"Do you want to come in?"
The question pops out not once, but twice, and I stifle the urge to clap my
hands over my disloyal mouth. God, I had been doing so well at keeping Roger at bay for months, and in one night, I've both kissed and invited him into my flat.
From the bottom of the staircase, the drummer looks at me with curiosity. His face reveals little emotion as he cautiously lifts one foot onto the first step as if he's going to join me at the top. He hesitates, and his hand taps his thigh, the only signal that perhaps he's feeling just as nervous as I am.
The silence hangs heavily between us, as I become increasingly embarrassed. All my instincts command me to blurt out a hurried mash-up of 'sorry' and 'bye' before bolting into the warmth and safety of my apartment. Instead, I command myself to stand quietly while I wait for Roger to reply.
A breathy chuckle escapes his lips, and, after what feels like a million years, he looks up at me with a good-natured smirk. Slowly, he climbs the stairs so that he's one step below me. He gazes up at me with those impossibly blue eyes, and, for a moment, I forget to breathe. The snowflakes fall between us as I blink, wondering what we're doing and how we got here.
He climbs one last step so that we're at eye level. As he opens his mouth to say something, I realize that I desperately want him to say yes to my invitation. But, equally so, I need him to say no. This isn't a good idea. This goes against everything that I've built up for myself over the past few months. This--
Roger leans towards me, gently tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear. I stand frozen in place, unsure of his next move. He pulls away, his now serious eyes trained on mine.
"Figure out what you want, Sky. Then we'll talk."
And then, in a move from my own book, Roger pivots to walk back down the stairs. He pauses at the bottom, and our eyes lock. After a beat, I nod in acknowledgment. He flashes me a smile: a small, shy one meant just for me, not the wolfish grin that I've seen him offer to so many others.
After a short pause, he lifts his hands to offer me a small wave. I return the gesture, watching him walk rapidly in the direction of Freddie's apartment, rubbing his hands together furiously in the cold. He's halfway down the block when he turns around and lets out a small whoop.
"1974!" he shouts boisterously. "What a glorious fucking year it'll be!"
**
Before I know it, it's been nearly a month, and I'm standing nervously in front of the supervising physician. He's walking us through a complicated procedure that, hopefully, I'll be performing on my own in a few short months.
"Miss Evans?"
The worst part about this whole thing with Roger is that I can't stop thinking about him. It's particularly annoying because I've only seen him a handful of times and yet... and yet, I can't get that little laugh or unguarded smile out of my mind.
"Miss Evans?"
I fucked up that night. Instead of playing it safe, I should have grabbed him by his stupid fur coat and dragged him inside, giving it my all.
And, the worst part is that I still haven't called him. That's right, I'm a goddamn moron. At first, it was for technical reasons: I couldn't find the scrap of paper that he'd written his number on. Then, once I found it, my hospital shifts got all screwy, and there was never a good time to call.
So here we are, nearly a month later, and I still haven't reached out. I want to. Well, I want to want to, for sure. But all the doubt swirling around in my head has stopped me from doing anything.
"Miss Evans."
I look up, suddenly keenly aware that the eyes of nine medical students are trained on me. Fuck.
"Uh, yes, sir?" I reply primly, hoping that it's not completely obvious that I haven't heard a thing that he said.
"Would you like to demonstrate the technique?" Dr. Kennedy looks pointedly at me, daring me to say yes even though I clearly had not been paying attention. Luckily, I had spent most of the night before reading up on this.
"Of course," I say, walking over to him with false confidence and picking up the needle. The steel instrument is shockingly cold and unexpectedly weighty. I look down at the cadaver on the table and take a steadying breath. Just before I start the procedure, my eyes dart over to my best friend in the program, who winks encouragingly.
I hold my breath the entire time, praying that I remember how to do the intricate stitch. The world around me disappears as all my focus goes to my quicky moving hands. Finally, I finish and take a step back, placing the instruments in the steel tin on the operating table.
Dr. Kennedy walks over to inspect my work, his eyes finally rising to meet mine. "Well done, Miss Evans." I smile inwardly, having just managed to impress the notoriously hard-ass doctor. But my self-congratulatory phase is short-lived, as we're whisked down the hall to the next assignment.
Three hours later, I walk out of the hospital just as it's getting dark. Spotting my bus in the distance, I break into a run and only just manage to jump on before it pulls away. Collapsing in a seat towards the back, I lean my head against the window and, very shortly, fall asleep. A few minutes later, I awake with a start, completely confused. Looking frantically out of the window, I realize that I've missed my stop.
As I alight at the next stop, my eyes are pulled towards a faded, ripped black & white poster on the side of the cafe. Printed on it are the faces of the four members of Queen alongside an announcement that their debut LP is available to buy. Freddie's face is partially obscured by another advertisement, and the picture of the album has faded to almost nothing.
