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In retrospect, she knows she should have seen it coming. No, not coming. Festering. Calcifying. For something to arrive, it must have been absent in the first place. A train meeting its final stop; the snow falling to the ground, hindered only by small eddies and the occasional gust of wind; the end of a tune, a love song petering out with the dying chords of a guitar. But her husband’s love for Paul McCartney was not that of a dying tune, a snow-capped hill. There was no beginning, no middle, no “well I’ve felt this way for you, doll; but now it’s simply not there.” To be coming, there must first be a going, a departure of some sort. First, there was Cynthia, then Cynthia and John, then John and Paul. But that’s not quite right, is it? No, there was John and Paul, and then Cynthia. Paul, just Paul. Only ever Paul. He never arrived, never stole, never took. John had always been Paul’s; the situation was simply that all parties involved were too young to recognize the and for what it was.
Time has passed. Cynthia sits in her large, white house with its Victorian ceiling and Persian rugs. She sits with her child who tugs at the hem of her dress as she prepares a meal for two. They’ll eat and then they’ll play and then she’ll crawl into bed, tucking the boy beneath her chin to ward off the chill of the empty sheets she nestles beneath. There is no arrival for her, no “love, I’m home,” no substantial evidence that this perfect house, this perfect life, this perfect child is shared.
Snow falls outside the window of her silent mansion. Julian sniffs, shuffles closer, and Cynthia hums “And I Love Her” to her idle child. There was a point in her life when she thought the song had been written for her. She knows now that they had never been for her, it had never been about her. John’s music is ambiguous, the object of his lyrical affections a placeholder for the muse he now sleeps with on the other side of town.
No, there had never been a Cynthia and John.
Far off in the damp streets of London, a train arrives, its whistle blowing over a small flat in the heart of the city. Two men stir in their sleep, though not enough to extricate themselves from a long-awaited embrace.
It had only ever been Paul.
***
The first time Cynthia meets Paul she’s being brought along on a double date to catch a film. It’s Dot she meets first, the two girls making awkward small talk while John rushes further up the sidewalk to meet Paul at the bus stop. Dot had arrived earlier than her boyfriend, blushing as she stammered through some poor excuse for not being accompanied by Paul. Cynthia’s first impression of her new boyfriend’s best friend is tainted, her orderly thoughts perturbed by the vision of a young girl accompanying herself to the theatre. Cynthia’s made it abundantly clear to John that she’s to be escorted home each night after a date; and if she hadn’t gotten through to him, her father certainly had.
But here Dot stands, alone in her done-up hair, her baby-pink poodle skirt. She’s a real doll and Cynthia has half a mind to reprimand a mere stranger for leaving this gem to fend for herself.
All thoughts of snobbery fly out the window as soon as Paul arrives. He hops off to the bus stop wearing patched trousers, scuffed pennies, and a collared shirt that looks a tad tight in the arms (John’s?). His eyes are bright, heavy lashes making them easily the most prominent feature he owns. Their potency is enhanced by the bright smile he throws John’s way, letting its object of affection eventually slink over in Dot’s direction.
“Paulie!” Dot squeals, rushing over to wrap her boyfriend up in a tight embrace.
Three fundamental shifts in the dynamic occur at this moment. One: Paul’s face slips, the smile dying as soon as Dot’s out of eyesight, her hair covering most of his expression, but not enough to hide the way his eyes slip shut and the smile dims to a tight-lipped grin. Two: John’s smile is wiped away in its entirety; his arms, empty of an embrace that had been too late in its offering, fall to his side. Indeed, his entire persona falls limp, wilting in the aftermath of a certain lost… something.
Three: Cynthia feels a tug in her gut, a moment of questioning prodding at her subconscious. But the moment passes. Paul turns his head, burying a revived smile in Dot’s collar. John turns, offering Cynthia a playful wink. A “See? Didn’t I tell you? Ain’t he a charmer?” sort-of wink. So Cynthia’s untethered fear unravels, her teenage worldview too shapeless to put a name to the discomfort she just bore witness to. By the time they’ve made it to the front steps of the theatre, Paul’s amicable “so this is the lovely Cynthia? Johnny boy, you right scoundrel, where’d you find an angel like her?” has Cynthia grinning from ear-to-ear. She, like John, like Dot, like half the population of Britain in the years to come, is absolutely smitten with the working-class boy wearing a ceaselessly dimpled grin.
