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There was nothing more grim than Grindr in Liverpool on a Thursday night. And yet, John was still looking. He was lying sideways in bed, legs stretched up and resting on the wall, tapping on his phone. It was half past seven and rapidly approaching the time when it would make sense to meet up with someone. Any earlier and you risked being stuck with someone you hated. After eight, it was easier to slip away in a club or at a bar, or just call an Uber and run. Or you'd have a few drinks in you and be more receptive to what came your way. Either was fine.
John matched with four guys. One asked him if he was cut, and when John said no, he was unmatched and blocked. One told John that he wanted to do something so elaborate to him that John had to Google a few things and then unmatched him for his own safety. (He wouldn't be able to face Mimi if he had to call her from A&E with a broken dick.) One gave boring one-word answers and sent a picture of a sad mushroom penis with no warning, and that was just rude. The last one seemed promising, but during their discussion he revealed that he voted Conservative, so John told him that the MPs would fuck him without even buying him dinner first, and that was the end of that. Tinder was even worse. The one bloke that seemed promising lived in Hull, and for someone that didn't even like to go across the city to hook up, going to Hull would be like going to the moon.
John closed the apps and opened the group chat. someone go out with me tonight i'm BORED
George responded first. Poor baby. Always texted with proper spelling and grammar. Show off. Are the apps not working for you?
fuck off, yes
Ringo chimed in next. i'm between sets at the Cavern rn if you want to get a drink. Ringo was a drummer in a rival band and therefore an enemy, but he'd been going out with George for a few months and therefore had boyfriend privileges. the Grapes at 9?
see you there
John closed the groupchat and rang Paul. Paul was weird in that he would talk on the phone. "Whatever you're doing, we're meeting at the Grapes at nine."
"We?" Paul asked. "You and the mouse in your pocket?"
"Me and George and his conjoined twin."
"Because you've been on the apps already and can't get laid?"
"Fuck off. Yes."
"Well, I was going to stay in and work on this new song," Paul drawled, "but I suppose I'll meet you there."
"Good."
At 9:05, they were crammed into a booth with a pitcher of beer on the table. "I need a boyfriend," John complained. "I've been out for a whole year and I haven't had one yet."
"It's only been a year," Paul said. "Not that long, really."
"There are people I know who came out after me and already have boyfriends. Some of them came out because of their boyfriends," he said, looking pointedly at stone-faced George. "And I'm tired of being single."
"You've hooked up with our entire social circle," George noted. "None of them was right for you?"
No, they weren't. John had hooked up with, he estimated, one thousand people. At least it felt like that sometimes. Of the ones he could clearly remember, it wasn't that they were bad in bed or stupid or ugly or otherwise not worth the trouble. They just weren't right. It was the little things that turned him off. Ivan, Pete, Bill, Colin - nice blokes, good-looking, good taste in music and art, but just not enough. The closest he'd come to having a boyfriend thus far was Stuart, who he'd met at art college. They fooled around, slept together a few times, painted each other and had long discussions about life and art and love and the future. John spent almost a month working up the courage to ask Stuart to be exclusive, but then he found out that he'd started dating a girl in his photography class. John responded to this news by getting piss drunk and crying to Paul that he would never find love. "None of them," John said.
"Maybe your standards are too high," Ringo said. He had his arm around George and they looked very comfortable with each other. Prick.
"Are not. I can slum it with the best of them." John slumped onto the table. "I am terminally single. Confirmed bachelor. Condemned to die alone."
"These things take time," Paul said, patting John on the back. "You'll find someone. You've probably already met him and you haven't realized it."
"I'm sick of waiting." John lifted his glass, downed his beer, and poured himself another. "Less talking, more drinking."
