The wheels hit the runway with a thud and a slight veer to the left causing the woman behind me to let out a little yelp. I fight the urge to turn around and whisper, "I get it, babe. I'm on edge, too." It's been a turbulent, restless flight, and I haven't slept a wink.

Peering out the tiny window, I watch the sunrise over the New York City skyline. I've spent the past week wondering if this trip is even a good idea. And, now that I'm here, I'm still not sure. My mind replays my last conversation with Roger, his words all jumbled together in fatigue and anticipation and, probably, tipsiness: "I'll be at the airport when you arrive, I can't wait, we'll have dinner after the show, finally time for a proper chat, I wish you were here already, see you on the other side of the pond."

I blink, my eyes burning with fatigue and uncertainty. I feel fragile as if, at any moment, I might shatter into tiny pieces. Putting my hand on the seat in front of me, I notice that they're trembling ever so slightly. But, with a deep exhale, I pull myself up and walk down the aisle towards the exit.

It's madness in the airport despite the early hour. The line for immigration snakes around the vast room, and it'll be forever until I'm through the queue. For once, I hope that Roger is running late so that he's not waiting too long. I try to envision our reunion. We've been apart so many times before, but this time feels different. But maybe, just maybe, when I see his eager face on the other side, it'll all feel normal.

Two hours later, I finally emerge through the automatic door separating passengers from the rest of the world. It's now just past 9, and the great hall is bustling. A smile on my face, I scan the faces looking for the familiar blonde head. Around me, my fellow passengers are throwing themselves into the arms of loved ones, a cacophony of I-missed-you-so-much.

After wandering slowly down the line of people, I retrace my steps and look even more closely. Have I somehow missed him? Does he have the wrong flight information? Because he sure as shit promised me that he'd be here.

"Skylar?"

I turn towards the voice, not seeing anyone whom I recognize. Finally, after a long, confusing moment, I spot a tall fellow with long dark hair and a receding hairline. In his hands is a makeshift sign with my name hastily scrawled in what appears to be either lipstick or crayon. I slowly walk over and stop in front of him.

"Let me guess... Roger sent you."

He blushes and reaches out his hand. "Chris Taylor," he says in a surprisingly deep voice.

"Skylar Evans," I reply, firmly grasping his hand. "I've heard a lot about you. Sounds like you've been a lifesaver for Rog."

It's not until we're halfway into Manhattan that he explains further.

"So, uh, Roger really wanted to be here," he says, speaking quickly as if he's spent the journey thus far rehearsing the words. "It's all he's talked about, really--seeing you, I mean. I haven't worked for him long, but, uh, anyway, well, yeah, so he wanted to be here, but something came up late last night, and--"

"It's okay," I interrupt, looking straight ahead. "Thanks for getting up so early; it couldn't have been much fun to wait."

As we drive across the Queensboro bridge, I wonder what Chris knows about me. Am I the idiot sitting around in London while his boss shags half of America? Am I the depressed woman who can barely cope with being a new mum? Am I the doctor who is so busy that she can't drop everything and come on tour with her boyfriend? 

So many narratives, so little time.

Ten minutes later, we walk into the hotel, and he's leading me to a room on the 15th floor. We stop in front of a sage green door.

"Freddie's just there," he says, pointing to the door across the hall. " And, uh, John's to the left, and Brian's down the hall, and, well, Roger is here."

Taking the proffered key, I open the door and enter silently. Imagine my surprise when I see Roger fast asleep in bed. I blink several times in the dim light, willing my eyes to be deceiving me. I've no idea where I expected him to be instead of at the airport, but it sure wasn't asleep in the fucking bed.

Padding across the plush carpet, I put down my bag and sit down against the wall. I stare at Roger, his face relaxed and innocent. His hair is lighter than I remember and a bit shorter. I try with all my might to remember the last time I saw him hold Cadie, a memory that I swore I'd cherish. But it's been too long, and our daughter seems so much bigger now, and I'm too fucking tired to remember any of it.

**

"Good evening, New York City!" Freddie cries into the microphone. "Thank you for giving us such a nice welcome. It's really nice to be back. We're gonna have some fun tonight, okay?" The crowd screams its approval, and I can see girls in the audience literally crying with excitement. Firecrackers go off somewhere in the back of the massive auditorium, the little pow-pow-pows intermingling with the frantic cheering.