***
One date turns to two, turns to ten, turns to the only way Cynthia can get her boyfriend to take her out. “Oh, can’t we go to a show tonight, John?” she’ll bemoan over the phone, trying not to feel as though her voice is being drowned out by tuning guitars. “Of course, doll,” comes the reply, followed by a muffled, “Paul, son, you and your bird fancy a movie after practice?”
Cynthia tries not to sigh, begrudgingly relenting to the simple fact that she’ll never catch her boyfriend alone again unless he’s pawing his way up her skirt on the ride home. Paul is always there, always smiling, always one hand pressed against Dot’s lower back, the other curled into a fist beneath his chin, holding his head up so he’ll never miss a single sentence leaving John’s lips. Occasionally, there’s a slight dip in his hooded lids, his long eyelashes falling, allowing his wide pupils to stare openly at said lips. Sometimes, the girls will turn to one another in solidarity, quietly licking their wounds as their boyfriends discuss music, lyrics, art. Whatever it is that tickles their fancy, but whatever it is, it’s not the girls. Paul is gracious about the snub, John less so. Paul at least has the tact to occasionally glance in Dot’s direction, tearing his eyes from John’s relentless yammerings on poetry and prose. But John is enraptured, seeming only to realize Cynthia’s still present when she stands to refill their shared coke. Dot’s smile of sympathy is overshadowed by Paul nudging John, who finally, finally, looks up, saying, “Oh no, here, I’ll go grab it.”
The bitter moment is lost. Cynthia can, once again, pretend she is the sole object of her boyfriend’s affection.
Time slips by with snapshots such as these. The tug-of-war Cynthia and Paul play for John’s attention. Paul, the unknowing participant, seems to win every time. On occasion, Cynthia pulls an Ace, pushing her sleeves down over her shoulder, bending her torso so her bust might reveal itself ever-so-slightly. Here, John’s eyes slip, gaze dipping down into the small canyon of her cleavage. Sometimes, to be cruel, she’ll watch Paul in her periphery, trying not to grin at the uncomfortable flicker of his eyes, the way his nose turns up as though he’s smelled something distasteful. He’s a modest boy, it’s sweet, really. Cynthia had been modest too, once, until her boyfriend had begun slinking off from their dates early with “band practice” dancing off the tip of his tongue. One evening, it becomes so obvious, so obnoxious, the two boys giggling and whispering into each others’ ears all throughout the film, that Cynthia pointedly grabs her boyfriend’s hand and places it directly at the hem of her shorts, his calloused fingertips grazing her inner thigh. Then, only then does John turn away from Paul mid-sentence, his wide eyes taking in her cheeky grin while his fingers dip beneath the modest layer of her shorts.
John tips his head down to kiss the sharp protrusion of her collar bone and she can’t help but watch Paul squirm in his seat, his Adam’s apple dropping in an obviously discomforted swallow. She almost feels sorry for the boy.
Almost.
***
It takes a few months of prodding, but Cynthia and Dot manage to finagle their boyfriends into getting them spots at one of their gigs. The two girls choose a booth in the back, giggling over their illegal drinks and sharing coy smiles over the rims of their glasses. Neither of their parents knows where they are, both having contrived a story about a new film. The taboo of it has them feeling giddy, accentuated by the sparkling alcohol they try to sip in moderation. By the time the lights have dimmed and the woots and hollers from the crowd grow louder, Cynthia feels right bubbly, cheering with the rest of the venue as the boys take their place.