Ringo excused himself to get back across the street to the Cavern for his second set with the Hurricanes shortly thereafter, so George and Paul were stuck watching John drink himself into a blind stupor. By midnight he was thoroughly bevvied and of no use to anyone, and certainly in no state to go back to the apps with lowered standards. He was vaguely aware of George on one side and Paul on the other, walking him out of the Grapes as his head lolled from side to side. Then he was in a car, and unconscious, and then someone was helping him up the stairs at Mendips, into his room, sitting him down on the bed, taking his jacket and shoes off, laying him down on his side and spreading a blanket over him, brushing his hair away from his forehead, and moving the wastepaper basket from under the desk to the side of his bed. Then, as the room spun around him, sleep.
John didn't wake up until late in the morning and didn't get up and go downstairs until lunchtime. He felt like he'd been soaked in alcohol and then wrung out like a towel. "Well, look who's up," Mimi said. "It's almost one. You must have had quite a night."
"Must have." John sat down at the table and rested his pounding head in his hands. "Thanks for putting me to bed."
"That wasn't me. Paul showed up with you after I had gone to bed. He told me not to worry because he'd take care of you."
"Paul?"
"Yes. He was holding you up because you could hardly stand. Are you hungry? I'll fry you an egg."
John thought about this, while he was eating his fried egg sandwich and drinking his coffee, while he was taking a shower to get all the alcohol out of his pores, and when he was on the bus with his guitar going to Paul's house to write together before their gig at the Cavern later in the evening. Paul had dragged him home and tucked him into bed and disappeared into the night. The last time anyone put John to bed was when he was a child and his uncle would carry him up the stairs and tuck him in.
"I want to bring at least ten new songs when we go back to Hamburg," Paul said. "Good ones, preferably, but as long as we can play them loud and not have things thrown at us I'll be satisfied."
"Thanks for seeing me home last night," John said. "Putting me to bed and all that."
"No trouble," Paul said. The barest hint of a blush crept up his neck to his porcelain doll face. "I thought you needed it. So, anyway," he added quickly. "I've got some lyrics."
"Let's see them," John said, and things felt normal after that.
They let it lie, moving on to writing and planning the next trip to Hamburg and the upcoming shows at the Cavern, but it came back to John as he was tuning his guitar backstage. Paul wasn't what he would describe as tender, not as the first thing that came to mind - Paul was something of a scrapper, as anyone who looked like that had to be - but he was careful with people he loved, and he had a surprising capacity for gentleness, and he was John's best friend and one of his favorite people. He had put John to bed the night before like he was taking care of something precious. John didn't know what to think.
The show went well, maybe better than usual. They raced through their usual set in forty-five minutes before Paul got everyone howling with his cover of "One Fine Day" and John finished them off with "Twist and Shout." As they trooped off the stage, Paul handed John an ice-cold bottle of water, the exact thing he wanted and always got for himself after singing a throat-ripper like that, and John was halfway through it before he realized that Paul's fingers had brushed against his as he was handing it over. The sensation stayed with him until they were across the street at the Grapes, in their booth, ordering drinks.
Sunday afternoon John took the bus across town for coffee with Cynthia. She had been his last girlfriend before he came out, when he was still kidding himself and trying to be the thing he thought he should be instead of what he really was, and they had remained friends even though she had walked in on him making out with one of their former art college classmates at a party. Cynthia was level-headed, calm, and never frantic about her future - exactly the opposite of John. "I think it would help if you could articulate why you want a boyfriend," she said, shaking her iced coffee to melt the sweetener.
"I want what everyone wants. Companionship. Sex. Someone who will pet my hair when I feel bad and tell me I'm great when I need to be cheered up. You know, the usual." John twirled his straw. "It's not like my life is empty. I'm not unfulfilled. I just want to share it, you know? The good and bad. And have someone share their life with me. I used to watch my aunt and uncle. They were a team in everything, always stuck up for each other. That's what I want. A teammate."
"I thought Paul was your teammate," Cynthia said. "You two have always been attached at the hip."
"It's not like that. Paul's my mate. He wouldn't date me."
