Page 41 of You Rock My World

JOSIE

November

I didn’t get the job. I failed. The disappointment presses behind my eyes, thick and swelling, ready to split my skull in two as I walk into Dorian’s home office.

I had my interview set for early this morning and drove straight here afterward.

I’m the last one to arrive— again . A wave of inadequacy crashes over me.

The other people in this room are competent, prepared, and never late.

I used to be like them. To have my shit together.

But now, they’re a well-oiled machine, and I’m the squeaky wheel.

I’ve been so absorbed by him, there hasn’t been space for anything else.

As I take my seat, my gaze drifts to Dorian, and the whiplash hits me. The hard yank I always get when I see him after being away—for an hour, for a week, it doesn’t matter.

He’s leaning back in his chair, the sleeves of his black Henley shoved up his forearms, hair mussed, jaw with a shadow of stubble, as if he couldn’t be bothered to shave this morning.

I should be used to this by now. And yet, every time, it catches me unprepared. My body reacts before I do, recognizing him on some deeper level, and it’s like every cell exhales in relief that we’re close again.

He lifts his head and ticks up his brows in a silent question, How did it go?

His mouth is already tilting in the barest suggestion of a smile, as if he didn’t even contemplate the possibility of my failure.

I give him the smallest shake of my head to let him know I didn’t get it, then drop my gaze before I can see his reaction. Because if I do—if I catch even a flicker of his concern, the quiet reassurance he’d offer, the way he’d mean it —I won’t be able to hold myself together.

I keep my head down the entire meeting. We’re just discussing logistics—plans for Dorian’s upcoming concerts, touching base on ongoing sponsorships.

No crisis, no scandals, nothing urgent to force me to engage.

I only speak when someone asks me a direct question and answer mechanically, a robot reading off a teleprompter.

I can feel Dorian watching me, but I refuse to look back. His fingers tapping against the armrest of his chair are the only sign of his impatience. He barely acknowledges questions too. Dorian isn’t paying attention either. He’s waiting. For me . To talk.

And I don’t know what to tell him.

When the meeting finally wraps, people filter out, throwing back casual goodbyes. I stand, pretending I’m leaving with the others. But of course, I stay.

The moment we are alone, the energy in the room shifts from professional to personal, and I’m not sure I’ve got the bandwidth to deal with it.

But I can’t just ignore him and leave.

Dorian stands, crosses the room in a few strides, and wraps his arms around me without hesitation.

It’s a hug that offers everything without asking for anything in return.

I grip the fabric of his Henley, my fingers pressing into the warmth of his back, and allow myself a few stolen seconds of comfort before I pull away.

“I’m sorry it didn’t go well,” he says, voice comforting. And, gosh, I hate it. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.” I step back further, needing the distance. “I shouldn’t even be here.”

His head tilts. “Why?”

“Because I didn’t get the job,” I snap, frustration bursting out. “Because I blew it. Not because I wasn’t qualified, but because they asked what new clients I was working on signing, and the answer was none. I had no names, no strategies. Just a blank.”

He listens patiently, and it only makes me more furious.

“They didn’t expect me to bring in my current clients,” I continue, voice rising. “That’s standard with a non-compete clause. But they wanted to know what I was building . And I had nothing. Because for the last two months, I’ve only thought about you.”

He opens his mouth to say something, but I don’t give him the chance. I barrel on before he can be kind and convince me my lack of career prospects isn’t a disaster.

“I’ve let you take up every inch of my brain, Dorian.

And while you were touring, doing what you love, I was here, doing nothing.

I should have been building something for myself, reaching out to potential clients, making connections, proving I still belonged in the tech industry.

Instead, I spent my days drawing stories, hiding in some fantasy, like I wasn’t a grown woman with an actual career to build.

And I forgot to plan for a future outside of this. ”

A long beat of silence. Then, cautiously, he asks, “Are you sure PR is what you want to do?”

I scoff, shaking my head. “Don’t.”

“I’m serious.” He folds his arms. “You’ve never said you love it. But you loved creating that story for Penny. Maybe the kids’ book thing is worth exploring.”

“That’s not—” I pinch the bridge of my nose to rein myself in. “You have rose-tinted glasses on because you chased a dream and it worked out. But your story is one in a million. For every musician like you, there are another thousand waiting for a breakout that’ll never come.”

He listens patiently, doesn’t contradict me. And then he does something that makes me irrationally angrier. He apologizes. “I’m sorry. I’ll give you more space. More time to focus on new clients and prepare for the next interview.”

“I won’t get another opportunity like this.” My hands curl into fists, my exhaustion turning jagged, scraping at my nerves. “This was it . This was the perfect fit for me.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Neither do you.”

“Okay.” He nods. “Well, I’m here for you. No matter what.”

“Don’t make promises you’re not sure you can keep.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I am sure.”

That’s when I snap.

“Yeah? And did you make the same promise to Billie when you asked her to marry you?”

The moment the accusation leaves my mouth, I want to claw it back. But it’s too late.

Dorian stiffens, his entire body locking up as if I’ve physically struck him.

His face doesn’t just fall—it shatters. And I hate myself.

Because I know— I know —how much that weighs on him.

The staggering guilt he carries over his divorce.

I took the sharpest thing I could find and stabbed it right through him.

“I-I didn’t mean—” My feet move on their own, wanting to erase the distance between us.

I’m desperate to take it back, to smooth over the damage I inflicted.

But before I can reach him, his hands lift like a barrier, palms out, fingers stiff.

It isn’t an angry reaction. Not even a rejection.

But something much worse: self-defense. He’s protecting himself from me.

From his biggest vulnerability that I threw in his face in the middle of a tantrum because things didn’t go my way.

The thought guts me. My stomach twists so hard, I nearly double over. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”

“We should hit pause before we say something else we regret.” He sounds so wounded . And it’s my fault.

I search his face and only find the slow retreat of someone who’s just learned he can’t trust me not to hurt him. His hands stay raised a second too long before he finally drops them and gives me a curt, “I’ll call you.”

I nod stiffly. “Yeah. Okay.”

And then I leave. I walk out of his house, my pulse hammering in my throat, my hands shaking as I get into my car.

I don’t go home. I stop at the office, sit at my desk, and stare at my screen without seeing anything for hours. How did it get to this? What the fuck am I doing?

Dorian doesn’t call. Not in the afternoon, not at night. He misses the time of our goodnight call. I get that he’s not in the mood to read to me, but silly as it may sound, I don’t want us to go to bed angry.

At midnight, I crack. I grab my phone and start typing a long apology.

I did a shitty thing, and it can’t be undone. But I have to fix it somehow. He’s leaving again tomorrow morning. Dorian will be on the road again for weeks, and I fear that if I let him go like this, I’ll never get him back. So I type and type and type, pouring my heart out as I apologize to him.

When I’m done, I re-read the message, squeezing my eyes shut as I hit send and praying he will forgive me.