You thought that I'd forget to ring Skylar, didn't you?

Just admit it. You thought I'd get too busy or there would be some sort of medical emergency or a band thing or whatever.

You don't have much confidence in me, do you? I don't blame you for your pessimism; it's only natural given how things have gone thus far.

Well, ye of little faith, listen up: I can, on occasion, manage not to fuck things up. I've made mistakes, yes. But, every now and then, I manage to get things right.

For starters, I didn't forget to phone Skylar. In fact, I called her from a telephone booth at the airport the moment I arrived. And then I called her the next day. And the day after that. We quickly went back to our old routine of sitting in the dark late at night, just listening to each other's voices and trying to block out all the baggage and the noise.

When I returned to London, we had dinner at Luigi's, a hole-in-the-wall joint near her flat that we used to frequent. We shared a pizza with black olives and mushrooms, a nice bottle of wine, and it was lovely. Afterward, I walked her home and, like a true gentleman, kissed her on the cheek before she headed inside.

Then I flew back to Munich. And, the next time I was in London, we went to see The Shining. I'm a real Kubrick fan, so I was dead chuffed to see it. However, Skylar hates suspense films, so she spent most of the film with her head buried against my shoulder and her nails digging into my palm. I loved every second of it.

I broke things off with Chelsea, who briefly threatened to sell photos of us being, er, amorous to The Daily Mail. After a visit from a Queen Productions attorney, she fucked right off, and I haven't heard from her since. Skylar also ended things with Pierre; at least, I think she did. We haven't yet spoken about the fact that we're both single, every conversation dancing around the subject for reasons unknown.

And here we are, two months later, on the eve of my flight to Venezuela to finish out The Game tour. We're at Le Caprice, getting steadily sloshed in celebration of Skylar's promotion to chief of paediatrics.

"Are you nervous?" Skylar takes a bite of her steak and sets her fork down while she chews.

"I'm always a little nervous," I admit, taking another sip of champagne. "This year has been grueling."

"It's almost over," she says sympathetically.

"And then back to Munich," I reply glumly. When our manager had come up with the scheme for us to be tax exiles--basically not spending much time in the UK and definitely not recording any music here--I'd gone along with it. But now, I was very much regretting it.

We finish and pay the bill, Skylar slipping her hand into mine as we walk towards the taxi stand.

"Do you think we could walk?" she asks. I slip an arm around her waist and nod, even though it's strangely cold for late September.

We meander through London for a half-hour, not really talking, each lost in our own thoughts. We're standing at a traffic light waiting to cross when Sky looks up at me.

"What is this, Roger?" She chews her bottom lip nervously, her eyes boring into mine.

"Ah," I reply. "I'm glad you asked. This neighborhood is known as Covent Garden, located in the West End of London. Over there," I say, pointing to my left, "is the Royal Opera House, built in 1732 and home to both ballet and opera productions."

Skylar tilts her head to one side and rolls her eyes. She pulls my hand, tugging me across the street into the crowd forming in front of the Tube station. I keep my head down as we weave our way through the masses, praying not to be recognized.

We've almost made it when I hear the words I've been dreading, words that will knock the air out of the bubble of intimacy we've created tonight.

"Excuse me, sir?"

With a sigh and an exaggerated, knowing glance at Skylar, I turn to find a teenage girl standing there. She's dressed in whitewashed denim jeans and an off-the-shoulder top that looks more appropriate for the summer. Muscle memory prompts me to flash a smile and put my hand out for whatever scrap of paper she wants me to sign. But she looks at my hand questioningly before turning towards Skylar.

"Do you know which way the theatre is? I've gotten all turned around," she says in a girlish voice. I blink, slow on the uptake.

"It's that way," Skylar replies after a pause, pointing down the street at the brightly-lit marquee. She's barely holding in her laughter, and now the poor girl is wondering if we're both mad.

Arm-in-arm, Sky and I walk another block until we're once again on an empty street. She can't even look me in the eye, so great is her mirth about what just happened. Well, to be fair, I am recognized quite often. If you had seen the throngs of fans in Buenos Aires, it was like we were national heroes.

Beside me, Skylar can no longer contain herself and is doubled over in laughter.

"Oh my God, your face," she heaves, practically unable to speak. "You should have seen your face. It was priceless. Please, can we do that again?"