John starts with an Elvis number, getting the crowd worked up before passing the mic off to Paul. Cynthia can hear Dot swooning over the cotton in her ears, and she can’t help but smile in the thick of the upbeat atmosphere. Her smile dims quickly, however, when the third track turns out to be an original, the two boys moving forward to harmonize into one microphone. John, her John, can’t keep his eyes on the crowd. She takes it as a personal affront when his eyes glaze over the small room, barely putting any effort into keeping tabs on his girl before offering his full attention to Paul. Paul’s no better; wide, puppy-dog eyes crinkling in their corners as he saw her standing there. The chorus is shared between the two teenage boys, venue be damned, and Cynthia shouts for another drink in a vain attempt to quell her unease. When she looks to Dot, hoping for a shared glance of sympathetic comradery, she’s met with an uneasy smile. Cynthia feels they’ve just made a silent pact, an understanding that this, this thing between their boys will go untouched, but not unseen. Dot’s gaze returns to the stage, a furrow in her brow obscuring the image of a perfect, upbeat girlfriend. Cynthia tries to watch too, but ultimately ends up staring down an empty glass until the shared song wraps up.
The fourth track is played, one sung only by John, and Cynthia finds it much easier to pretend his crowd-glazed eyes are watching for her. She’s two glasses in and hearty enough to pretend it’s romantic.
***
The day of their wedding, Cynthia feels her first stab of sympathy for Paul. She’s won, after all; she can afford to be benevolent.
His sad eyes, the way they glisten when John’s not looking. Were Cynthia another girl, an unassuming player in this narrative, she’d pity the poor boy. Be that as it may, she’s a shining bride, the sole object of John’s affection today. Paul may get him every hour of every day in every bloody country, but he’ll never be the one John crawls home to.
During the in-between moments, a pause in cutting flower stems, the tasting of prepped food, Cynthia casts a glance in the direction of the (rather discretely) solemn best man. He’s a right charmer, knows when to smile, when to nod, when to congratulate and coo and awe. He knows when to kiss offered hands and hug elderly shoulders; but, each time the moment passes, and the unassuming guest turns to leave, Paul’s smile wilts, his lips turning to a subtle pout like it’s damn near exhausting to pretend he can’t feel the tears rimming his lower lashes. Cynthia watches his sad eyes, watches unshed tears get blinked away with each new guest’s arrival. “How are you, old chap?” “Oh, fine, fine, thank you.” “Where’s the man of the hour, aye?” “Oh, well now he’s just getting ready, you see. Can’t let dear Cyn down with scuffed shoes during their first day together, can he?” “Oh Paulie, right you are, lad. Right you are. I on this side of the aisle then?” “Yes, yes, groom’s side, yes.” “Good to see you, lad. John’s a lucky dog to have a friend like you.”
There they are again, those too-close tears. Cynthia turns her head, pretending not to see as Paul pretends not to feel.
An hour before the ceremony, Cynthia passes by John’s room, hoping to catch him before the rest of the crowd shows up. She comes up on the open door of his room, hears the telltale sound of someone shuffling about. She peeks her head in, hoping to sneak up on her unassuming fiance, only to find Paul. He can’t see her, eyes squeezed shut and shoulders hunched over the back of a couch. His hands are gripping the couch’s headrest with white-knuckled fists and he appears to be breathing deeply in, out, in. He leans over to pull something from the seat of the couch, Cynthia quickly recognizes it to be John’s leather jacket. He must’ve just recently swapped it for his dress clothes.
Cynthia’s just about to turn, to give Paul the moment he believes he has to himself, a small slit in time to relieve himself of false niceties. However, just as her head begins to tilt away from the doorframe, Cynthia watches in abject horror as Paul brings the jacket to his face, gripping it tightly enough to form wrinkles, and breathes in the crumpled fabric. The sound is stifled by the goings-on in the kitchen beneath them and the peals of laughter entering through the open window that faces the backyard. Cynthia tries not to move, tries not to breathe in watching Paul’s flagrant display of yearning. He takes only one breath, bringing the jacket back down to waist level so he might simply stare at it. Cynthia takes this as her queue to leave, rattled enough by the moment that she snaps too harshly at one of the caterers as soon as she steps foot downstairs. Later, as she’s walking down the aisle, Paul in the periphery of her soon-to-be husband, she tries to ignore the tight smile both men wear in the wake of her approach.
