My life's like a crowded elevator sometimes. So many people try to cram in, all of them, and I feel so claustrophobic. I sit, pushed against the wall, trying to peek my head over everyone's shoulder just to get a little air, but I can't get comfortable and I can't move or get out. That's how it feels when I walk in an airport and the lights from those invading cameras shine in my face, and the microphones are pushed in front of Dad and Linda. Or to be more recent, when someone I don't even know -- a media man, I suppose -- watches me intently as I walk down the street with a boy. So what he's John Lennon's boy? Privacy is a basic human right, isn't it?  

"Does that happen a lot?" Julian asks me, looking briefly at the man. He has a hint of a grin playing on his lips but I think he's a bit terrified. Things like this don't happen a lot in his hide-away town of Rutin. That's what he's said at least.

I shake my head. "Only when we're out, like in an airport or touring. We don't usually get them here." I glare at the man, hoping that'll it'll terrify him or something, but I know it's going to be to no avail. These men are persistent and determined. I don't think I remember one not being that way. I hate them for it too. These are the ones that push me against the wall -- the ones that make it hard to breathe.

"Don't make a fuss of it, it'll only make it worse." He tugs on my shirt sleeve and I pull away from him. 

"No it won't," I state, looking back at the man for a few more seconds. Perhaps he's right, maybe I shouldn't do this, but I can't help it; I'm so angry that this man is invading on my first date. He's spoiled it almost, I feel. It's not even my first date anymore, it's everyone's. That's how those men work, they exploit everything and everyone learns what's happening. "Doesn't it bother you a bit?" I furrow my brows. "Don't you just want to glare at him too?"

Julian giggles. "Of course not, that's silly, don't you think? Just glaring at a man you don't know, in hopes of  -- in hopes of what exactly, Ava?" 

"Nothing," I reply simply, "Just to make myself feel better."

"My mum doesn't like them either but she's never glared. It just makes you seem like the naughty person, don't you think?"

I smile. "I suppose so." 

I really like Julian. Despite this first date not being ideal and all, with his time constraints (he's to be back by five because he lives five whole hours away from me!) and the pestering man, it feels successful. Julian and I haven't even done much -- only strolled down some streets and stopped and ate at a nice little restaurant -- but we get on well.  

He wears a sweater vest, and horn rimmed glasses that make him look eerily like his father. His hair is the same tint, and his eyebrows bush the same way John's do. I've noticed a lot of John in his appearance, but attitude wise, not so much. He's cheeky, but not not crude, and he's got a sweet side that  appears everytime he speaks. Just like me, he's not his father.

I wear a pair of light colored jeans and a simple pink jumper. It's a bit chilled today, and I knew we weren't doing anything special, so I didn't dress fancy. He doesn't seem bothered by it either, my attire.

"Don't you ever want to go to school?" he queries randomly. Julian has done this often throughout this date, and I'm left to wonder if it's because he's curious or I'm a bad conversationalist. It's probably the latter, for I'm still awful shy around him.

I shrug. "I dunno. Can't really say I mind not going. I like being with my family and their friends, and being on the road. Though I do think I'm missing out."

"Nah," he shakes his head, grinning. "It's boring, really. They make us wear uniforms at mine, and the only good thing there is the talent show. Justin and I have written songs and performed during one."

"Looking to be a Beatle, are you?" I joke, but it only receive a gentle grin and a shake of the head.

"Not exactly. I was thinkin' a Led Zepellin member, more like."

"Zepellin, is it?" I rise my eyebrow. "You think they're half as good as McCartney and Lennon?"

"Lennon and McCartney," he corrects. The cheek. "And yeah, they're not half bad. Have you given them a listen?"

"If I didn't I'd be unhip, wouldn't I?"

"Something like that. They've become the new thing."

I smile and he smiles back. Then he gets us back on track.

"Where are we headed?"

I look ahead, down the street, not exactly sure how to answer than really. Dad said to be waiting by the place we ate at in two hours, but it's only been about an hour and thirty, and no matter where we go, it won't take us thirty minutes to get back to that point. "I dunno," I offer him, shrugging.
"Let's go the beach then. It's only down there."

"Are you barmy? You'll freeze down there on a day like this."

He shakes his head, insistent. I suppose it wouldn't be half bad, considering there are a few people walking on the sand. I give him another hesitant look, before nodding my head. He grins, reaching out his hand for me to grab onto to. When I do, more butterflies form in the pit of my stomach and my fingers tingle. I don't know why, but it's nice.

"Be careful," he warns, walking slowly down the rocks that pepper the front of the beach. I hold tightly onto his hands, watching my feet as we travel down. When we make it to the sand, I find that it's cold, wet, and completely disgusting. However, the grin on Julian's face makes standing in a pit of water, as it were, seem alright.

We stand in the same place for a bit, in silence, so he can take it all in. The only part I've ever really fancied about the beach is the sound of the water and the way it looks when it comes to shore. It's comforting, soft and gentle, and I could listen to it for hours on end.

