Why am I always late? I wonder as I walk quickly down the hospital corridor, my heels clicking on the linoleum.
"Dr. Evans?" A junior physician appears in my path, and I silently debate making a run for it. "Can you look at this chart quickly?"
"Dr. Peterson is on duty," I reply, just slightly out of breath from my hustle to get out of here. Today of all days, I can't be late.
"He got pulled into the operating theatre for an emergency consult," the young woman explains, holding out the chart. "Five minutes tops."
Flipping through the notes, I furrow my brow. The symptoms don't make sense, at least not in this combination.
"You've ruled out acute bronchitis?" I ask. She nods and twists her hands nervously as I re-read all the notes one more time.
"Order a CT," I finally reply. "Get the results to Dr. Peterson as soon as they're available. Keep me in the loop."
"Cheers," the doctor replies, but I barely hear it because I'm already jogging towards the elevator.
The cold air hits me as I walk outside, wrapping my wool trench coat more tightly around my torso. I pause just outside the hospital, my eyes scanning the immediate surroundings. I'm about to start panicking when, in the distance, I see him.
Roger is leaning against a massive oak tree staring at the ground pensively. One hand holds a cigarette, while the other taps nervously on his thigh. A thick red scarf is looped around his neck, dark sunglasses firmly in place to maintain anonymity. He looks really fucking good.
"Those things will kill you, you know," I say as I approach. He looks up, startled, and a lazy grin spreads across his face. He slowly straightens, as if we have all the time in the world, and throws the half-finished cigarette to the frozen ground.
"Hi," he says softly, leaning over to brush his lips over mine.
"Hi," I reply, leaning back to look at him. His eyes look happy and anxious, two emotions that I'm sure are mirrored in mine.
"You promised that you wouldn't be late for your wedding day." Roger raises one eyebrow and looks at his watch pointedly.
"I promised no such thing," I reply, remembering that day a million years ago at the airport. "In fact, I dodged the question."
"Still," he counters, "It was implied."
"I'll have you know," I continue tongue-in-cheek, "that in some corners of the world, I'm a very important person. Which means that I'm allowed to be late every now and then."
"Mmm," Roger hums in agreement. "It's true: both that you're a very important person and you're always fucking late. But I love you anyway."
"Should we...?" I gesture towards the high street.
"Well, it's a five-minute walk, and they close in about seven minutes, so, yeah, we should probably go."
Roger reaches out a hand to grasp mine and looks down at my low heels. "Can you run in those?"
We take off towards the Register Office, laughing our heads off the entire way. We're giggly and out of breath when we arrive. Clare and Cadie are standing outside the entrance, one of them looking at us delighted and the other looking like she might kill us.
"You two can never manage to get it quite right, can you?" Clare cries, reaching over to peck us both on the cheeks. Roger picks up Cadie, rubs her nose affectionately with his, and we head in.
The government building is overheated and stifling. A few people are milling about, but it's mostly empty, probably because it's already half-five. A receptionist sits behind an imposing-looking desk, a very officious look on her face. She's dressed in a sweater set and skirt, and I bet that she's never broken a rule in her life.
Why do I always have to be late? I wonder as I walk quickly over to the desk.
"Hi," I say in earnest. "We made an appointment for 5, and I work just over there at the hospital, and there was an emergency, and, please--"
The woman sternly looks at me while pointing at the sign on the desk, clearly stating that the office closes at 5:30.
"But it's only 5:33," I protest. "Please, it would mean so much, my daughter is here, and she's so excited, and, well, of course, I'm excited too--"
"Miss," she says, cutting off my rambling. "I'm sorry, but it's impossible. If we make an exception for you, then we'd have to make an exception for everyone. However, if you return tomorrow, we open at--"
The woman trails off, looking just beyond my shoulder.
"Is that Roger Taylor?" Her voice is just above a whisper, her eyes wide.
I turn around as if I don't know damn well that Roger is behind me horsing around with Cadie. His cheeks are flushed from our run here, his hair slightly sweaty. Both are a good look for him.
"Yes, it is," I reply, turning back to face the woman and praying that we've stumbled on a Queen enthusiast. Her eyes dart excitedly between Rog and me, then widen even further as she puts two and two together.
"You're her," she says. "Oh my god, are you two getting married? Here? Right now? Right this very moment?"
"Well, we're trying to," I reply with a smile. "I'd really, really like to."
