"This is bloody ridiculous."

Timothy rolls his eyes dramatically as he looks around the crowded hallway. It's surprisingly rowdy considering we're all medical geeks. Everyone is jostling for space in front a small wooden corkboard that's affixed to the wall in the medical school's main building. The air is thick with anticipation and stress.

An office door opens, and the dean's secretary walks out with a piece of paper in her hand. Ignoring the hullabaloo, she walks primly to the bulletin board and affixes the coveted list there. Then, as the crowd starts to close in on her, she ducks under a student's arm and hightails it back to the safety of her desk.

"This reminds me of when I auditioned for my high school production of Guys and Dolls. We all waited outside the drama room to see who got the part." As the words leave my mouth, a fellow student runs into me, pushing me roughly into Timothy's back.

"You're so unbelievably American sometimes," he says over his shoulder as he peers above the crowd. "Did you get it?"

"Get what?" I'm jostled once again and, this time, almost lose my footing.

"The part. In Guys and Dolls."

"No," I reply as Timothy takes advantage of his large frame to elbow his way closer. "Suzie Jennings did, that bitch. She then went on to win homecoming queen, so I suppose I never stood a chance."

He bursts out laughing as he grabs my elbow to navigate us through the scrum. Around us are gasps of joy and chokes of despair as the people in front of the bulletin board study the exam results. Timothy is right, this is ridiculous. These results are the culmination of years of work and will make or break our careers. And yet we're forced to discover our results in public, just like the high school casting call so many years ago.

"Can you see anything?"

"You're taller, can you see anything?" I stand on my tiptoes, hoping against all hopes that I'll see SKYLAR ANNE EVANS written in a bold, extra-large font that's visible even from back here.

"It's not like you have anything to worry about," Timothy continues. "You were what, first in our class? Second?"

I shrug as if I have no earthly idea where I ranked amongst my fellow students. Timothy rolls his eyes again, pulling his arm around my shoulders as we continue to make our way to the front of the fray.

"Ever so humble, Skylar. That's why I love you."

Finally, we're close enough to make out the names on the list. I squint, running my gaze down the surnames. Spotting mine, my body sags with relief and, beside me, Timothy grins widely as he sees his name on the list. We turn to wrap our arms around each other, jumping up and down like fools. It's utter pandemonium in the hallway, the relieved laughter bouncing off the ancient walls of the medical school.

"This calls for a drink, Dr. Evans," Timothy says, offering me his arm so that we can escape the scrum.

"It's 9 in the morning, Dr. Peterson," I point out. "It has to be at least 11 before I start drinking."

"Sure, sure," he replies. "You just want to run home to ring your mystery boyfriend... if he even exists."

"He exists," I respond, playfully shoving him.

"And yet we know nothing about him. The only evidence that he exists is that Katherine saw you snogging someone outside the hospital. But that could have been anyone, you tart."

"Fair point," I concede, admitting nothing more. I like to keep my personal life just that: personal. No doubt there are a thousand women out there who would be shouting from the rooftops that they're shagging Roger Taylor, drummer of Queen. And there are quite a few women who can brag that they indeed have. But I'm not quite ready for that. I have enough trouble with people taking me seriously; I don't need them thinking that I'm a glorified groupie.

At least not until I'm sure that this is real.

"I'll see you at 11, then," Timothy says, likely eager to track down his girlfriend. "I'll round up the usual suspects. Let's meet at The Hideaway?"

"Be there or be square, Dr. Peterson." Grinning, I poke him lightly in the ribs.

"I quite like the sound of that," he replies cheerfully as I wave goodbye and skip towards the main gate.

I practically run back to my flat, debating in my head who I should call first. Rog, Mum, Rog, Mum... Roger wins out, mostly because my mum has her breakfast club on Thursday mornings. Also, for the first time in weeks, I actually know where Rog is. The boys usually travel overnight on their tour bus but, according to the dog-eared schedule, they're staying at a hotel at the moment.

"Jenny?" I yell as I run into the apartment, hoping that she's home. She's been spending a lot of nights out ever since she and Brian broke things off. I don't ask questions, but it seems like she's met someone else. And, according to Roger's letters, Brian has been generally ill-tempered ever since things ended.

Hearing no response, I walk to the kitchen and pull out the piece of paper that Roger had given me. I locate the number of a hotel situated in Wilkes Barr, Pennsylvania, and carefully dial the long string of numbers.

"Hullo?" As soon as Roger answers sleepily, I mentally kick myself. It's 4:30am there, and he's likely just gone to bed.

"Oh— Rog, I wasn't thinking--"

"Sky?" I hear rustling as he sits up. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah, sorry, I'll call back later--"

"Wait..." I hear more rustling, likely Roger rubbing his eyes and looking bleary-eyed around the darkened room. "It's Thursday, yeah? Did you get your results?"

"You remembered!" My heart warms as I realize that, even though we've barely spoken in three weeks, he knew that today was the big day.

"Of course I did, you mad scone. I was going to ring you later. You know, at a more civilized hour."