"No? Too bad."
John sipped his coffee. Paul was barely beginning to make his way out of the closet. He wasn't out to his father or brother yet, only to a handful of friends. John was the first person he had, haltingly, come out to, wringing his hands as he said, "I think, I think I'm not straight," and John pulled him in for a rib-cracking hug and told him that it was okay, better than okay, wonderful in fact to live your life honestly. Paul wasn't ready to date yet, and that was fine. His shell was only just starting to crack. Someday he'd meet someone and make him the luckiest man in Liverpool. John was happy for him, whoever he was. "We're just friends," he said.
John spent the rest of his week as he usually did: sleeping late, writing songs with Paul, looking at the apps and finding no one. The odds were good but the goods were odd, as Uncle George might have said. His luck had apparently run out. He used to be able to find someone worth matching with, at least, but every profile was a no. There was just something about each person that gave John the feeling that he would be embarrassed to introduce him to his friends. Was embarrassment the right feeling? Uncomfortable? Shady? Whatever it was, it felt wrong, made John's hands sweat and his heart beat a little faster in a bad way. By Friday night, he was fed up with dating and ready to chuck it in and become a hermit somewhere. He said as much to Paul when they were backstage at the Cavern, tuning their instruments and waiting for George and Pete. "Dating is one of the worst parts of being alive. Maybe I'll join the church and go off to a monastery."
"I don't think they'd take you, and if they did you'd probably get yourself kicked out."
"Probably. But I'm tired of looking and waiting and settling. Consider yourself lucky that you haven't subjected yourself to it yet."
"I've thought about it," Paul said. "But - you know. Nobody around that I'm interested in."
"Get used to it."
On stage, the Hurricanes were crashing through their set. John would have to have his arm twisted behind his back before he would admit it, but he couldn't deny that Ringo was the best drummer in the city. Too bad he was in a band that didn't measure up to him. "Let's keep writing love songs and become millionaires," John said. "Then we can hire prostitutes."
"No love there, though."
"At this rate I'd settle for sex and polite conversation."
The door opened and George walked in with Pete. "You're late," John said.
"I was watching the Hurricanes. Gotta show support for my boyfriend, y'know."
"He's in a rival band."
"We're a real Romeo and Juliet, we are."
John rolled his eyes. Young love was insufferable.
The set was better than usual. They debuted two new songs, Paul sang "Who Do You Love" to a gaggle of girls who nearly fainted from the attention, and George sang "To Know Him is to Love Him" to Ringo, standing right in front of the stage. By the time they took their bows, the audience had fallen in love with them, and they had some new regulars who would come every week to see them. None of them felt like drinking afterwards, so they walked over to the Jacaranda for coffee. "Cheers, lads," John said, raising his cup. "Toppermost of the poppermost from here!"
"Now if you could just find a boyfriend, you'll be set," George said.
"It's not nice to taunt," Paul said. "He's trying."
"He's on the verge of giving up and becoming a cat lady," John admitted. "There aren't any guys worth dating."
"There must be some," Paul said.
"Not that I'm aware of. If you find any, send them my way, yeah?" John opened a packet of sweetener, poured it into his coffee. "Unless you find one you like, then you can keep him."
"Yeah," Paul said, looking into his cup. "Sure."
It was a nice night, so John decided to walk home, and Paul volunteered to go with him and be his guide. "Really, it's not so bad to be single," John said. He could sense Paul's hand hovering over his back, to grab or steer him as necessary. "You're a free agent. Don't have to answer to anyone. Don't have to get to know his friends or spend time with his family. Don't have to have emotional conversations or ask 'what are we?' Makes life easier in general."
"Maybe," Paul said. "But you're still alone. Life is meant to be shared, yeah? And it's good to have someone who's always in your corner to support you or cheer you up."
"Not around here. Once we hit the big time and move to London I'll start looking."
