Page 17 of You Rock My World
“So, are we going to spend the rest of the night in emotional purgatory?” She might be worse than me at silences.
I fire back a smirk. “Hey, it beats some parties I’ve been dragged to where everyone’s pretending to have a good time while angling for a photo with me.”
My tone is light, but the words taste bittersweet. I’m letting her glimpse the exhaustion I usually hide behind charm.
Josie looks at me with that piercing empathy of hers. “What’s that like, being so famous?” Her tone isn’t judgmental, simply curious.
My defense mechanisms still lock in place before I realize she’s not asking for gossip.
“Most of the time, it’s exhilarating,” I admit. “Standing on a stage with tens of thousands of fans screaming my name, singing my lyrics back at me… it’s a rush like nothing else. A high impossible to replicate.” I close my eyes, remembering the sensation of being invincible. “But it’s exhausting too. You’re always ‘on.’ Most people around me feel like part of the performance. It’s… lonely. They see Rian Phoenix, not me. And sometimes, I’m not sure I even know who Dorian is anymore.” I chuckle, not entirely able to shake off the undercurrent of frustration. “It’s the little things. The everyday moments most people take for granted. I can’t grab a coffee without it becoming breaking news.” Guilt sparks in my chest. I have no right to complain. “I know I sound ungrateful.”
“No. It’s a valid sentiment, no one can tell you otherwise.” She grabs my hand, squeezing it once before she lets go. “But you’re still not getting the last brownie.”
“The last brownie? You’ve been hiding brownies from me?”
“I wish.” She groans. “It’s aNotting Hillreference. Saddest person at the table wins the last brownie. Julia Roberts says she’s been starving for years, and every time her heart breaks, the tabloids make it a punchline. At least you don’t have that problem.”
She doesn’t know how wrong she is—or will be soon enough.
“And she jokes about getting plastic surgery to be so beautiful.” Josie studies my face more intently than before, eyes squinting. “You look this good naturally, don’t you?”
I laugh because how can I not.
“Yep. Blame my mom, she was gorgeous.” I hesitate, then add more quietly, “And I know I don’t deserve the brownie. I’m lucky. I really am. I wouldn’t trade my success. I get to create and connect with people through my music. And that’s worth everything else.”
“I get that.” Josie nods. “For me, it’s the exact opposite. I wish I stood out more.” She pauses. When she speaks again, self-deprecating humor laces her tone but it cannot mask the upset underneath. “I’ve always been terrified of being forgettable. I feel like the human equivalent of the color beige: safe, reliable, and easy to overlook.”
She says “forgettable” like it’s a fact. It’s not.
Her hands fist her dress in her lap as if she’s steeling herself for me to agree with her assessment. But nothing about Josie is safe or beige.
I’m talking before I even know I’ve opened my mouth. “Josie, you’re not beige, you’re a rainbow. You’re color in a world that likes to think in black and white. You’re bold when people expect quiet, bright when everything else is gray, impossible to ignore in the best way.”
She blinks, stunned, but I forge on, determined to paint the picture I see.
“We’re stuck in an elevator with nothing to do and this is the most fun I’ve had in forever.”
I clamp my mouth shut, self-conscious. I’ve said too much.
She stares at me, wide-eyed, and for a moment, says nothing. Then, “No one’s ever described me like that.”
“Well, they should. It’s the truth.”
She ducks her head, shy once more, and I stop myself from adding anything else before I turn into a walking Hallmark card. I’m not being very subtle.
“Did I embarrass you? I’m sorry if I did.”
She shakes her head. “No.”
Her posture loosens, and her fingers are no longer twisted in her dress.
At least she’s not hitting the panic button or scraping to leave this elevator through the hatch on the roof.
Josie tugs her hair behind her ear, smiling. “It’s no wonder you’re so amazing at writing lyrics. Do you always keep your ‘waxing poetics’ setting dialed up so high?”
“Default setting,” I say. “Can’t turn it off.”
The truth, one I won’t voice aloud, is that it isn’t always like this. My “waxing poetics” dial is cranked up to a hundred only because I’m around her.
