What If

Chapter 24

After ten minutes of practically jogging down the street, Paul finally slowed his pace to a walk. I have to admit, running with an overexcited Beatle down the near-abandoned streets of Liverpool was rather thrilling and kind of fun, even though it nearly induced a heart attack because of how out of shape I was. He was still dragging me by my wrist, making sure I wasn't falling behind. We had skidded around corners and slid to halts and nearly bashed into poles and buildings. I was sure that was going to be the death of me.

The few people we did pass looked at us like we were insane. Both Paul and I couldn't care less what they thought. We were moving too fast to pay attention.

I was thankful when he finally slowed down. I was not athletic by any means and I didn't know how much my body could take. Twenty feet later, he stopped in front of an old decrepit house that was two stories high and looked like the people living inside couldn't afford to keep it up, which was probably true.

"Well, this is my house," Paul said, smiling at his house. I smiled at him smiling. I guess he was content with what little he had, at least during this time.

"It's nice," I said, smiling at the building myself.

Paul looked to me, the smile not fading for even a moment from his face. So much smiling going on right now. He walked up to the door and turned the knob. "It's nothing like yours, but it's homey." He swung the door open and dropped his bag on the floor without a second thought as soon as we walked inside. "Dad, I'm home!" he called.

I looked around the inside of the house. It didn't look nearly as bad as it did on the outside. It was incredibly small, but well kempt. The kitchen immediately connected to the living room, but was closed off except for a small archway. The walls of the living room were a tannish-yellow color, almost of that of mustard. There was a thoroughly tattered brown-checkered couch in the middle, facing the tiniest TV I've ever seen; probably a black and white one too. The radio on one of the end tables was on; Dean Martin's 'Let It Snow' was playing nice and loud. Paul must've had one of those families that liked to start celebrating Christmas a month early.

Paul's father came out of the kitchen, wiping a glass dry with a terry cloth. "I was just doing the dishes," he said. Then he noticed me. I blushed and looked away. I was notoriously shy, especially around parents, and Paul's dad was no exception. He was an older man with graying hair and wrinkles already starting to form. The death of his wife and raising two sons alone was clearly taking its toll on the poor man. "Oh, hello. Are you the girl my son's constantly talking about?"

Paul got this look on his face of complete mortification. His cheeks became rosy pink and he glared at his dad in embarrassment. "Dad!" he whined.

I chuckled to myself. It was actually kind of funny to see it happening to someone else. Don't worry, Paul, I thought. I know the feeling. "Probably," I said, answering his dad's question. "I'm Colleen." I stuck out my hand politely for him to shake.

He took it and said "You are her! I've heard a lot about you. Paul seems quite fond of you."

"Okay!" Paul said, having enough of his father's humiliating words. "Dad, we really can't talk now! Colleen and I are going to go hang out in my room." He grabbed my hand again and started dragging me away.

His dad's face dropped. "Paul," he warned. "No funny business."

Paul rolled his eyes and said "Don't worry, dad. She's just a friend."

As he continued to pull me toward the staircase, I spotted something out of the corner of my eye that I hadn't seen before. "Is that a piano?" I asked, skidding my shoes against the carpet so he wouldn't pull me any further. I hadn't noticed before that there was a black middle-aged piano in the far corner of the living room with a long stool for two seated in front of it.