Walking closer, I peer at the image of Roger. His hooded eyes stare back at me, a scowl on his face, and his hair messily teased. The four of them look so severe that it's difficult to remember that they're absolute goofs. My eyes are drawn to Roger's striped socks, a sight so incongruous with the rest of the staged photo that it makes me smile. Then, as if of its own accord, my hand reaches out to touch Roger's face.
A truck drives by, the loud roar of the engine snapping me out of my reverie. God, am I so pathetic and sleep-deprived that I'm standing around on Claxton Road caressing a poster? I retract my arm quickly and look around to be sure that no one has seen me. Thankfully, the tiny street is nearly deserted.
I hurry home, shutting the door firmly behind me. As I'm tugging off my shoes and fantasizing about shoveling pasta in my mouth so that I can curl up in bed, the phone rings.
"Skylar!" a warm voice echoes over the line, bringing a smile to my face.
"Hi, mum," I reply with a grin, my fatigue momentarily disappearing.
"Just back from the hospital?" she asks brightly. I hum in response. My mum is no stranger to life as a med student, as it was once her life too. We chit-chat for a few minutes as I boil water for my spaghetti. I really need to learn how to cook properly.
"Have you spoken to your dad?" my mum asks casually. I freeze, voiding my face of emotion even though she can't see me. I had spent all of Christmas Day with this exact expression, as had my brother.
"Not recently."
"Skylar, you have to get over all that-- he's your dad, he loves you--"
"No, I won't get over it," I say, more loudly than I intended. "He left you. He made us all move back to England, made you quit your job in California, and then-- and then he left you, mum."
There's silence on the line, and I feel like an asshole. It's not as if my mum has forgotten for one bloody second that my father left her for another woman. She's never told me that's why things ended, but I know. And so, on her behalf, I refuse to speak to both my dad and the interloper with whom he's living.
"Skylar... you can't fight my battles for me. He's your dad," she replies softly, reminding me why she's my favorite person in the world. I'm not sure how she, the eternal optimist, managed to spawn a glass-half-empty daughter like me.
When I don't reply, she changes the subject. "Let's talk about something else, love. You seeing anyone special?" Her tone is hopeful, and I know that she's been dying for me to move on from what happened with Luke.
"Only if you count my anatomy textbooks," I reply. She senses that I don't want to get into it and, after a few minutes of more small talk, extracts a promise from me to visit soon and to get more sleep.
Just as I'm about to hang up, I hear her voice and put the receiver back to my ear. "Skylar, not every man out there is like your dad and Luke. There are good guys in the world. You just have to know where to look."
And, with that dose of wisdom dispensed, my mum tells me that she loves me and hangs up. I stand frozen for a moment, lost in thought until I hear the frantic bubbling of the water on the stove. I turn off the flame and turn to fumble around in the pile of papers on the counter. Finally, locating the paper for which I'm searching, I pick up the receiver and carefully dial the number.
Ring
Ring
Ring
Ring
Ring
Ring
I'm just about to give up when I hear a voice on the other end.
"Hello?" A woman chirps on the other end of the line.
Shit. I rub my face wearily as I speak into the receiver.
"Could I spoke with Roger, please?" There's music in the background and what sounds like a few people chatting.
"He's not here at the moment," the woman replies politely.
"Oh-- well, do you know when he'll be back?"
"They're all in Australia at the moment," she replies. "I think they're back in... ummm...like a week from Tuesday? Something like that."
My face falls. I had completely forgotten that Queen were scheduled to play a few shows there. God, by the time Roger was back, it'll have been five solid weeks that I've basically ignored him. I doubt he even wants to hear from me at this point. In fact, he's probably off shagging a beautiful Australian woman right now.
"Well-- Well, could you tell him that Skylar called? Skylar Evans."
The woman on the other end of the line seems to perk up at the mention of my name. "Skylar?"
"Mmmhmm."
"It's Clare! Oh, um, Roger's sister. We met--"
"--at the wedding," I finish with a smile. What are the odds?
"God, I am so sorry for that mix-up. Roger was cross at me for weeks. He probably still is, just not enough so that he won't let me stay at his flat. Have you been here? His flat with Freddie was nicer, I don't love his choice of decor--" she continues to chatter away happily, making me grin.
"Clare?" I finally interrupt, realizing that I'm going to fall asleep standing up. "I have to run, but could you let him know I called?"
"I'm writing it down now," she replies cheerily.
I hang up and lean against the counter, closing my eyes. God, I've really mucked this one up. I used to be able to trust my instincts, but now that prospect seems like the worst idea in the world. If I'm honest with myself, I think that Roger is probably a good guy. But there's a voice in my head asking quite loudly if I can really trust him. And, as much as I try to ignore that voice, it keeps popping up and making me hesitate.
With a long exhale, I walk over to the stove and dump the water out. Food can wait. What I really need is sleep. Stumbling to my bed, my last coherent thought is that I'll figure this all out later.