Elle's POV

Paul didn't return to the room for a long time.  I was frightened.  Was he angry with me?  Had I told secrets about George and me?  Had I said anything about my family, and given up my identity in the future to Doctor Baudine?

Slowly, the doorknob turned and Paul entered the room silently.  "Hello, darling."

"He's not coming back, is he?"  There was a long silence, and I began to cry.  "Oh, what have I done?  What did I say, Paul?"

He sat down next to me on the bed, and took my hands.  "It wasn't your fault.  You were in some sort of trance.  You said only a few things about the future, but he didn't believe you.  Unfortunately, he thinks that he will no longer be able to help."

"I'm insane, Paul." I cried.  

"No, no.  You're not." He tried to calm me, but I was crying too hard.  Wrapping his arms around me, he rubbed my back to get me to relax.  It took a fair amount of time, but my cries eventually subsided to whimpers.  

He let go of me, but held my shoulder at an arm's length still.  Fishing around in his jacket pocket, he said, "Um...I've been meaning to give this to you.  I've just never really felt like it was the right time, but it might as well be now."  Paul pulled a small blue bracelet, and held it out to me.  He took my hand, and clasped the necklace around my wrist.  I felt so guilty.  The lads had already bought me a beautiful locket, and now an equally goregous bracelet.  

I admired it, and hugged him.  "It's so beautiful.  I don't deserve this though."  

"Why shouldn't you?" Paul asked.  

I bit my lip.  "I just feel like...I wish that I could afford to buy you nice things.  It makes me feel guilty.  I'm too good at spending all your money."  I smoothed out my skirt, and examined the bedspread, but Paul kissed me, forcing me to touch him.  He pulled away a bit abruptly, and I kept my eyes closed, almost trying to contain the kiss within me.  

"Thank you, Paul," I gave a small smile.  "For everything."

As much as things seemed to be alright with me on the outside, I felt like I was collapsing on the inside.  Things were plummeting with George and I, and it was as though he had left me completely and I was falling alone.  With that, I had to think of a way to save him, even though I was sure he despised me.  John and I were oil and vinegar when it came to each other: we did not mix.  And in sixteen years, I would need to save him.  How would I do that?  Disarm the killer?  Keep John from leaving his house?  

Would I have to kill Mark David Chapman?

Would I have to jump in front of the bullets?  

The expression on my face was definitely one of horror because Paul shook my shoulder and said, "Are you alright?"

I put on the best fake smile I could manage.  "I'm wonderful."

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It had taken me most of the day to get my courage up to talk to George.  I hurried through their living room and knocked on his door, hiding my peace offering behind my back.  "George?  Can I talk to you please?"

I stood there waiting for about a minute in complete silence before the door opened.  George looked like he hadn't slept in days.  My eyes wandered over his shoulder to his guitar and a flurry of papers laying on his bed.  He must have been writing some new music, but that seemed like the only thing the poor boy had done for several days.  George refused to join us for meals, which frightened me horribly.  

"Elle, this isn't a good time.  I really am not in the mood to speak today." He said, looking at the door frame.  He placed both hands across the frame, as if he was creating a boundary between the sanctity of his room and me.  He was wearing a simple grey sweater and slacks, which looked wonderful on him, for all I had seen him in those days were suits, but I knew this was neither the time nor place to tell him how good he looked.  

I held out the petite yellow roses to him.  "I wanted you to have these.  I really need to speak with you."

George rolled his eyes.  My gaze fell to the floor.  "I can't believe you sometimes, Elle.  You honestly thought that roses would make me feel guilty?  Feel sentimental for the way things used to be?  Well, Elle, that is all over now.  It is most certain in the past.  I thought I loved you.  I treasured the rose, but was maimed by the thorns.  You've never felt the way I did, Elle.  You don't know what it feels like to experience worthlessness."

"Well, George," I said quietly.  "Then you never knew me at all."  I turned and walked down the hall before he could see the expression on my face.  

Walking in the lobby, roses still in hand, I saw an elderly man sitting near a woman his age, who I assumed was his wife.  Cautiously, when they weren't looking, I set the roses down near him and walked away quickly.  I watched them for a moment, and then the old man picked up the delicate roses, looked around for the person who placed them there and offered them to the woman.  She smiled, said something soft in French and then kissed his cheek.  It saddened me to think that I might never find a love that lasted so long, or that I might never age with the person I loved.  

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw something that surprised me.  Peering around the corner by the stairs, George watched me silently.  He must have seen me play cupid with the older couple.  Though as soon as I recognized him he was gone.  

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It was the last show the lads played before we headed back to England the next morning.  The concert seemed to go by faster than any other, but trying to fall asleep that night was horrible.  Minutes felt like hours, and even though Paul was right next to me (his idea, not mine) I couldn't find any peace at all.  

George refused to talk to me even when I asked him a question after the concert.  He brushed past me in order to speak to someone else.  The man gave him flowers and a letter, saying it was from a fan in the third row.  It was though I had left for the future already.  I was gone to him.  

