Stars in Your Eyes (Queen/Roger Taylor)

40. Skylar

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.