"This is--" Freddie starts and then stops, hand on his hip. "This is-- Listen to me, darlings. Let me do the talking for a change, alright? Now, this is a song called... White Queen."

The last time I'd seen Queen play was their final rehearsal in London, and they've improved even more these past months on the road. The riffs are bigger, the drum fills faster, the harmonies tighter. They've finally figured out the tricky bit in 'Somebody to Love,' and the recorded operatic section in 'Rhapsody' works in practice much better than it sounded in theory.

And Roger looks good. God, does he look good. His shorter hair suits him, and his muscles are more defined than they've been in ages. As I watch him play, I almost forget the awkward day we spent together after we both woke up, him in bed and me curled up on the floor. As he runs to the front of the stage, tambourine in hand, he glances over and flashes a smile meant just for me. It takes me back to the heady days in the beginning when everything was new, and there was none of this baggage.

"Thank you for doing business with us!" Freddie shouts to the audience as he throws carnations into the first few rows. "God Save the Queen" blares over the speakers as the four fellows in Queen stand at the front of the stage, arms raised high in triumph. At this moment, I'm so fucking proud of them. It's been their dream to play Madison Square Garden for so long, and they've smashed it.

"Sky!" Roger calls happily as he barrels over to me. His eyes are bright, and he's clearly on the biggest adrenaline rush of his life. His sweaty arms are around me, his lips against my hair. "We fucking did it," he murmurs. For that ten-second moment in time, we're in a bubble of intimacy, just the two of us, and nothing in the world can stop us.

But it doesn't last long.

The promised dinner doesn't happen; instead, we go to a party thrown by Elektra. "We'll stay five minutes," Roger promises as we walk past a screaming crowd at the door. We love you, Roger! He flashes them a smile and waves enthusiastically, and I wonder if this is what he hears everywhere he goes.

Five minutes turns into two hours and, before I know it, Roger is pulled into the throng, and I'm left alone. I nurse my drink, wondering if anyone would notice if I slipped out.

"They say," Freddie says as he sidles up next to me, "that once you've played The Garden, then you've made it in America."

"Then you've made it in America," I say as I sling an arm around his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. "The show was amazing. Well done, you."

"If you discount Roger's shit drumming, then yes, it was fucking fantastic." Freddie smirks and takes a sip of his vodka. "You're banned from all future shows. Roger missed at least four cues because he was too busy staring at you. And two of them were during 'I'm In Love With My Car,' which makes me wonder if the song is, in fact, not about his car."

I smile but don't respond. The playful look in Freddie's eyes quickly disappears, a more serious one taking its place.

"You okay, Skylar? I heard that... well, Roger mentioned that things have been rough, and, I know he's been worried, and, well..." he trails off and takes another sip, suddenly looking anywhere but at me.

"The thing is," he continues, "it's been utterly mad, the whole tour. I don't know what changed, really, but it's just... it's bigger somehow. I think we've all-- it's been--"

He runs a hand through his hair before our eyes meet. "I suppose what I'm saying is that it can be difficult to hang on to who you are when there's all this." He gestures towards the room full of people, all here for Queen. "I, uh, I think we're all struggling with it... I know that I am, anyway."

Taking another sip, he shrugs as if this brief moment of lucidity was nothing. "Anyway, I know Roger has been dying to see you."

"Yes, I can see that," I mutter sarcastically as I look across the room where Roger is laughing his face off with a tall blonde fellow and Dominique. The joke must be fucking hilarious, but I wouldn't know. Freddie follows my gaze and his eyes harden for a brief instant before a practiced, more neutral expression covers it.

"You don't need to worry about her," he murmurs, looking down at his nearly empty drink.

"Is that what you told Mary for all that time?" It's a low blow, and I'm almost certain that his kohl-rimmed eyes are glaring at me right now. I glance up and, after the briefest of moments, his eyes soften.

"Do you ever run into her?"

I shake my head. "No, but I think Veronica sees her from time to time."

"Ronnie's like our den mother," Freddie says, throwing back the rest of his drink in one gulp. "Always tending to everyone. Darling, I need another drink. Want one?"