When she kisses John at the end of the ceremony she keeps her eyes open. The perfect vantage point to watch Paul avert his gaze, downcast eyes staring at his empty hands.
***
The day Julian is born the first thing John does is call Paul.
Cynthia's left, sweaty and bleary-eyed, as her husband chases down a nurse to phone his best friend. Twenty minutes later, he returns, dragging a sleepy, sluggish, but ever-bright-eyed Paul in alongside him. Cynthia doesn't fight the pair, offering the baby up in hopes of rolling over, sparing a moment for herself. John takes the baby from her arms, a quick “thank you” kiss pressed against her cheek before he turns bodily to Paul. Here, his smile glows, offering the sniffling boy up like a prize. Cynthia watches through hooded lids as Paul takes the baby, sharing in John's joy so openly that it twists Cynthia’s ribs. She's the one who made the bloody thing, so why does she feel so much like a voyeur?
“Well, hello there, little man,” Paul coos, cradling the baby like a natural. John’s smile grows impossibly wider and he presses himself against Paul’s shoulder, grinning down at the child alongside Paul. His hand comes up to tickle the baby's chin just as Paul’s moves to brush a fold of blanket away from the child’s forehead. Their fingers dance across each other harmoniously, John seeming to forget his wife's still in the room, Paul too lost in the child's eyes to take notice of two long fingers pressing a dainty kiss to the inside of his wrist. The touch is small, deceptively friendly, even; but it still leaves Cynthia feeling like a sore winner.
“He's got your eyes,” Paul says, his voice sounding far too choked to be attributed to lack of sleep.
“Aye, but hopefully not my nose.”
“Or your eyesight,” Paul chuffs, finally raising his gaze to meet John's. The two stare at one another for a long time, their fingers still idly playing with the child's blanket. It's Paul who breaks the silence again.
“It wouldn't be a terrible thing… him having your nose, that is.”
The love is dripping from him, his wide, childlike eyes holding onto John for as long as the other will allow. Cynthia watches on, can't stifle the churning in her gut at the sight of John, having been told he's loved a thousand different ways, practically melting at the smallest scrap of affection tossed his way from Paul's shaking hands.
“Oh, I hope not. Hope he gets a button nose, easy to package up, aye? They don't call you the ‘cute’ Beatle for no reason.”
It's here that Cynthia interrupts, groaning loudly as she shifts her bodyweight in mock pain. It's one thing to watch them coo over her child like a pair of lovesick fathers. It's another for the actual father to acknowledge said fantasy.
The two startle out of their small bubble, and it's Paul who rushes to her aid, cupping the baby's head to his chest as he bends over her hospital bed.
“Cyn, oh Cyn I'm sorry, are you alright? I'm sorry, I—”
Cynthia shakes her head, wearing a tight smile as she reaches for Julian.
“Nothing. It's nothing. Jules?”
Paul gapes for a moment, unsure hands clutching the little bundle tightly until his brain catches up with his ears and he lets out a nervous laugh.
“‘Course, of course. Here he is.”
He passes the child off, seemingly reluctant. His hand lingers on the soft spot at the back of Julian's head before he turns, eyes finding John's while Cynthia gets situated.
“I should go,” Paul sighs and John's face immediately falls, a kicked puppy having only just received the gift being tugged out from beneath his nose.
“Nonsense,” he scoffs, joining Paul at Cynthia’s side in two strides.
“John—”
“Stay,” Cynthia finds herself croaking, unable to fight against the comfort the younger man brings John, and in turn his newfound family. “Stay, he likes you.”
She thinks she means the baby, but she takes notice of the way John's empty hands twitch. Paul still looks unconvinced, so she musters up the energy to push further.
“Sing to him, hmm? He'd like that.”