Unable to find rest, I slipped out of bed, pulled on my coat and slid out into the hallway.  I was so worried about closing the door quietly that I almost stepped on something that had been left on the floor.  

There, tied in paper to keep it safe, was a single white tulip.  I looked around in the hall to see if the person who gave it to me was watching, but there wasn't anyone to be seen.  I picked up carefully, and examined it.  There was a small, typed note at the bottom.  It simply read, It's lovely, isn't it?  You should smile a bit more.  Enjoy.

I smelt the tulip for a moment, and sighed in the bliss.  I wondered if this was Paul's doing, for if it wasn't, I should put it in my suitcase and hide it.  There was no name on the note, therefore whoever put the flower there wanted to remain anonymous.  Knowing Paul, however, he would have given it to me personally, making both of us blush.  The person who had left the tulip was most likely shy.  I immediately thought of George.  

But why would he do that?  He said it himself:  He thought he loved me.  

I suddenly felt tired, so I hurried into the room.  Creeping into the bathroom, I wrapped a damp tissue around the stem of the tulip, and safely stored behind the curtains of the window so it would see a bit of sunlight in the morning before we left for London.  

The drive to the airport sped by, and we were hurried into the terminal before the reporters could see.  I was afraid of being caught up with another crowd like I had when George and I went out on the date.  Paul was busy talking to George, so I decided it best that I should accompany someone else on the ride back home.  

"Hello, Ritchie," I sat down next to him as we waited to board.  He was fiddling with a cigarette.  I took the lighter for him and lit the end.  "Promise me something?" 

"Yes?" He turned to me, his blue eyes tired.  

"That you'll try not to smoke around George." I pleaded with him.  Surprisingly, he did not ask me why.  He just nodded solemnly.  

We sat together on the plane, and tried to imagine where all the other passengers were going once they made it to London.  Whether they were going home to their vives and children, or they were transferring planes and flying to Ireland or America.  Or were they trying to escape Paris for some frightening reason?

Soon John came and sat down on the other side of me.  I normally didn't like sitting in the middle when it came to plane seats, but with the lads it was almost comfortable.  "What's happened to poor Georgie?  He hasn't eaten in days.  It's not like him at all."  I swallowed hard, and looked down the aisle at George.  He even looked paler than usual.  

I turned back to look at John.  "Please make him eat something.  He's sick." His eyes widened slightly, which surprised me.  Maybe he was overcome by my reaction to help him.  "He won't listen to me.  We had a falling out."

And then John did something that utterly shocked me.  

"I agree," He told both of us.  "He is sick.  I'll make him eat something, even though the food tastes awful."  A stewardess heard the offhand comment, and gave him a look, but John just simply tipped his cap to her and walked down the aisle.  

"That was a first," I smiled quietly.  

"He likes you more than he lets on." Ringo lit another cigarette, and I coughed through the smoke.  I couldn't wait until it was illegal to smoke on planes.  "You shouldn't take his coments too hard.  He's one of the moodiest men I know, and he usually says what he's thinking.  He snaps at all of us, so you shouldn't take it too personally." 

I looked down at my notebook, where I was logging the days events for Brian.  "I highly doubt John would fancy me.  I'm not someone he typically gets along with.  On the dates we've been on, they've never ended quite well.  It's a sign."

Ringo didn't answer.  Though the plane ride was quite short, he fell asleep with his head on my shoulder, and whenever I turned to talk to the stewardess his hair went up my nose.  

We landed and stayed in London for the days that followed.  I stayed with Brian while they were interviewed by the queues of reporters and journalists.  Screaming fans were lined up outside, welcoming the lads home.  

Things were taken care of.  We stayed at a hotel, and went to the studio on Abbey Road most days to practice for the Ed Sullivan show.  Brian had shown the lads their tickets for the flight to New York, and Paul could barely contain his excitement.  

After a day of practicing and rehearsal, the lads settled down to organize the setlists.  They would write as small as they possibly could and tape the little pieces of paper to their guitars, meanwhile Ringo would tape his sheet to the floor beneath his feet.  Even John couldn't help but smile as they worked.  He looked over at me, and winked.  

I began to wonder if he was the one that gave me the tulip, which was leaning by the window of my small hotel room in a cup of water.  It had began to wilt during the flight; I hoped I was able to save it.  

The next day we would leave for America.  The British were coming.  

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They're going to America!

I'm not sure if I mentioned this before, but I'm sure you've noticed the lovely new cover of Let It Be.  It was made my friend @Enchancer97.  She's really nice and she'd love to talk, so check her out!  

I found out something awesome yesterday.  I went and saw a traveling Beatles exhibit and there was this sign on the wall which showed where the Beatles were performing on certain dates.  The one time they came to Minnesota was on my birthday in 1965!  I'm so happy.  It's meant to be.  

I'll most likely post another author's note, which is something I've been meaning to ask you all about for a few days.  So expect something soon if not today!

Peace and love, 

Luna.