"Shut up!" I cry, playfully pushing her shoulder. "I'll have you know that--"

"In some areas of the world, you're quite important, I know, I know," Skylar says, wiping the tears from her eyes. "But here's my question: That girl was what, 15? 16? Isn't that Queen's target demograph--"

Her words are cut off as I lean down to kiss her. Yes, partly to shut her up, but mostly because she looks irresistible right now. Her arms wrap around my neck to pull me closer, and we stand there for a long while. We only stop when we hear a wolf whistle from across the street. We move apart, both grinning at one another.

"Race you back?" Skylar says. Before I can respond, she takes off towards her flat, and I'm forced to jog after her. She's been on a big fitness kick lately, which I'm convinced is part of her years-long strategy to convince me to quit smoking.

We reach her flat, both of us uncomfortably out of breath. "Do you want to...?" she asks, and I nod before following her upstairs. Cadie is at her grandmother's house, so the flat is dark when we enter. Skylar goes to turn on a light, but before she can, I wrap my arms around her and pull her against me.

"What do you want this to be?" I murmur next to her ear, hoping that she can't hear the nervousness and anticipation behind the question. I feel bad for dodging it before since I'm sure she had to work up the courage to bring it up.

Skylar doesn't answer for a long while, prompting me to ask another question.

"Are you seeing anyone? Anyone else, I mean."

She turns around in my arms, looking up at me. "I'm not interested in seeing anyone else."

My body practically sags in relief, and I almost miss her question: "Are you?"

"Skylar," I say, looking down at her seriously. "I've been in love with you every second since the day that I met you. How many times do I have to say it?"

Skylar is about to reply, but I continue.

"I know with utter certainty that I love you, and I'll always love you. But I also worry that you'll walk out again. I'm not sure you understand what that did to me, Sky. You just left. You packed up your things and took our daughter and left. I got home from the airport, and you were just... gone. I was about to phone the police before I noticed the empty closets and saw your note."

Skylar looks down on the floor. "I know. I'm sorry."

A pause.

"But you left first," she continued. I hung my head and, after a moment, nodded in agreement. I'd let it all get to my head, despite how much I loved her.  Then I looked up to meet her eyes.

"I want this, whatever this is, Skylar, I do. But you have to trust me. I love you. I want you, and only you. You and Cadie are my family; you're my life. But you have to trust me."

Skylar looks up at me again, this time her eyes full of unshed tears. "I know," she says softly. "But it's hard sometimes. We don't even live in the same country most of the time."

I exhale, pulling her against me. "I know," I whisper. "I know. I'll.... I'll figure something out. I'll talk to Miami. We'll work it out."

"I don't always know where I fit into your life, Rog," she says. "Sometimes, it seems as if I'll always be relegated to the periphery just because of circumstances. You are who you are, and I am who I am."

"I know," I say, repeating myself because I've no idea how to reassure her. I'd have the same worries if I were in her shoes. Even though I know that I would never, ever be unfaithful to her, if the situation were reversed, I wouldn't go anywhere near me.

We stand in the darkened entryway for a long while, clutching each other.

"We'll figure it out?" she says, raising her face to look at me. I brush away a tear with my thumb before pulling her close again.

"We'll figure it out," I say, leaning down to press a kiss on her lips. "We'll figure it out," I repeat over and over as we kiss and we try to show each other what our words can't say.

**

Gentlemen, this is the captain speaking from the flight deck. 

The pilot's no-nonsense voice bleeds into my dream, and I open one eye groggily. John is seated in the plush leather seat across the aisle, his head bent at an awkward angle, light snores escaping from his lips.

We've reached our cruising altitude of 9,500 meters. The weather in Caracas is excellent and the flight should last approximately 12 hours. 

I throw a pinstripe blazer over my face, effectively blocking out the light. Squeezing my eyes shut, I literally try to count sheep in the hopes of falling asleep. I'm almost there--so close!--when I hear Freddie and Brian talking behind me. 

Yanking down the blazer, I whirl around and glare at them through the opening between the two leather seats.

"Are you talking about me?" I hiss.

"No," Freddie says lazily, rolling his eyes. "We're talking about our other friend who is 'dating' the mother of his child." He makes exaggerated air quotes with his fingers.