The woman's mouth falls open. After a moment, she closes it and begins to shuffle papers around on her desk. "Well, the problem is--"
"Rog," I call, motioning him over. Cadie follows in his footsteps, wrapping her arms around my legs. Clare follows to stand behind us all, hand on her hip.
"Roger, this is--" I look at the receptionist expectantly. She seems momentarily paralyzed, and it slowly turning beet red. "I'm sorry, I didn't get your name."
"Marjorie," she finally croaks after a long pause, her hand going to her neck nervously.
"This is Marjorie," I repeat politely, silently pleading with Rog to turn on all his charm. I've seen him do it; I know he can.
"Helloooooo, Marjorie," Roger says, flashing her a smile that just isn't fair. Does he practice it in the mirror when no one's looking?
"Roger Taylor. Pleased to meet you."
Marjorie doesn't move a muscle, just stares down at his hand, frozen in mid-air, as if in awe. "Roger Taylor," she finally replies softly. "Right." After an awkward moment, she shakes his hand slowly, and I wonder if she'll ever wash her hand again.
"So, Marjorie," Roger says, bending down to pick up Cadie. He puts an arm around my waist. "This is Skylar. I've been waiting years to marry her, and she finally said yes. I'm worried that if we go home and come back in the morning, she might change her mind."
Marjorie nods and straightens her spine slightly as if Roger is about to appeal to her patriotic sense of duty. Which, in a sense, he's about to do.
"So--" Roger can't get the sentence out before he's interrupted.
"Is Freddie Mercury here?" Marjorie looks around wildly as if all of Queen is hiding behind the stately columns, ready to shout surprise!
"He's most definitely not," Roger replies cheerfully. "No, I'm afraid it's just us. And we were hoping that--"
"Is Keith Richards?"
"Different band," Roger says quickly, and I stifle a giggle. "Marjorie, if there's any way possible, any way at all--"
The receptionist jumps up, grabbing a sheet of paper from her desk. "Just give me a second, Roger-- uh, Mr. Taylor-- uh--"
Roger flashes another grin. "Thanks, Marjorie." He's figured out over the years that the best way to appease fans is to repeat their names as often as possible. He claims that it works to sweet talk anyone, but now I'm wondering if it's that hair and those eyes.
As soon as Marjorie is gone, I lean my head against his shoulder.
"It's not fair."
"I completely agree, Sky. It's not fair that even though it was you who was late, it's my charm--"
"It's not fair when you smile at fans like that," I interrupt with a laugh, nudging his shoulder with mine. "They don't stand a chance."
"I don't know, Sky, she seemed pretty impressed that you're an important doctor over at the hospital."
"Hey!--"
"--I'm not saying that you don't have certain charms because you do; you truly fucking do. I'm just saying that I don't think they quite do it for Marjorie."
I groan good-naturedly as we both turn to look at Clare, who is just staring at her brother as if she can't decide to scold him or praise him.
"What?"
"Nothing," she replies with an eye roll. "Nothing at all, Rog."
"It's hardly my fault that--"
From behind us, a familiar voice.
"I can't believe that you didn't tell me about this. I mean, really, darlings. I'm personally responsible for most of this, and you can't even--"
Beside me, Roger scoffs and shoots Clare a dirty look. She shrugs innocently, though she's the only one who could have told Freddie that we'd be here.
"Skylar," Freddie says, leaning over for a kiss on the cheek. "You look lovely as usual. And this little one--" he reaches out for Cadie, who practically jumps into his arms with a squeal. "This little one is so big now!"
We're both snickering when Marjorie comes back with a middle-aged man on her heels. He's balding and looks like he's been a civil servant since he was born.
"This is Mr. Barrow," she says. "He can perform the-- oh! Mr. Mercury!"
"Lovely to meet you," Freddie says, placing Cadie on the ground giving the receptionist a wave. "Now, if I do say so myself, it's high time these two tie the knot. Quick, before something unexpected gets in the way."
Mr. Barrow glowers at us but motions us forward down a long hallway. Cadie chats away mindlessly, skipping ahead.
"By the way," Clare calls back to Marjorie. "If Keith Richard comes, could you kindly point him in the direction of--"
Shh! Roger hisses, grabbing her hand. "This is a serious thing, Clare."
"Oh, yeah," she says, rolling her eyes. "It's not like everyone knew this would happen a decade ago." With a little laugh, she speeds up slightly to catch up with Freddie, looping her arm through his elbow companionably.
