Stars in Your Eyes (Queen/Roger Taylor)

27. Skylar

April 1975 (18 months later)

I'm late.

The four-year-old boy sitting on the steel examination table doesn't care that I'm silently panicking at the time; instead, he studies me with a mischievous smirk. By now, it's been two years in the pediatric A&E, and I'm quite familiar with all the tricks. He'll either go for my pen or the stethoscope looped around my neck. He chooses the latter, giving it a sharp tug so that it falls to the floor with a thud. His mother quickly rebukes him.

"Don't worry, this happens 6 or 7 times a day," I reassure her as I quickly spray the stethoscope with a cleaning solution and wipe it down. Forcing myself not to look at the clock on the wall, I cringe at the deep shit that I'll be in if I'm late to this particular occasion.

Twenty minutes and a double ear infection diagnosis later, I'm in the locker room frantically changing into jeans and a paisley button-up shirt. Looking at my watch, I mutter an obscenity and start to shove my belongings into a large satchel. This small act somehow swallows up a precious three minutes, and, by the time I grab my suitcase and manage to find a taxi, I'm already a half-hour late.

"Heathrow, please," I say to the portly taxi driver.

"There's been an accident on the M4, miss, so it may take a while," he warns me. I once again swear under my breath and look anxiously out the window as London zooms past. We sit in traffic for what feels like forever. By this point, I'm a whopping 55 minutes late, and there's an excellent chance that I'll miss the flight. I cross my fingers and close my eyes, saying a silent prayer that we make it in time.

Fifteen minutes later, I'm running through the airport like a banshee. Shoving my passport under the glass divider, I tap my foot impatiently as the border agent scrutinizes my photo. Finally, he hands back the document, and I take off running.

"This is the final boarding call for Japan Air Lines flight 634." A warm but impersonal voice booms the warning from the overhead speakers as I dodge fellow travelers. As I get closer, I see Roger pacing back and forth in front of the gate, a cigarette dangling nervously from his hand.

"Roger!" I call out, barely able to speak from the physical exertion of pulling my suitcase while running at breakneck speed. Turning towards me, his eyes brighten, and his entire body sags in relief. He starts to walk towards me but is interrupted by an officious-looking airport employee. Roger shakes his head at whatever the man says, pointing emphatically in my direction.

I finally reach the gate and throw myself into his arms, nearly knocking him over.

"I didn't think you'd make it," he said breathlessly, his arms tight around me. "Miami is trying to re-book you on the next flight."

"I know, I'm so sorry, I'm so late--"

"Mr. Taylor, you and your, uh, friend, need to board immediately; otherwise--"

"We're coming, we're coming," I say hurriedly as Roger reaches for the suitcase. He loops one arm around my shoulder and draws me closer as we walk down the long hallway towards the plane.

"Can you ever be on time, Sky?"

"Apparently not," I reply ruefully.

"You're like a bride late to her own wedding," he scoffs.

"Is this your way of proposing to me?"

"Trust me, when I'm proposing, you'll know," he replies with a wink. I'm about to respond when we step onto the plane, the smell of jet fuel making me slightly nauseous. The entire first class cabin is staring at us, wondering who has delayed the departure, but they're soon distracted by the whooping and clapping coming from the back row.