"Are you two really not... you know... shagging?" Brian asks, a bit too loudly.

"Shhh," I reply. "I don't need the whole fucking plane to know my business."

Brian looks around the private plane. Crystal and Ratty are playing cards a few aisles away, Miami is poring over a ledger in the front, and okay, everyone on this aircraft already knows my personal business.

"I'll take that as a no," Freddie says with a mischievous grin.

"For fuck's sake, we're grown men," I hiss back. "Do you lot want to tell me about your sex life?"

"Nope," Brian replies at the same time that Freddie gives me a resounding "yes!"

"Oh, fuck off," I say, turning back to face the front of the plane. I don't have to explain myself to anyone. It's not as if Sky and I are casually dating. I mean, in a sense, we are. But it's not as if we're just dating.

I'm just about to go back to sleep when I realize what Brian had been holding in his hand. Taking my seatbelt off, I turn around and drape myself over the back of the seat.

"Is that Rolling Stone? With the review of the Bueno Aires gig?"

Brian nods and hands it over before he and Freddie get back to arguing about the timing of the vocals on one of the new songs. 

Flipping through the magazine, I see a picture of Freddie dressed in red leather trousers and a black leather coat. Shirtless, naturally. His head is obscuring me behind the kit, his outstretched arm hiding John's face. Brian isn't even in the photo. It's like we're not even there.

"On the road with rock's royal spectacle," I read out loud.

Across from me, John stirs. "You're not going to like it," he mumbles, eyes still closed. "Save yourself the misery."

My interest piqued, I begin to skim the article. And, as John predicted, I don't like it. It's... it's... it's absolutely fucking bollocks. Has the reporter even been the gig itself, or did he just show up at soundcheck and judge us based on that?

"What the fuck is this?" I exclaim, turning back towards Freddie and Brian.

"I wish reporters would stop talking about the party in New Orleans," Freddie says. "There was no naked woman smoking cigarettes from her-- wait, was there a naked woman smoking cigarettes from her crotch? I'd remember that, right?" He looks at Brian, who shrugs, then at me.

"I barely remember that night," Brian replies.

"Not the point at all. Did neither of you have an issue with the article?" I ask. Next to me, John finally opens his eyes and sits up, running a hand through his messy hair.

"'It sounds simply awful,'" I read the most offensive part out loud, my voice rising as I go. "'The acoustics are horrendous.... The rhythm section is sloppy and sluggish'--I was tuning the drums as we went along, for fuck's sake, it was the fucking soundcheck--' Mercury's singing is lackadaisical and without conviction... They're not even up to the par of some third-rate New Jersey bar band.'"

By the end, I'm practically shouting, and Ratty looks over from his perch in the back row. "You okay, Rog?"

I fumble around for a pen and paper, finding only a pencil and the motion sickness bag in the seat pocket in front of me. Bending my head, I begin to write furiously.

"What're you doing?" Fred asks, peering over the seat curiously.

"Writing a letter," I reply. "To Rolling Stone."

"On a motion sickness bag?" Brian asks. I don't bother to answer, just keep writing.

"That's a run-on sentence," John says, having moved across the aisle to peer down at my screed.

"Fuck off," I mumble, pressing even harder with the pencil as I sign my name, writing "London, England" beneath so it's a proper letter to the editor.

Freddie reaches over the seat and snatches it up, scanning it.

"Your peculiar 1970-time-warp attitude, coupled with an innate, congenital miscomprehension of rock & roll, continues to fascinate and annoy," he reads out loud. "Thank you, oh thank you, for the pseudo-political slant and personal dishonesty that you continue to peddle in your outdated, opinionated, down-home rag."

"I like it," he says with a nod and is about to hand it to me before Brian grabs it.

"'Thanks also for the finely tuned musical assessment of my group from our soundcheck! Grow up. You invented the bitterness. I pity you. You suck. You are boring and you try to infect us.' No, Roger, you can't send this, I'm going to tear it--"

I seize it from him, stuffing it into my pocket with a mental reminder to have Crystal post it as soon as we land.

"It's perfect," I say, settling back into my seat and throwing my blazer over my face.

"Oh, and by the way, Brian," I say, still hidden under my makeshift blanket. "Skylar and I do have sex--lots of it, any chance we get--and it's fucking glorious."