"Hey," Roger says, grabbing my hand and pulling me to face him. A look of unease briefly flashes in his eyes, and I wonder if he's been worrying about this all day.
"You sure about this?"
"About marrying you? I'm sure. Besides, you asked me in front of 16,000 people, and I said yes, so I can't really back out now--"
"Are you sure you don't want a big do?" he interrupts. "White dress, flowers, the whole thing?"
"Hey," I say, taking a step closer. I place a hand on his face, not caring that Marjorie is probably watching us like a hawk.
"It's just you and me," I say. "Even though all of Queen, and maybe The Rolling Stones, will likely be here before this is all said and done, it's just you and me. I don't care about anything else. That's all this has ever been about. You and me."
"So we're really doing this?" he asks after exhaling slowly, and I wonder if he's been worried about this all day.
"We're really doing this." As soon as I say it, Roger gives me a breathtaking smile; a real one, not the practiced grin that strangers get every day.
"Can we fucking do this?" Freddie calls from the end of the corridor. He smirks playfully, his eyes belying the fact that he's thrilled for us. For all his swagger, he's a softie when it comes down to it.
"Mummy! Daddy! C'mon!" Cadie calls from down the hallway, where she's stopped. Our hands entwined, Roger and I walk quickly towards the small, nondescript room.
The ceremony is short. We pledge our undying love and fidelity to each other just like billions of other people have done throughout history. But, let's be honest. This is just a formality. I was lost to anyone else long ago. Today is just signing the dotted line, just the cherry on top.
I'm in a daze, drowning in Roger's eyes. So much so, in fact, that I completely miss my cue to recite my vows.
Mr. Barrow clears his throat respectfully, jolting me to the present.
"Hmm?" I say. "Oh, yes, yeah," I stammer. "I do, yeah. I do thee wed."
Roger gazes down at me, a small mischievous smile on his face. I know this look, and I've seen it a million times before, and I know I'll see it a million times more.
"I now pronounce you husband and wife," the officiant says. Roger doesn't move a muscle, looking at me as if he too is dazed, and perhaps also a little shell-shocked that this moment has finally come. The officiant once again coughs, prompting Roger to bend down to kiss me. I lean into him, breathing him in and wishing that we'd done this ages ago.
Freddie lets out a whoop, Clare a cheer. Before I know it, Clare catapults herself towards her brother and smothers him in a hug. "Mum and Dad are going to kill you for not inviting them," Clare says, wiping away a tear from the corner of her eye.
I look towards Freddie, who is standing there watching us all. I wonder if something like this is something that he wants one day or if he's content as things are.
"Mrs. Taylor," he says, folding me into a hug. "I quite like the sound of it. Suits you, darling."
"Thank you," I whisper into his ear, giving him a squeeze just before I'm ripped away and in Clare's arms.
There are no parties or big announcements or anything like that. We wouldn't dream of it. Instead, we head back to our flat to have tea with Cadie and curl up in her bed to read books until she's asleep.
"Mrs. Taylor," Roger whispers with a small, triumphant smile on his face, a glint in his eye.
"Who said I'm changing my name?" I whisper back.
"I fully expect that you're not," he replies. "But that's what I'm going to call you in my mind."
"You're impossible."
"I'm a delight."
I harumph good-naturedly before pulling up the duvet so that Cadie is fully covered and switching off the dim bedside light.
"Should we tell everyone?" I ask as we walk out of the bedroom, quietly shutting the door behind us.
"Nah," Roger replies. "Let 'em keep guessing for a while."
"Freddie will be bursting to break the news."
"He'll drive us crazy regardless," Roger replies. "I'm pretty sure he claims responsibility for you and I and this."
"He did put a decent amount of work into it," I concede.
Roger stops in the foyer and gathering me into his arms, his heart beating next to my cheek.
"I'm so fucking happy, Sky."
"Me too." I glance up at him and see tears in his eyes.
"I know it won't be perfect," he continues in a low voice. "I know there will be tough times. I'll have to go on tour--"
"--and I'll have to work a lot and will never be on time for anything--"
"--but it's all going to work out. I don't doubt it for a second."
"It's all going to work out," I repeat, pulling back and looking up at him. "I love you."
"I love you more."
"No, I love you more."
"--Impossible, Rog, I love you more. Stop trying to steal my thunder."
"I'm not trying to steal anything, I'm just stating a fact, I love you more."
And back-and-forth we go for much longer than is necessary.