That's how Cynthia finds herself, twenty minutes later, drifting to sleep with the child curled within her embrace. Her eyelids flutter, Jules’ breaths pressing into her breast with the beat of a hummingbird's wings. His tiny grasp on life is cushioned by the smooth cadence of Paul’s voice, the baby settling into his mother's embrace, already seeming to inherit his father's quest for comfort. Cynthia stills too, and her dreams take over the dying image of John, her John, curling his fingers around Paul’s shoulder. The tip of his index finger rubs mindless circles against the dip in Paul's throat. Cynthia wonders, dreamily, if the music feels tangible there, prominent.
She wonders.
***
Cynthia stirs from her nap at the familiar sound of an acoustic guitar. She hears it strum, pause, strum again, then the playful sound of impromptu fingerpicking. The small session is followed by two timbres of laughter, one pealing, the other low and nasally. Curious, as she rarely gets to witness them writing music together, she slips out of bed and tiptoes to the top of the staircase. It's the perfect vantage point to watch the two men crowd against one another in the living room. John's gone back to fiddling with a random set of chords, Paul idly tuning his guitar.
“G, G, G,” Paul hums to himself, frowning at the string as though it personally affronted him. He misses the way John throws a fond smile his way, but Cynthia doesn't.
“What's that song you were wantin’ to try today? The one you told me ‘bout over the phone?” Paul asks, eyes still glued on that stubborn G string. He doesn't see John's grin slide down into a wary expression.
“Oh, that.”
The string snaps back down, terribly out of tune.
“Don't sound so excited, mate.”
“No, no, it's just—” John runs a hand through his slightly greasy hair, nervously chewing at his lower lip. “It's—”
“Johnny—”
“It's just a bit of a downer, eh? And anyway, there's still a lot to the melody that's just garbage.”
Cynthia can see Paul’s pitying smile grow, dimples caving in to crown his cheeks. John's not watching, for once, so he misses the familiar fondness touching Paul's gaze.
“Isn't that what I'm here for? The melodies?”
John looks up then, meeting Paul's softened eyes, and his expression melts, the thin pad of his lower lip protruding in a mock-pout. It gives Paul a good laugh, the morose tension surrounding talk of the song sinking into the shag carpet.
“Aye, true. If you can fix this, I s'pose I'll keep you in the band.”
This pulls a snort from Paul, both men falling into quiet giggles as he responds: “Oh, thank God for that. Still need to pay me rent this month. Could use a few more gigs.”
Cynthia nearly gives her position away, muffling a stifled laugh in the meat of her forearm. Like her husband could ever drop Paul now, not when their “gigs,” so to speak, have been filling crowded stadiums.
“Okay, okay I— just. I have a special request for this one.”
Paul sobers up quickly, alongside Cynthia who tucks her knees in and wraps her arms around her bent legs. She settles in to listen to a rare, raw performance offered by her husband.
“Yeah, mate. Whatever.”
John shifts, tugging the guitar strap up to his shoulder and readying his fingers. He stares down at the fretboard as he says:
“If it's bad, y'know, don't— don't tell me. Just… it's a personal poem, even if it ain't a song. It's—”
“Hey,” Paul's reached out, unabashedly brushing two fingers atop John's, whose hand still hovers above the guitar strings. “Hey, I know. I know.”
His fingers linger for a few seconds, then drop at the first strum of the guitar.
Words are spilling out like endless rain into a paper cup, They slither wildly as they slip away across the universe…
Cynthia stills, her frame on edge as she listens to the song play out. She knows these words, knows this very poem. Caught the tail-end of them written on a soiled napkin one evening. The night had been stale, dying light filtering into the kitchen as Cynthia nursed her husband through the fall of some drug-induced bender. She remembers his hunched shoulders, the way they arched over the napkin in lieu of the soup she’d laid out for him earlier. Remembers how small he looked then, sharp shoulder blades shaking in silent cries, hair disheveled from where he'd been running jittery fingers through it, over and over. The song hadn't been dirtied by grease, the only blur in the inked splotches appearing as salted water droplets.
She hears it now, the cry for help in her husband’s words. And she can see that Paul sees it, his large eyes growing sad as he watches his friend bleed openly over the guitar. His hands shift, dip down to lift his bass guitar, and he's joining John in the harmony by the fourth verse.
