." He attempted to take the letter out of my hand but I held onto it, a whole slideshow of images flashed through my mind like a flood: Cynthia and John in art college, Cynthia and John coming into New York in 1964, Cynthia and John and Julian—

"You have to get back together with her," I whispered. He looked floored. "What? Are you mad? Why the hell would I do that when I have you." He kissed the top of my head gently. We stayed there for a while, rocking gently, the side of my head resting against his chest and John staring straight ahead into the room's only tiny window, a serene expression on his face, doubts crashing into my mind until George yelled from outside that we had finished the corn flakes and would we please get some more.