Mr. Hotshot CEO Page 18

  He nods as he slides it into his pocket. “I can’t wait until I have you alone tomorrow.” He winks at me before I leave.

  I’m very much looking forward to tomorrow.

  * * *

  That evening, I do a stupid thing.

  I Google my boyfriend.

  Among the news about Fong Investments and his family’s philanthropy, I find a picture of Julian and a beautiful woman at a gala. According to the caption, her name is Olivia Tremblay. She’s wearing a stunning blue gown and she has a perfectly-messy updo. She’s smiling up at Julian, who is turned partially away from the camera, with adoring eyes. Another Google search reveals she’s a lawyer at a prestigious firm. Julian mentioned an ex named Olivia once, so I know they were actually together.

  But they’re not together anymore. He’s with me and he cares for me, and sometimes he’s in such a rush to be inside me that he doesn’t wait until we’re in the bedroom. It might be hard to believe, but this man wants me. He’s the one who suggested we have something more. When I mentioned my depression, he said he’d be there for me, and he’s seen me when I’m in a bad place.

  If Julian were here right now and I spilled out all my insecurities, he would tell me again that he wants me. If I told Naomi, she would reassure me, too.

  Although it’s not cold, I wrap myself in a fuzzy blanket and sit down on my recliner with a cup of tea, a few gingersnaps, and one of my favorite novels. This is what I do when I start to feel shitty: I try to treat myself well. Sometimes I also do little things that make me feel productive, like putting away the dishes or throwing the garbage down the chute.

  I’ve only read a few pages when my mind starts to wander.

  Julian should have a more fashionable girlfriend who’s less of a mess—like I was thinking on the plane. He shouldn’t be with someone who struggled to finish her degree.

  No, it’s silly of me to think like that. Besides, I’m hardly an intellectual slouch—I have a PhD, for God’s sake—and I had to take a break from school because I was sick. That’s nothing to be ashamed of.

  I pick up a gingersnap and dip it in the tea. I nibble the softened part of the cookie, then bite into the harder part.

  It’s sweet and a little spicy...and yet I can’t really taste it. I can’t enjoy it.

  I force myself to return to the book in my lap. I read a page, then realize I have no idea what I just read, so I read it again, and I sort of, kind of, understand.

  This is embarrassing. I can’t even understand a goddamn chick lit novel that I’ve read several times before. Who the fuck gave me a PhD?

  Well, at least it’s not a PhD in English literature.

  I struggle to keep reading, now going at an extremely slow pace, and I keep drinking my tea. I’m getting a tiny bit calmer, but not much.

  I toss the book on the floor. What’s the fucking point? I’m coming up to my regularly-scheduled episode of depression, and nothing can help me when I’m in the middle of that.

  But then I remind myself that even if the fuzzy blanket, tea, and book don’t make me feel good, sometimes they make me feel a little less bad, even when I’m in the throes of severe depression. There’s still reason to do self-care even when I continue to feel shitty.

  Ugh. Why does Julian’s ex have to be so damn beautiful?

  I need to forget about Olivia Tremblay. That was the past.

  Still, I find myself Googling her again, and from a quick look at her Facebook account, I discover she’s now married.

  She doesn’t matter. She’s moved on. Julian’s moved on.

  Why can’t I understand a fucking chick lit book?

  And I hardly ever talk to my parents. I’m a terrible daughter.

  Why. Why. Why?

  I pace around the room. Unwanted thoughts keep rushing through my mind and my chest feels hollow and it hurts to breathe. I visualize putting my insecurities in a box, locking it up, and throwing it into the ocean, where it can’t hurt me, but that doesn’t help.

  I should not be alone right now.

  I pick up my phone to call Naomi. It might be a little late for her to come over, but she’ll come if I need her. We can talk on the phone for a few minutes first, and maybe that will be enough to calm me down.

  Or Julian! Nothing is better than feeling his arms around me. That will help me feel more like myself.

  Okay. That’s the plan. Call Julian and get him to come over. Simple plan. I can do it.

  I pull up his contact information and dial. It rings...and rings...and rings...

  Please, Julian, pick up. I need you.

  ...and then it goes to voicemail.

  I end the call and send him a text rather than leave a voicemail.

  It’s fine. It really is. It’s nine o’clock at night, so he shouldn’t be at work, but maybe he’s in the shower. He’ll call me back soon.

  I continue to pace, but my legs feel like lead. They’re too heavy. This is too much work.

  I collapse on the couch and call Julian again.

  Still no answer.

  Dammit.

  It’s okay. I can do this. I’ll wait another ten minutes. Surely he’ll call within ten minutes, and if not, I’ll call Naomi. It’s okay.