I'm so happy to hear his voice after three weeks of letters full of doodles and long-winded anecdotes that I forget to respond.

"You still there?" Roger says softly, a smile in his voice.

"What? Oh-- yeah. I'm here."

"So? Did you pass?"

"Yeah," I say proudly. "It's official. I'm a doctor."

"You passed?" Roger lets out a loud whoop. "You passed! Brian, she passed!"

Oh God, I had forgotten they were sharing a room, so now I'd woken up them both.

"Huzzah," I hear Brian call out tiredly, no doubt burying his head under the pillow to block out Roger's eager chattering.

"When I'm back, we're going to celebrate," he says, talking a mile a minute. "We'll go out: a proper dinner, some proper drinks, a proper shag. The works."

I burst out laughing as I lean against the wall.

"Seriously, Sky, I'm proud of you. You worked so hard for this." His words are just above a whisper, either so as not to disturb his bandmate, or not to let Brian hear what a softie that he's become.

"I kind of can't believe it," I admit. "God, Rog, it's so good to hear your voice. Tell me everything."

We start to chat excitedly as if it's been years since we last spoke. A few minutes go by before Roger realizes the time.

"Sky, this is costing you a fortune. Let me go hide in the bathroom and ring you back."

I hesitate. The transatlantic call is pricey, but I can easily afford it. I haven't wanted to rub it in Roger's face, but... well, I can afford a call to America.

"It's alright," I reply breezily. There's a brief pause before Roger lets out a little cackle.

"I knew it!" He lets out a breathy little laugh.

"Knew what?"

"You're loaded."

"I— what? No, I'm... doing alright."

"That's code for filthy rich," Roger asserts with a chuckle. "You've just proven my point, love. Just admit it. You're an heiress."

"I'm not an-- Do you want to talk or not, Taylor? Don't bite the hand that feeds you, or whatever." I can't keep the grin off my face at his silliness.

"'Course I do," he replies gruffly. "Once you admit that you own at least one tiara."

"You're ridiculous," I scoff, a smile threatening to erupt across my face.

"I'm a delight," he counters as he gets out of bed and drags the phone with him to the bathroom, where he shuts the door. His voice echoes slightly in the smaller space, and I'm so fucking happy to talk to him.

Roger excitedly fills me in on the tour. From all accounts, it seems as if they're slowly but surely conquering America, just like I knew they would. We chat for another 15 minutes, and I can tell that Roger is about to pass out from exhaustion.

"You'll be in New York soon?"

"Yeah, we're playing a week's worth of shows there--" Roger cuts himself off as I hear Brian banging on the door.

"For fuck's sake, Rog, this was meant to be our one night of proper sleep, and now you're locked in the bathroom having phone sex," the guitarist says plaintively in the distance.

"We are not having phone sex!" I cry defensively into the receiver.

"He doesn't need to know that," Roger replies with a laugh. "I have a reputation to maintain, Sky."

"Roger!" Brian's fists hit the door. "I need to sleep."

"You guys are real rock-n-rollers," I note. "Shouldn't you be at a party right now anyway?"

"You try sleeping on a shitty bed on a shitty bus," Roger counters.

"Go to bed, then."

"No!" Roger replies defiantly. "Brian can shove it up his--"

The banging intensifies, and I struggle to contain my laughter.

"In about a minute, I won't be able to afford this call anyway," I say. "I'll have to sell some diamonds to pay for it."

Roger laughs softly, and we sit in silence for a moment, neither wanting to hang up first.

"I miss you," I say softly, wrapping the telephone cord around my finger. It seems a little unfair that as soon as we decided to get over ourselves and give this a go, he had to leave on a three-month tour.

"Me too," he replies just before Brian starts banging again. "Bloody hell, Bri—."

"Get off the phone, or I'll cut your ear off!" The guitarist's angry voice echoes through the receiver.

"You'll cut off my... that's not even a good threat, you idiot. Why not my cock or my head or—"

The banging intensifies, almost as if Brian has managed to break down the door, as I struggle to keep a straight face.

"Gotta go, I'll ring from New York, bye," Roger hurriedly mumbles a mash-up of phrases into the phone just before he hangs up.

With a chuckle, I look at the receiver for a moment before replacing it on the hook. I sit on the kitchen floor and lean against the wall. God, it's all about to change. I've spent the past six years solely focused on getting to this moment: passing the medical board exam so that I can officially practice medicine. Now that I'm here, I realize that the rat race is just beginning, and shit is about to get real.

Real life starts on Monday. Today the graduates will eat and drink and toast one another, but in a few days, we'll all be at our respective hospitals scared shitless that we're the ones in charge now. I'd requested to be placed at the same North London hospital where I'd done my internship. More prestigious paediatric hospitals had tried to woo me, but I was dead set on working at one that served a working-class neighborhood. After all, I had grown up with so much, so it seems like I should give back whenever I can. Working there will mean longer hours and a more demanding caseload, but it's a fair trade-off.

Right now, it feels like I can conquer the world. I'm ready.