George was getting off his shift for a day when a car stopped a few feet ahead of him and a familiar voice shouted his name.  "George, hop in!"  

The car was a beautiful red T-Bird, and George immediately grew suspicious.  He admired the car but asked, "Where did you get this?"  

Layla leaned back in the front seat.  "I borrowed it."  He raised an eyebrow at her.  "I'm serious; I borrowed it from a friend.  Are you getting in or not?"

"Alright.  I just hope your friend doesn't press charges."

They drove around the outskirts of the city with the radio blasting as George fell more and more in love with Layla.

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"Have you heard the new Beach Boys album?  We need to keep recording.  As soon as this album is done, we need to stop with this pop sound.  We've got to get ahead of them," John urged them one day in the studio.  

"I find the idea interesting, but we've been doing so well with this sound...I just worry that if we start doing some odd things that records won't sell.  Besides, we should be working on finishing Help! right now instead of contemplating the future.  Let's get to work."

They worked for almost twelve hours a day for the next week or so.  Lots of tea had been made and many joints were rolled.  

Lucy had gotten the job she applied for, and when she wasn't working there, she was occasionally bringing in treats for the band and for Layla, who was going through a huge spell of depression.  Lucy wished she could stay with her all day until she got better.  But all she could do was visit to make sure she was taking care of herself, and to listen to her when she wanted to talk.  But Layla never really wanted to talk.  

George had thrown himself into his work, and was cranking out at least a song each day.  Most of them John and Paul rejected, and other times he just tore them up as soon as they were out.  But he called it progress.  Because John and Paul had accepted two of his songs to put on the album, I Need You and You Like Me Too Much.  Both were inspired by memories of Layla.  

He couldn't stop thinking about her, but there was a large amount of things left unsaid between them.  But George also wasn't sure of what to say.  

All of the Beatles had tried to talk to him about it, but they of course weren't sure of what to say either.  The same went with Brian and George Martin.  

He was staying a bit later than the rest of the Beatles at the end of the week, and Brian caught him as he was packing up.  "George, it's late.  Go home and have dinner with Layla."

"I've got one last verse for this song; I'm almost finished and then I'll go."

Brian put a hand on his shoulder.  "I know you don't want to talk about it right now...but I suggest, maybe you start a conversation with Layla tonight about a happy memory.  Get her to smile.  You should smile too.  You both need it."

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About three days later, George pulled up to the house and honked the horn so loudly he was sure he'd hear complaints in the morning.  He winced at how sudden the noise was.  "Layla!"

The door opened, and Layla peeked out like a child.  She was just in a sweater, but it was so big it went down to her knees.  "What is it?"

"Get dressed.  We're going for a drive."

She gasped at the car.  "Where did you get this?"

"A friend."

It was a red T-Bird like the one they had driven several years ago.  She smiled a little.  "I'll be out in a minute."

Layla hadn't worn any of her nice dresses in a long time, nor had she done her make-up.  She hurried to get ready but hoped that she looked presentable.  It was a blue dress, dark enough to blend in with the night.  

When she walked out, he was waiting for her, and opened the door for her.  "Why, thank you," she smirked.  "So where are we going?"

"We could go up to that one hill by the school and snog like teenagers again," he offered.  He felt triumphant whenever she smiled, and she couldn't suppress a smile then.  "As appealing as that sounds, maybe we save that for last."

He pulled a coin from his pocket.  "Let's have chance decide where we go.  We'll start driving, and whenever we reach an intersection, I'll flip this coin.  Heads we go left, tails we go right."

"Alright."

They drove for hours, and luckily George planned ahead and before he had left the house that morning, he had bought film for his camera.  Layla took pictures from the passenger's seat; George hoped they would turn out.  He'd have them developed as soon as possible so Layla could have something new to look at while at the house. 

It was almost three in the morning when George looked over to see Layla sleeping, the camera in her lap.  He kissed her forehead.  "I'll get you home."

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Paul was still a bit excitable from his high at the studio when he came home to Lucy.  The house smelt like the lavender incense that he had bought for her.  It made him feel calm.  She had made him dinner, but hadn't waited to eat with him, as she was enjoying the last few hours of her day reading her book.  

As he ate, he asked what she was reading.  

"It's a book written by this American woman...it's absolutely brilliant.  I'll give it to you once I'm done.  It's set in the 1930's about racism in the South.  It's about a lawyer who defends a black man who's been wrongly accused for a crime."

"Such interesting material for you to be reading."

"Why shouldn't I read it?  Things like this are happening in the United States right now.  It's best to stay aware.  I don't care if it isn't 'ladylike'."  

Paul nodded, and liked that she had stood up for herself.  He cleaned up his plate and sat by her in the chair, watching her read.  If he tried to read with her, it confused him since he hadn't heard the whole story.  But he watched her eyes move across the page, and rested his head on her shoulder.  

"You smell like weed, Paul."  

For a moment he was silent, but then he burst into laughter.  "I'm sorry...it's just so odd to hear you say that..."

Soon she was laughing too.  Her book fell to the floor; luckily she knew what page she was on.  But their laughter dissolved as he pulled her closer, resting his forehead against hers and their noses brushed each other.  She stroked the back of his neck.  "Your hair is getting longer," she whispered, eyes closed.  

"So is yours."

"I think I'm going to keep it that way.  It's very...what's the word...Bohemian.  Hippie."

Hello!  

I'm sorry I haven't updated as much.  I'm on vacation in the south of France.  It's very beautiful here; I have been able to tan for once.

Also, I'm thinking that in the next chapter or so, there will be a time jump in which a few months have passed.  This story will continue into the later sixties, which is an era of the Beatles I have not yet written about, so I'm excited.

I hope you enjoyed the chapter.  

Love, 

Luna <3