Page 22 of You Rock My World

DORIAN

I recline in a patio chair, feeling unusually light as I stare at the stars. The conversation with Josie lingers in my mind, infusing me with optimism. I hate that I put her in a position where we can’t openly date, but I’m sure we’ll find a solution. We only need time.

Despite the complications, the idea of a slow courtship is exciting.

It feels romantic to take it slow. I want this relationship to work, and an unhurried approach makes me feel calmer.

I’ll have fewer chances to screw up. It’ll also spare me the scathing, he-replaced-his-wife-in-a-week headlines, the fans thinking I moved on too fast, and Billie from having the truth dragged out in front of the world before she’s ready for it.

Not that my ex is ever going to accept my new relationship.

I pick up my guitar, my fingers dancing over the strings as I experiment with new chords. A melody begins to take shape, soft, hopeful, and entirely inspired by Josie.

I play until my phone rings, but it’s only front gate security trying to reach me, not a real call.

I balance the guitar on my knees and pick up. “Yeah?”

“Mr. Phoenix, sorry to disturb you, but we have a situation at the gates.”

“No worries, what’s up?” I ask, imagining it could be a crazy fan or rogue paparazzo—wouldn’t be the first time.

“It’s your ex-wife, sir. She’s demanding to be let in, and she seems… agitated.”

My shoulders tense as I set the guitar aside, already bracing for the emotional storm Billie brings. I sigh, knowing it’s no use denying my ex when she’s in this state. “Let her in. I’ll handle it.”

As I make my way across the house to the front yard, acid burns in my stomach. What could Billie want? Our divorce has been finalized, and we’ve said everything that needed to be said. Her showing up like this can’t be good.

My gut feeling that trouble is coming is confirmed when Billie parks haphazardly in the front driveway, leaving the car at a slant with the engine still running.

She stumbles out of the driver’s seat, her movements unsteady.

My ex-wife is wearing denim shorts, a white tank top, and cowboy boots.

Billie is thin, too thin. And her speech is slurred as she shouts, “You backstabbing bastard.”

I flex my fingers, steeling myself for the onslaught. “What are you doing here?”

She storms up to me. Her blue-streaked blonde hair falls into her face as she jabs a finger into my chest. “You know damn well why I’m here. You’ve been sabotaging my career, haven’t you? Telling everyone in the industry that I’m unstable, that I’m difficult to work with.”

I hold up my hands to placate her. “Billie, I haven’t said anything like that. I?—”

“Don’t lie to me,” she screams, her face inches from mine. “Producers, agents, our label, they’re all turning their backs on me, and it’s because of you.”

I step back and pinch my nose, gathering my patience. “The only thing I’ve told anyone is the truth, Billie. That you need help.”

“Help? I need help?” She lets out a harsh laugh. “That’s rich coming from you. You’re reveling in my misery, aren’t you? Relieved that we’re fucking divorced so you can move on with your perfect little life while I’m left to deal with the fallout.”

Her words strike a nerve and are met by a surge of anger that I push down, refusing to engage with her on that level. “I never wanted things to turn out this way. But our divorce was for the best, for both of us.”

“The best for you,” she spits out. “Admit it, Dorian. You’re seeing someone else, aren’t you? You couldn’t wait to replace me.”

She’s thrown the accusation at me before, but tonight, for the first time, it’s true.

My thoughts drift to Josie, with her sweet, honest face and her pure heart.

A wave of protectiveness washes over me.

Billie Rae will never accept my new relationship, and I’m grateful that Josie and I will have time to explore our feelings in private before facing the world’s scrutiny and my ex’s wrath.

I’ll have to keep Josie a secret from Billie Rae for as long as possible. My ex is already teetering on the edge, and the truth would push her over. But more than that, I need to protect Josie from this drama.

“Billie,” I start, choosing my words carefully. “This isn’t about replacing you. It’s about moving forward. You and I—we were stuck. Unhappy. You know that.”

She crosses her arms. Her posture is defiant, but her eyes show regret—sadness? Is it real? Is she playing me? “We could have worked it out. We could have tried harder.”