John looks up, stumbling over his words when he hears the first few chords Paul offers. There are tears in his eyes, and he sings through the chorus with a slight croak jarring the melody. But Paul doesn't stop, and they carry one another into the next stanza, John’s eyes lighting up when they hit a groove with the harmony. Paul's eyes water at the cusp of a, “Limitless undying love which shines around me like a million suns,” and John smiles, seemingly elated to be sharing his pain with the only person he knows can feel it.
That's the crux of the matter, really. Cynthia can coddle and prod and coo, softening the blows of John’s perpetual mental turmoil. But Paul, Paul, breaks into it, opens the door for this dirtied thing that lives inside John, beckoning it in with a handful of chords. More so than this, he doesn't ignore it for the sake of pleasantries, but strokes it, holds it, mouths sound around it in the shape of, “It calls me on and on across the universe.” Cynthia sees, now, that she'll never hold a candle to what Paul has to offer, because while she can hold her husband at night, press soothing kisses to the ridge of his shaking spine, she'll never ask to hear what's hurting him, to sympathize with the emasculating tears painting his cheeks. She'll bandage symptoms, but Paul will sing to the heart of it, cradling John’s pain and nurturing it until its broken wings push through their harmonies, a cacophony of shared pain and heartache.
She turns away from the scene before her, no longer able to watch her husband lose himself in the relief Paul offers him. She walks back to her room, listening to song peter out, only for it to be followed by a broken, “Oh, John.”
She crawls into bed, ready to lick her own wounds and hum herself to sleep.
***
It happens during a normal evening. Well, as normal as one's domestic life can be whilst being married to a Beatle. Paul's over for dinner, having brought vegetables to share from his small garden. Paul’s over often, often enough to leave remnants of his presence in the guest bedroom: a toothbrush, spare pajamas, a pair of house slippers tucked beneath the bed frame. Tonight, he chops leeks, helps Cynthia get the stew started, pauses occasionally to coo in Jules’ direction, the toddler taken to playing with a collection of spoons at their feet. They hear a call from the living room, John asking to begin practicing their new tune. Paul doesn't even look up from his chopping board when he yells back: “Not now, love. Cyn and I are almost done here, yeah?”
The funny thing is, neither man appears to hear the slip of Paul's tongue. The “love” bubbling up from years of hushed moments, secrecy Cynthia's been privy to, but has diligently ignored for some time now.
“That's what Cyn is for, Paul. Now come on!”
It's the straw that breaks the camel's back. “Cyn.” Not “love,” not “darling.” Not “come sit with me, love.” Not “come play with me, darling.” Her company is tolerated but never enjoyed. How has she sat, rotting in this house for so many years with a family growing at the side of her like a coveted tumor? Her hands shake. She pulls the ladle from bubbling soup and lays it atop the dish towel. She hears her husband rise from the living room couch. Hears the pit-pat of his socked feet as they shuffle across the kitchen's linoleum tile. Hears him approach, but not her, never her.
“Macca, c'mon, you can leave Cyn to finish with—”
“I am here,” Cynthia hears herself spit through gritted teeth. But she's not. She's transcended herself, watching her anger spill over from some vantage point above her beehive hair and trembling knees. She watches her own knuckles turn white, the scrape of some other woman's perfectly manicured nails scratching at the underside of a granite countertop.
“I am right. Here.”
Silence ensues until Jules’ tinkling spoons fall to the floor and his quickened breaths warn of an impending sob.
“Cyn, what—”
“I'll take Jules,” Paul rushes, privy to the beginning of one of John and Cynthia's many heated arguments.
But this goes beyond heated. Cynthia watches her cheeks flush, her mouth open and close like that of a mawing fish. It's only when John comes at her with, “What are you on about, Cynthia?” that she slams back down into her own body, careening into the countertop.
“What am I— What am I on about? I'm a person in this house too, John!”