"I've never looked," Paul said. "I always thought, when I find someone, I'll just know."
"Well, when that happens, let me know. One of us ought to be happy."
John kind of felt sorry for Paul. He'd had a few girlfriends, but hadn't dated since breaking up with the last one and starting to come out. As far as John knew he had never kissed a guy. He hadn't made the jump from theory to practice, and even though the dating scene in Liverpool was a barren wasteland John thought Paul would be able to suss out at least one person who wasn't a complete loser. Paul was a catch: good-looking, talented, funny, smart, considerate, knew all the words to "American Pie" and could drink almost anybody under the table. He deserved a good relationship.
For the rest of the week John ignored the apps and kept his head down. Every day he met up with Paul to write, either in Paul's bedroom or on Mimi's sun porch, just the two of them with their guitars and a notebook. Paul was fixated on longing and wistfulness in his lyrics, which was usually a hit with the lovesick teenagers who packed into the Cavern to see them. He seemed a little down. "Do you want one of my antidepressants?" John asked. "I just picked up a refill, you can have some."
"No, I'm fine."
"Then why are you pining like this? You're acting like your husband is off fighting in the war."
"I just - I don't know." Paul set his guitar aside. "I came out to Mike last night."
"What did he say?"
"He's fine. Said he kind of figured it out already but he's happy for me. Then he asked me if I was dating and I said no."
"You're not, though."
"No. But." Paul let out a sigh and rested his chin in his hand. "I do want to date and have a boyfriend. But I can't bring myself to look. Sometimes I think it's right around the corner but other times I feel like it'll never happen."
"It will, Paul. Don't get discouraged." John threw his arm around Paul's neck and pulled him close for an awkward side-hug. "You're on your way. I bet you'll meet the love of your life next week."
"Yeah," Paul said. "Maybe."
John stayed up late that night, fell asleep listening to a playlist of old love songs and slipped into a dream. He was lying in bed, naked, under his covers, as the sun streamed in through the blinds. There was someone in bed with him, but he couldn't see him because he was under the covers too, kissing and touching John all over his body. "Just like that," John sighed, as soft hair tickled his chest and fingers dragged down his sides. "God, I love you."
The blanket rustled, and the person underneath it pulled it back and lifted his head. "Love you too," Paul said, smiling.
John jerked awake so quick that his phone clattered to the floor, still playing "My Funny Valentine." He lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, going over the dream. He was in bed with Paul, he said he loved Paul, and Paul said he loved him too. Oh no. Oh, this was bad. "Oh, God," John whimpered to himself. "I love Paul."
He had to talk to someone, so he went to Cynthia's flat. "I have a problem."
"What do you want me to do about it?"
"I need a sympathetic ear," John said, before spilling his guts about Paul and the dream. When he was finished, Cynthia raised one eyebrow and started giggling. "What's so funny?"
"You, John! Acting like a lovesick little boy." She let out a breath of laughter and clapped her hands together. "This is just like Clueless. You're Cher!"
"I am not Cher! I'm not a virgin."
"Can't drive, though."
"Shut up! What am I going to do?"
"Have you thought about telling Paul how you feel?"
"Can't. He's my best friend, I won't risk our friendship and the band."
"Then I suppose your only option is to suffer."
So he suffered for a few days, trying to act normal in front of Paul when they were together. They met up every day to write, and through sheer force of will John managed to keep from declaring his love. Friday evening John went into the Grapes by himself for a pre-show nerve stabilizer and saw Ringo at the bar by himself. "Thank God you're here," John said, sitting on the stool next to him. "Is George with you?"
"He's on his way." Ringo looked at his phone. "He texted to say he was leaving the house ten minutes ago."
"I need to talk to you."
"I thought you hated me."
"It's mostly a joke and a little bit of a put-on. I actually like you. Listen, I have a problem. I'm in love with Paul and I don't know what to do."
