Page 89 of You Rock My World
Dorian shifts to look at me. “You’re sure you’ll be okay while I’m gone? That the long distance is not an issue?”
I nod. “Doesn’t matter what time zone you’re in. You’re always in my thoughts.”
His throat bobs. “Same.”
His thumb skims over my hip, not pulling me closer, not letting go, just holding, as if this moment could stretch forever. Then, he dips his head and presses a slow, lingering kiss on my forehead.
And then he’s gone.
* * *
In the following weeks, I don’t fall into the same trap of putting everything on hold while I wait for him to come home. Every spare minute I have, I put it to use, making sure I have something to show for it.
With Dorian away, my plate at work is only half-full. I still have to monitor and manage his press coverage. It’s enough to keep me busy, but not enough to fill all the gaps. Nadine still doesn’t let me touch my old clients, which leaves me stuck in limbo. So, I attend networking events, shake hands, make conversation, and plant seeds. But it’s hard when I can’t close anyone new. I don’t want to sign them while still under my non-compete clause. But with no new firm to bring new clients to, all the professional shmoozing adds up only to a pile of maybes. A lot of possibilities with nothing concrete.
The headhunter I’ve gotten in touch with only has positions open in different cities. But I don’t want to move. My family is here. Dorian is here.
He doesn’t bring it up again in our calls, the thing he said before he left—about publishing my children’s book. But it stays with me, lodging itself in the back of my mind until, one night, I finally do something about it. I research literary agents, read submission guidelines, and send query letters.
It’s a small step forward. But better than nothing.
Two weeks later, Dorian returns home for Thanksgiving. We sneak him into my mom’s house, and he spends the holiday with my family. It feels like he’s always been one of us.
In early December, an agent I contacted replies, offering me representation. I’m giddy with excitement, at least until we jump on a call and talk numbers. She lowers my expectations on what I could realistically earn on a single book in my first years—definitely not enough to replace my current salary, but we click, and I sign with her. Dorian is so supportive when I tell him. He treats the news like I’ve landed a seven-figure deal with a movie option already lined up, not a cautious first step and a sobering call about numbers. His belief in my success is loud, immediate, and entirely unshakable.
He encourages me to work on the next story, and it’s all I do for the next ten days, until, finally, Dorian comes home for good.
40
JOSIE
December
The last three dates of Dorian’s world tour are here in LA, from Friday, December 12, through Sunday, December 14. We don’t get much time together when he arrives. His plane touches down, and within minutes, he’s swept into soundchecks, press interviews, and rehearsals that stretch late into the night. Even offstage, he moves in sync with his band, their rhythm ingrained from months on the road. They eat together, breathe the same music, and operate like a unit. Dorian is home, but not really. Not yet. But I don’t mind. This is the last stretch before he gets to slow down, before we both can take a breath. Only three more nights and then his schedule will be relatively clear for the holidays. And with Christmas around the corner, I’ll have time off work, too.
I go to all three concerts, this time as part of his staff. Each night, the venue is packed to the rafters with screaming fans, the energy so palpable, my skin tingles. I sing along, I dance, and I lose myself in the music. But more than anything, I admire him.
By the last night, the buzz is even more powerful. The fans are enjoying the final concert of his world tour, but also saying goodbye.
I follow the event from behind the main stage with the technicians, listening to him sing, feeling the bass vibrate through the floor and Dorian’s voice ring through the arena, every note, every lyric, overpowering.
I have my eyes fixed on Dorian, following him on a mega screen when, in an instant, everything changes.
I catch a flicker of motion in the lower rafters above him. A blur in my peripheral vision that sends a jolt of fear through me.
One of the hanging set lights, a smaller fixture meant to cast a warm glow during acoustic numbers, wobbles, then breaks free from its rigging. My stomach lurches as if I were BASE jumping off a skyscraper.
I bring my hands to my mouth as the fixture plunges downward, swinging erratically on its remaining cable before it breaks free.
In the flattened image of the display, I can’t tell if it’s on a collision course with Dorian, but the screen makes it look terrifyingly close.
Dorian turns his head at the last second and stops singing mid-lyric, his sharp intake of breath cutting through the arena speakers.
He tries to sidestep, but he’s not fast enough.
The metal housing scrapes across his face, clips his shoulder, and then crashes to the stage with a sound like a gunshot, shards of glass and metal exploding in all directions. Behind him, the band falters, the instruments trailing off, the sudden silence deafening.
The crowd gasps as one as we all stay suspended in a surreal stillness.
