Page 42 of You Rock My World

DORIAN

I’m in bed, staring at the ceiling, my phone face down on the nightstand.

The alarm clock blinks past midnight, and I still haven’t called her.

I should have. But I didn’t. Because every time I reach for my phone, I hear her voice accusing, Yeah?

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

The words land like a fresh hit, even now, hours later.

I’ve had people throw worse at me—strangers, the press, even Billie herself.

But Josie? She knew how to cut deep. And she did.

I want to believe she didn’t mean it. That it was just anger, frustration.

But I don’t know how to look past it, how to make it sting any less.

Because what the hell was I supposed to say to that?

Defend myself? Tell her she was wrong? That I wasn’t making empty promises to her the way she clearly thinks I did with Billie?

That wouldn’t have mattered. She wasn’t looking for reassurance. She wanted to push me away, to make her failed interview about something bigger than what it was. And maybe I should’ve called her out on it. Made her stay, forced us to talk it through.

And I— fuck —I just let her go without a word.

I drag a hand down my jaw. My eyes burn, and my body is keyed up and exhausted at once. I should sleep.

I’ve just closed my eyes, knowing I’ll never be able to rest, when my phone vibrates against the nightstand.

I tense, sure of who it is even before looking.

She sent me a message. A long one.

I swipe it open, taking in the block of text without reading it yet. This is her reaching for me the way I couldn’t for her.

And even after everything, I still want to be reached. So I read.

Josie

I thought about calling you. I should have.

But I didn’t want to fumble through an apology with half-formed words and nervous pauses.

You deserve better than that. And honestly?

I didn’t trust myself not to make it worse, not to push *you* to make *me* feel better when I’m the one who screwed up.

So I’m writing instead. I don’t even know where to start, but “I’m sorry” is a place.

A pathetic, inadequate place, but the only one I have.

I hurt you. What I said was cruel. I knew where to aim, and I still let myself fire.

That’s not something I can justify or excuse.

Other than saying that I’m not perfect and I fucked up.

Real bad. I take full responsibility. For being selfish.

For taking my insecurities and hurling them at you.

And for dragging up something I know still hurts you, something you never deserved to carry in the first place.

I was frustrated with myself, furious at how I handled the interview, drowning in self-pity.

And you—you were calm and kind, and for some insane reason, that only made me angrier.

Which makes no sense. None of this does.

Instead of dealing with life like a functioning adult, I threw a tantrum and took it out on you for no good reason.

I know you respect me, my work, my goals—and I twisted everything into something ugly because I was too caught up in my mess to see straight.

The fact that I used Billie against you makes me want to crawl out of my skin. It was a cheap shot. And false.

The divorce isn’t your fault. I’ve seen it.

I keep thinking back to the moment you pulled away from me like you had to protect yourself from me, and it makes me sick.

If I made you feel unsafe or like you couldn’t trust me, I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself.

If you need space, I understand. If you need more than space, I understand that too.

But I need you to know that I would do anything to take it back.

A million sorries wouldn’t be enough, but I mean every single one.

I stare at her message, my jaw working as I read it again.

And again. It’s everything she could say.

More than I expected. More than I’ve had in the past. This is what makes Josie different.

Not just from Billie but from anyone I’ve ever been with.

The ability to look her mistakes in the face, to name them, to own them without hesitation or excuse.

Billie never did that. The closest thing to an apology I ever got from my ex-wife was a hand sliding down my stomach, followed by a low whisper in my ear, a distraction that had nothing to do with remorse and everything to do with avoidance.

With making the problem disappear and pretending it never happened.

I went along with it. I let myself be smoothed over and shut up because it was easier than fighting.

But I’m not like that with Josie. She lays it out.

The guilt, the self-awareness, the bone-deep regret.

And it gets to me, settles under my skin, because I know how hard it is to admit you’ve hurt someone, to resist the impulse to justify it, to sit with the discomfort of being wrong. And she’s doing it. For me.

I run a thumb over the side of my phone, debating.

A part of me wants to make her wait. To let her stew in it a little longer, to hold on to the anger because it’d be easier than forgiving her outright.

But another part—one that’s louder—reminds me I spent all night not calling her, letting the silence stretch between us like a bridge I was too stubborn to cross.

And I… I fucking miss her.

So I press call.

Josie picks up right away.

“Hey,” she says, breathless, uncertain.

I swallow. “Hey.”

“I’m sorry.” I can hear she’s fighting not to cry. “I didn’t think you’d call.”

“I almost didn’t,” I admit.

A slow, shuddering exhale on her end. “And?”

“And… I hate how good you are at apologies.”

A small, wet laugh. “Dorian, I meant every word. I was awful to you.”

“You were human,” I tell her. “Not perfect, but real.”

“I don’t want to be human if it means hurting you.”

“Well, I’m not really a vampire so I can’t suck you dry and turn you into a monster.”

“I already feel like one.”

I close my eyes. “Josie?—”

“I was horrible to you.”

“But you’re not now.” I shift onto my side, pressing the phone closer to my ear. “Even at your worst, you still texted a novel-length apology at midnight.”

“I never want to fight with you again.”

“But we will. This has been our first fight, but it won’t be the last. We’ll just have to get better at it.”

“That simple?”

“Not even close.”

“I hate that I hurt you,” she says after a while.

I swallow. “I hate that I let you walk away.”

“So what do we do?”

“We figure it out.”

“Together?”

“Yeah,” I murmur. “Together.”