I shake my head, and Freddie pecks my cheek before disappearing into the dense crowd surrounding us. Just as I'm about to turn away, he reappears in the vicinity of Roger and pulls Dominique aside. He leans over to say something in her ear, his hand biting into the soft flesh of her upper arm. She looks over at me briefly just before Freddie drags her away. A second later, Roger realizes that she's gone and looks up in confusion. Our eyes meet, and we stare at each other across the boisterous room until, finally, he looks away first.

**

"So, then what happened?"

Veronica sits across from me, a steaming cup of tea in her hand. In the next room, Robert runs around pretending to be a cowboy, a hat on his head that John sent him from the Midwest.

"I left the next morning."

"Did he take you to the airport at least?"

"He was asleep when I left."

Veronica exhales heavily. She mutters something under her breath, brushing her blonde bangs off her face. "What's that American expression? 'You can lead a horse to water, but you can't...' damn, I can never remember the rest.'"

"My therapist didn't want me to go. I should have listened."

Veronica doesn't reply; she just waits patiently for me to continue.

"She said that I prioritize Roger over myself. She doesn't want me to turn into my mum, who gave up everything for my dad, just to have him leave her in the end."

"Do you think that he understood how much effort you made to be there? Cadie, work, all that."

I shrug. "I don't know if it matters. He's surrounded by people who re-arrange everything to suit him-- to suit all of them. He says jump, and they jump."

Veronica blows on her tea before setting it down on the table. She takes a deep breath before speaking, and I can tell that she's struggling to maintain a semblance of neutrality. She's known Roger for ages, and I have no doubt that John has filled her in on many things about their time on the road that I'll never know.

"So what happens when you stop jumping?" Her voice is soft, her eyes kind.

"That's what I've been asking myself," I reply, rubbing a hand over my eyes. It feels like I haven't slept in forever, and the endless loop in my mind is starting to drive me crazy.

"They're all different now," I say. "Freddie, Brian, John... well, not so much John. He's the steadiest of them all, as you know. It's as if touring is just a work trip for him. But Roger... it's like he doesn't see me anymore. As if he liked the idea of me being there, but... it's like I'm invisible except when it suits him. He needs me to be there for moral support when they play at a big venue, but the rest of the time? It's much more convenient if I fade away into the background."

Veronica is silent, but reaches her hand across the table to grasp mine in sympathy and solidarity.

"The problem," I continue, "is that I love him. And I worry that I'll give him everything and I'll be left with nothing."

My statement hangs in the air for a long, excruciating moment and I'm dangerously close to crying. I stand, the back of my knees banging into the chair, which screen against the floor in protest.

"I'm sorry, I've gotta--" By the time the words are out of my mouth, I'm halfway down the corridor. I push open the front door into the quiet streets of Putney, walking quickly to my car.

The drive home takes ages. The traffic is awful, and I curse the fact that I live in the goddamn countryside like some sort of middle-aged squire. Switching on the radio, I change stations at a rapid-fire pace until I find one that suits. Finally, the traffic clears, and I'm zooming down the M3 singing an old Beatles song. Penny Lane is in my ears and in my eyes! There beneath the blue suburban skies! For the first time in ages, the noise in my head fades away, and I feel young and carefree.

The silence is deafening when I turn off the ignition in front of the house. I wait for all of the self-doubt, the questions, the worries to re-enter my head, but it's quiet. Everything is quiet.

Closing the car door, I start to walk towards the ostentatious wrought iron entrance. What a ridiculous fucking home for a 28-year-old. I feel weightless, as if the heaviest of burdens has been lifted from my shoulders. Because, sometime between leaving Putney and arriving home, there's been a shift. I've realized that there's nothing that I can do about Roger's choices. They're his to make. I can only control mine.

Placing a hand on the handle, I pause before pushing it open. "You have a week, Roger," I murmur to myself. "Pick up the goddamn phone. Just show me that you care."

I inhale sharply, filling my lungs with fresh air. Then, the decision made, I fling open the door and make my way into the house. "Hello, my darling!" I call out to Cadie, who flashes me a breathtaking smile when she sees me. At that moment, she looks so much like Roger that it nearly breaks me.

The next week goes by in a flash, but it's also the longest of my life. And, at the end of it, when I haven't heard from him, I pack up our things and move us back to my old flat.