Ringo set his glass down on the bar and started laughing. John was incensed. "What's so bloody funny?"
"Because," Ringo said, wiping his eyes, "George owes me ten quid."
"What?"
"He bet me that you'd be too dense to realize that you're in love with Paul, and I bet him that you'd figure it out eventually. Ten quid."
"I can't believe you're betting on my love life," John said, trying to get indignant but then realizing he didn't have a leg to stand on.
"Don't get offended. I'm on your side. I think you should be honest with Paul and tell him how you feel."
"Can't do that. Too big of a risk. Puts the band in jeopardy."
"Keeping your feelings to yourself is a bigger risk. It could ruin your friendship with Paul. What if he starts dating someone? It'll drive you mad."
"Maybe I'll start dating someone and get over him."
"I doubt it. Look, George is here."
George sat on Ringo's other side. "Ten quid," Ringo said.
"Really? He figured it out?"
"All on his own."
George shook his head and took his wallet out. "Hey," John said. "Not to distract you from your wager on my love life, but I still don't know what I'm going to do."
"Tell Paul you love him," George said, handing Ringo the ten pounds. "Won't be any problems. He's in love with you."
John stared. "What?"
"Yeah. Paul's in love with you, John. Not much else to say." George signaled to the bartender. "Gin and tonic with a wedge of lime, please."
"Prove it. You can't just say things like that."
"First, you're attached at the hip and always have been," George said. "Second, every time you talk about dating or having sex with someone he looks like a kicked puppy. Third, he could very easily find a date but chooses to spend all his time with you. Ta, mate," he said, as the bartender set his drink in front of him.
"He looks for your approval in everything," Ringo said. "When he looks at you I can see the hearts in his eyes. When you're not around he talks about you incessantly. He dragged you home and put you to bed, what was it, three weeks ago? Honestly, John, it's amazing you didn't figure it out sooner."
"You took him to Paris and didn't make a move!" George said. "You really are stupid, you know that?"
John considered bashing his head against the bar. He settled for leaning forward and resting his forehead on the wood. "Christ," he said. "How did this happen?"
"You're just not very bright," George said. "Ask yourself: when you need to speak to Paul, what do you do?"
"Phone him. He always picks up."
"For you. The rest of us, he won't, and he never checks his voice-mail either. Here, I'll show you." George took his phone out and made a show of phoning Paul. It rang a few times, and went to voice-mail. George ended the call. "He only picks up when it's you calling. I wonder why."
"Okay, fine, I get it, we're in love with each other and I'm an idiot. Now what?"
"Paul texted. He's across the street setting up." George put his phone away. "I'll stay and have a drink with Richie while you two work it out. Let us know when you're done, yeah?"
John rushed across the street without looking both ways and through the stage door of the Cavern. Paul was in the green room, sitting on the ancient sofa in the corner, tuning his bass. "Is someone chasing you?" he asked. "You're out of breath."
"I love you," John said.
Paul stared at him, hands frozen on the bass.
"I love you," John repeated. "I only just realized. And you're in love with me. I realized that too. Did you know that George and Ringo made a bet on us? I'll explain later. Paul, we've been going in circles around each other for ages and I'm sick of it. I love you."
"I've had a crush on you since the day we met," Paul blurted, turning scarlet. John sat down next to him on the broken old sofa. "Before I knew I was bi, before I knew you were gay. I never said anything because I didn't want to risk our friendship but I always wanted to -"
"Stop talking."
"John -"
"Stop. It's no good to keep talking about it." John took Paul's face in his hands and pulled him in for a kiss. It was the most important thing he'd ever done in his life. All the years they'd known each other passed between them.
Paul smiled on John's lips before he broke the kiss and pulled away. "I think this is it for us," he said. "You know. For good."
"Yeah." John let go of Paul and started digging in his pocket for his phone. "Hold on."
"What are you doing?"
"Deleting the dating apps," John said. "I don't need them anymore."