And they're off, bitter words and jagged sentences sliced into one another like daggers. John calls her joyless, Cynthia asks who made her that way. John says she's always in the way, Cynthia counters that she's supposed to be part of that way. Round and round they turn, screaming one another into a backed corner, a sharp cliff edge, until Cynthia, too enraged to tiptoe back this time around, ends with a wailing, “You act like I was never the person you wanted!” and John follows her into free fall, glassy eyes and warbling voice trickling after her:
“We both know you never were!”
Their heavy breathing stills, John's words settling between them, the stillborn child of Cynthia’s teenage infatuation and John's closeted homosexuality. It takes a moment for them both to realize there's an accompaniment to their rage, the melodic sound of piano keys dulling the ache of what they've both come to face. With a synchronicity the couple has never shared before, two heads turn, two pairs of feet guide them toward the entrance to the living room, two sets of eyes watch as Paul, dearest Paul, rocks Jules in his lap. He's sitting at the small piano they have set up near the far corner, Paul’s back to the couple as he sings softly, face turned so he can press his cheek to Jules’ crown.
“Hey Jules, don't make it bad. Take a sad song and make it better…”
Rocking, rocking. The parents watch, tears in their eyes, as the object of their suffering comforts their child, lulling him into security with a private serenade.
The fire crackles, a young man sings to a weeping child, and Cynthia turns her head, allows herself to acknowledge the longing deeply rooted in her husband's eyes. She watches him, watches the tearful way he's held, enraptured by the serenity he never thought he could have.
“So let it out and let it in, hey Jules, begin.
You're waiting for someone to perform with.”
Paul sings to their child, but it's John who listens, shoulders falling in defeat beneath the weight of what they're all finally admitting to.
Cynthia thinks her heartbreak has never sounded so melancholy, so beautiful. She hates that her husband’s lover is so perfect. So so perfect. It makes her green with envy, makes her feel fragile in the spaces of her heart deemed “mother” and “wife.” She summons the courage, the kindness she hears drifting throughout the living room like bright, melodic eddies, and nudges her husband toward the piano bench.
“You have found her, now go and get her.”
Go and get her. Go get her.
John's eyes meet hers wildly, briefly, a relieved smile already forming on his lips.
For once, Cynthia will be the bigger man. She knows a loss when she sees one.
“Remember to let her under your skin. Then you'll begin to make it better.”
***
Cynthia pulls up to the driveway early in the morning. She's left Jules with the nanny, knowing it would only take half an hour to run and grab her child's backpack from his father's house before school starts. Paul was supposed to meet her out front with the boy's things, but the lot's empty. Cynthia sighs, exits the parked car, then makes her way to the front door. She enters without knocking, assuming the two men must be expecting her any minute anyway. She'd called last night to confirm the pickup with Paul.
The house is still, save for a few ramblings trickling in from the living room. Cynthia rounds the corner of the entryway, eyes drawn to the sound of quiet notes drifting up from a dip in the couch. The dip, inhabited by a prone Paul, John asleep on top of him. John's nose is pressed into his clavicle, his hair fanning out across Paul's shoulder. Paul's strumming a ukulele lazily, the body of it lain across John's knobby back. The strumming looks difficult, what with half of Paul's arm being used as a pillow, but he's made it work. Cynthia's foot comes in contact with something soft, and she glances down to see her son's backpack resting at the toe of her shoe. When she looks back up, Paul's meeting her eyes.
“Morning,” she mouths, stooping to grab the bag without breaking eye contact. Paul grins, softly elbowing John's snoring body without breaking the tune.
“Sorry,” he mouths, eyes breaking with hers so he can direct his smile toward the sleeping man atop him. Cynthia remains there for a moment, watching her sleep-idled ex-husband nuzzle Paul's throat. Paul takes a second to stop strumming, reaching up to brush John's hair out of his own shut eyes. It's this gesture, this completely unnecessary act of love, that has Cynthia turning away.
She leaves the house, shutting the door on a quiet rendition of “If I gave my heart to you, I must be sure, From the very start that you—”
“Would love me more than her?”
More than her.