"This is beautiful." He laughs gently and I look at him, smiling. "Yeah," I nod, "It's alright."

"Alright? I think it's more than that."

"Well, it's good. I'm not much of a beach person."

It's his turn to look at me like I'm the look. "What? Why not? Don't you think there's something peaceful about it?"

I shrug my shoulders. "It's cold, windy...gross," I answer honestly, looking down at my feet. I scrunch my nose before I look back at him. He laughs before tugging at my hand, leading us on a walk.

"My mom liked it. That's where my dad meet her, the beach," I speak randomly after a bit of silence.

"Is that why you don't like it?" He furrows his eyebrows. I don't know the answer to that, truly, because I haven't given thought to that connection. I was only trying to start up a conversation the way Julian does.

"No..." I move us towards the dock, away from the waves. Our hands swing back and worth and I watch them, thinking. "I don't think that's why. It's just a random fact, really. One of the few I know."

Silence fills the space between us for a few more beats and then Julian asks, "When did she leave?"

Like it's a script I say, "When I was smaller, a baby. It doesn't matter." To be honest, it might as well be a script because that's the story everyone gets told, no matter which Mccartney's mouth it's coming from. That's the first story I heard my dad tell the press. Or, the first one I remember him telling to them.

I was playing with Martha in the next room, petting her and dotting on the small thing (she was rather small then, not even fully grown), and my Dad was in the other room. He was sitting on the floor with a man--who I now know as a reporter, but always thought was someone who was making my dad's life into a book--and the man asked him about me. I wasn't new, but in a way I was; it'd only been a few months since I started to appear my his side in public more. The man said--and I'll never forget it--"About your daughter, Paul, how is she and where, if you don't mind me asking did she come from?"

He said, with a bit of a bite drizzled over with his charm, "Well, she's just fine, y'know. Growing and eating and the like. I do mind, but I'll answer because I don't want to see potty stuff in the papers, y'know. She came from a relationship, and her Mum left when she was only little but that's alright, innit, because I love her enough."

That man never wrote the book I thought he would write about my Dad, but he did write the first  magazine article I'd ever appeared in. The first official one, at least. I wonder what Julian's first magazine was, and how little he was. I wonder if he liked his dad as much as I did at first, and if he remembers the press too. But I don't ask that stuff because it feels too...personal. I don't know where he stands with his father, and the last thing I want to do is offend him.

For the rest of our time, we spend walking the beach and slipping in and out of comfort silence. Then, at the end, we head back, fingers linked and grins of our faces.

"You're daft if you think that McCartney beats Lennon," he jokes with me playfully as we approach our meet up spot. "Lennon even sounds better."

I roll my eyes. "Does not. McCartney has a nice ring. Lennon's just...awkward."

He mocks being offended. "You think I'm awkward."

"Yes," I reply, a mischievous grin on my lips. "All Lennon's are."

"Oh." He raises his eyebrows. "You'd know, wouldn't you?"

Laughing, I shake my head. "No, but you wouldn't know about us either would you?"

Shaking his head no, Julian laughs. "I don't read the paper's no more than you. Though," he looks at me, brown orbs lit, "I do like one of you."

My cheeks heat, much to my embarrassment, and I look away, unsure exactly how to respond to such a thing. I feel so silly at the moment. "Thanks," I say, quickly, moving ahead so he can't see me. He tags along though, like a lost puppy.

"Don't be nervous," he comforts, reading me. He tugs at my jumper again, pulling me back to him. "It was only a compliment, you know. You're very pretty and I just wanted to tell you."

"Well...thank you, I guess." My cheeks are still warm, and my heart races rapidly, but I feel better. Despite that he's exposed me, he's done a good deal to make me feel less awkward in this situation. His kindness simply does not seem to end, and I can't appreciate him enough for it.

Looking up at him, I quietly offer him my own, slight commentary. "You're cute too, Julian. Kind as well."

"Well," he mocks me playfully, making a show of it, "Thank you, I guess."

"Yeah, you're welcome." I give him another grin, teeth peaking. "We should head back now, Jules."

He grins as well, but for a different reason. "Jules," he repeats, as if testing it on his own tongue. Delighted, he nods his head, and we begin to track back to the meeting place.

For once I'm left feeling as if I've left a good impression on him. He practically hums with delight, holding my hand, and I look on, a shy grin on my lips.

Though the sand is still wet and gross, finding its way inevitably into my shoes, and the wind is piercing and bitter, my opinion of the beach has changed. I don't love it, but I like it more because he held my hand on the beach.

There truly is something magical about holding hands--I'll give that to Lennon and McCartney.

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It's only been a billion years, but I've finally finished this draft up and got ready to ship it out. I'm sorry I've abandoned it so long, I've just been busy and had no muse for it. But, here ya go! A new chapter. I'll try to be better with this, promise.