Stars in Your Eyes (Queen/Roger Taylor)

35. Roger

Skylar and I climb the steep staircase and find ourselves in the crowded dining room. I'm in a daze, wondering how the fuck my life fell apart in the past ten minutes. I've never felt so miserable and betrayed in my life, all of which is compounded by the raucous diners surrounding us who are living their best lives.

In my periphery, a fan approaches holding out a scrap of paper that I reflexively reach out to sign. By the time I exit the restaurant, Skylar is sitting inside of a taxi waiting for me with the passenger door ajar. And, despite me not recalling giving a destination, we're soon speeding towards Marylebone.

The headlights of the oncoming traffic seem brighter than usual, temporarily blinding me. Squinting, I look over at Skylar, who is staring straight ahead. I blink, trying to get the image of her and Freddie jumping away from each other, both of them looking impossibly guilty.

How could I have missed this?

Skylar coughs into her hand and looks over at me, looking as if she might break down in tears. Refusing to meet her eyes, I look out the window.

"Roger..." she says softly, reaching for my hand. I jerk it away and mumble something about waiting until we're home to talk.

So we sit in unbearable silence, the tension palpable.

A few minutes later, we're deposited on the pavement in front of our building. Skylar walks into the flat before me, heading straight to the bedroom. I slam the door shut behind me and kick off my shoes angrily.

Seriously, how could I have missed this that was going on behind my back? Am I really fucking dense, or are those two just really fucking clever?

Stalking through the darkened flat, I throw open our bedroom door. The brass handle hits the wall with a loud thud, making Skylar flinch from where she's sitting on the edge of the bed.

"How long has it been?" I ask abruptly. She pauses, her eyes on the floor until she finally looks up at me. 

"About three months," she whispers, her voice shaking.

"Three months?"

Skylar nods slowly. My brain feels like it's going to explode as I process the information.

"Three months?"

She nods. "I'm sorry that I didn't tell you sooner. It's just--"

"You've been shagging Freddie for three fucking months--

"What? Roger--" Skylar interrupts, but  I hold up a hand to silence her, visibly trying to hold my shit together. It's taking everything that I have not to storm out of the flat and out of her life forever.

"You've been shagging Fred for three months," I continue, "and you're apologizing that it's taken you a while to tell me? Not the fact that you're, you know, fucking him?"

"Rog--" She looks both befuddled and alarmed, probably because she never thought I'd figure it out.

"I knew something was up with him. I fucking knew it." I storm over to the wall and pull my arm back, first aimed directly at the drywall. "But I never dreamed that it involved you. Goddammit, Skylar."

Skylar lets out a muted cry when my fist hits the wall, forming a small crater in its wake. Plaster dust flies through the air. Christ, it hurts more than I expected. Punching a wall always seems so satisfying in the films, but I don't feel any better. If anything, I feel worse because, from the feel of it, my fucking hand is broken.

With an exhale, I turn around and slide down the wall until my arse hits the floor. I'm just so tired. I haven't slept properly since our row a few weeks ago, my adrenaline high from the gig is waning... I'm fucking beat. But I'm also more enraged than I've ever been in life, and I guess my body is struggling to balance those two extremes.