Guilt gnaws at me. But the endless fighting, the emotional exhaustion, watching her destroy herself… it had become too much. “I tried, Billie. For years, I tried. You’re the one who never?—”

“Oh, please, not that again.” She scoffs, her lips curling in disdain. “Don’t try to feed me more crap about rehab. You think I don’t know what those places are like? I’ve seen friends come out worse than they went in. I’m not checking myself into one of those looney bins.”

“Billie—”

“I can handle my shit, Dorian,” she cuts me off, her voice rising. “A drink here, a pill there—it’s nothing I can’t control. You always blew everything out of proportion. You never believed in me.”

Her stubbornness is a brick wall, impenetrable and unyielding. I once admired that fierce determination, but now it just makes me tired. Deep down, I know she’s just scared, but admitting that would mean acknowledging the depth of her problems. She’s not ready for that, and maybe she never will be.

“Billie, there’s nothing for you here, you need to go.”

She sways on her feet, her eyes glassy and unfocused. I search for a glimpse of the vibrant, creative woman she used to be, now buried under layers of anger and intoxication. It breaks my heart to see her like this, but I can’t fix her. She has to want to fix herself first.

“I’m not going anywhere until you admit it,” she slurs, her voice rising again. “Tell me you’re fucking someone else.”

I ignore her. “Why did you drive in this state?”

“I’m in no fucking state, you self-righteous prick.” Her face twists into an ugly sneer. “And stop acting like you’re worried about my safety.”

“I am fucking worried.”

“You never gave a damn about me when we were together. It was always about your music, your career, your fucking ego.”

Billie stomps into the nearest flower bed, the heels of her boots snapping stems and crushing the buds into the soil.

Broken petals fly everywhere. A good metaphor for what she did to our life together.

“Your music is as fake as you are.” She spits more venom.

“The same old boring chords, the same tired themes.”

I let her insults wash over me. It’s not the first time she’s attacked my music, my character, my soul. But engaging with her when she’s high is pointless. It’s like trying to reason with a hurricane.

Instead, I discreetly pull out my phone and text her manager, praying he’s nearby.

Dorian

She’s at my house—drove here wasted. Can you come get her? I’m worried she’ll hurt herself

As I send the text, Billie is still ranting, her words blurring together in a drunken haze. “You think you’re so much better than me, don’t you? The great Rian Phoenix, always the fucking saint. Well, guess what? You’re as messed up as I am. You’re just better at hiding it.”

More bushes get destroyed until her manager’s car finally pulls up behind hers. As John approaches, Billie whirls around, her eyes wild.

“You called my manager on me? How dare you?”

“You need someone to take you home.”

“I don’t need your pity,” she screams. “I don’t need any of you.”

She shoves John away, but he takes her arm, guiding her toward his car. She fights him, her protests growing more incoherent by the second. Finally, he manages to wrestle her into the passenger seat, restrain her with the seat belt, and close the door. He looks up at me.

“She needs help,” I say. “It’s getting worse.”

“I’m trying, man. But until she decides to help herself, there’s not much I can do. If you couldn’t convince her, how can I?”

John doesn’t mean to be accusing or confrontational, but hearing that I wasn’t able to help my wife slashes an old wound open in my chest. I’m about to retort that sometimes the people closest to us are those we’re least willing to listen to when Billie cranks the car radio of his car to an earsplitting volume.

Her manager sighs. “I’d better take her home before she wakes up the entire neighborhood and we face charges.”

I nod, rubbing my temples. “I’ll have my driver bring her car back tomorrow.”

As John slides into the car beside Billie, I remain rooted on the spot, torn between guilt and a strong sense of relief.

But it’s a Catch 22. The more relieved I am Billie is no longer my responsibility, the guiltier I feel.

I watch until their taillights disappear down the dark road.

She’s in good hands with her manager, but the sight of her so broken tugs at memories I’d rather forget.

I go to her car and turn it off. My gaze catches on the beads she has wrapped over the rearview mirror.

My heart squeezes with the flashback of our first concert in New Orleans when we were still happy.

A fan had given the beads to me, I had them over my neck, and she wanted them.

I remember her teasingly lifting her top to get them once we were alone in our hotel room.

Us making love all night. I shut my eyes against the memory.

That person is gone. Doesn’t exist anymore.

I seal off my brain before it can go back to the other time we stayed in a hotel in New Orleans. No point in torturing myself.