Dear Sean

Fifteen

He hadn’t said he loved me in months, and I was starting to think that maybe he didn’t. That maybe we were growing too far apart, changing too much, and that all we had left was the decaying rests of our old desire.

I didn’t know if Paul loved me, but he still wanted me.

He pushed me to the floor wordlessly, his eyes red and watery, probably seeing me in wavy colors by now. I let him press his mouth to mine, but it no longer held any meaning; he was just exploring with his tongue, laughing slightly in his altered state.

His fingers worked down my shirt, unbuttoning it completely. I let him slip off my shirt, probably acting dispassionately but still looking at Paul with hidden a spark of emotion. It hurt that I was just a body to him; shit, it hurt me so much.

Paul slipped his furry arms behind my exposed back, lifting my torso up to his and I holding me as he trailed a hand down my spine. He kissed his way down my jaw and I shivered, letting him handle me as though I were a puppet.

We were rich and enjoying it; we even considered buying a Greek island. A whole island to ourselves. We had a crazy plan to turn it into a personal Beatle world, with a central gathering area, under a glass dome that connected to the four living areas for each of us; so we’d have somewhere to live, away from the fans. Now that I think of it, what would I really have done with a big great island?

I know that you’d want an island for yourself—we could fill it with cats and swimming pools and crayons. I think I know what I’ll be getting you for your sixth birthday.

I had a ukulele in my lap and wasn’t sure how I’d gotten it, but I played it softly, watching the rainbows slowly stream from the strings as they reverberated, their vibrations getting bigger and bigger, and disturbing the fat daisies that were growing out of the wood.

The instrument that was suddenly becoming small, so small it could sit in my hand. I laughed in delight, and heard another voice next to me. It was George, but his mustache was growing too long for his face, though he kept grinning widely. He was laughing too, his voice coming out as a smell of dark coffee and a faint fruity mix. The waves lapped at the sides of the boat, fizzing like orange soda, and George’s ukulele was in deep conversation with mine.

Hours later we’d come down from our trips and were in a village by a beach, standing under pouring rain. Paul looked decidedly unhappy, and he stood next to me, wearing his best bitchy face, while the only legitimate Greek in our ranks, Magic Alex, tried negotiating with an old fisherman.

Alex emerged from the old man’s home, wearing a triumphant expression, his hair plastered onto his forehead giving him a funny look. “I’ve done it, we’ve two rooms, the man’s going off to his brother’s to leave us the place,” he said.

We stepped in gratefully, and watched the fisherman leave, the unmistakable bulge of money in his shirt pocket. Two rooms was actually a living room, with a couch, a rug, and a burning fire, and a damp back room, with a small bed.

“Oh, George and Alex can have the bigger room,” Paul said. Magic Alex might have taken this as a sign of generosity, but George knew what Paul’s ulterior motive was, and seemed to roll his eyes briefly before opening a cupboard and taking out a ratty old blanket.