  I manage another ten minutes, but when I call Julian again, I get voicemail.

  Hmm. Maybe he had a work dinner, although wouldn’t he have told me when I saw him at lunchtime?

  But he didn’t, and that’s okay.

  I don’t deserve to have a boyfriend anyway.

  I tremble and let it all wash over me, a wave slamming against the shore. Even if I do deserve to have a boyfriend, which is what Naomi would say, I can’t have one. It’s not safe for me.

  Look at me. I’m a fucking wreck. I may have two degrees, but I’m an idiot who can’t even read right now and can’t stop all these awful thoughts from running through my mind. If something bad had happened, like a relative died or a parent was diagnosed with cancer, it would be reasonable for me to need his comfort.

  Except I’m a fucking wreck over nothing. Planning a surprise lunchtime visit for Julian and having it not go as hoped—that was a little disappointing, but no big deal. Googling his ex and realizing she’s successful and gorgeous was irritating, but they seem to be over each other, so no biggie, right?

  Fuck, I’m so unstable.

  It’s not safe for me to have a boyfriend because no man is going to tolerate a woman like me. If I responded to medication and therapy, maybe it would be different, but my depression is so special that it resists treatment, so I’m stuck like this.

  Who the fuck doesn’t respond to therapy? What’s wrong with me?

  Inevitably, any boyfriend would break up with me, like Dane did. And that destroyed me. It tipped me over the edge.

  I cannot survive that again.

  I have to end this before it’s too late.

  At that thought, a sense of peace descends on me. I curl up on the couch, my mind blank. I still feel like crap, but at least my thoughts aren’t coming rapid-fire anymore.

  I have to break up with Julian. That’s just the reality of the situation.

  But I love him.

  There’s an unbearable hollowness in my chest, and my brain feels like it’s stuffed with straw, but even through all that, I know I love him. It would be foolish to think this will be easy. However, it’ll be easier to do it now than to deal with him leaving me in a couple months.

  I snuggle up under the blanket and hug myself tight. The phone rings, and I jump in surprise, but I don’t answer it. It’s probably Julian, and I can’t deal with that now. Tomorrow, I’ll see him—we have plans to eat dinner together—and I’ll end this.

  When he asked me if we could be together, I never should have said yes, but what’s done is done, and now I have to fix it.

  There are quieter voices in my head, telling me that maybe it will all work out and we can be together and he won’t leave me.

  But I can’t be seduced by that fantasy again.r />
  It’s a fantasy, nothing more.

  Chapter 26

  Julian

  I get home at seven o’clock on Wednesday, which isn’t bad. I was at the office for less than twelve hours, and I won’t do any work tonight. I’ll eat the meal Elena has prepared for me, text Courtney, watch some TV, and read a little before bed. I might even get to bed by ten, and that’ll give me a solid seven hours of sleep.

  How about that.

  I eat dinner, and I’m just about to turn on the TV when there’s a loud banging at the door.

  I open it up. It’s Vince. He staggers into my condo and sways as he walks to my couch.

  “Too much tequila,” he says. “Couldn’t seem to stop. Was doing shots off a girl’s stomach.”

  I don’t know if that’s true, but he’s definitely drunk.

  He tries to sit down on the couch but ends up falling to the floor. He makes it on his second attempt.

  I go to the kitchen and pour him a glass of water, but he waves it away with a hiccup. “Can’t keep anything down.”

  Dear God.

  I grab a garbage can and put it next to him. “If you’re going to puke, try to do it in there.”

  He nods, then rests his head on the armrest. “I hate my life,” he says, in the most sorrowful voice. “I hate it. You were right. I’m not okay.”

  “Do you regret selling your company?”

  “No.” He hiccups or burps—I’m not sure which. “I didn’t want it anymore. Wanted more time for hookers and blow.”

  “Vince, be serious.” Yes, he’s drunk, but perhaps this is my best chance of getting him to talk honestly.

  “It’s true. Sort of. Wanted to have a life. Less stress. More time for doing nothing and dicking around, more time for girls. Don’t worry, I always use protection.”

  “Thank God,” I mutter.

  “Hey, the room is spinning. I didn’t know your fancy condo revolved.”

  “Nothing is spinning. You’ve just had too much to drink.”

  Vince throws an arm over his eyes. “I feel so unfulfilled.” He laughs a truly miserable laugh. “Listen to the words I’m using. Such bullshit.”

  “What do you want to do with your life?”

  “Don’t know. Didn’t want the company anymore, but didn’t think I’d be so bored. I...” He looks like he’s going to hurl. I thrust the garbage can in front of him just in time.

  I do not have much experience with drunks—and that includes myself. It’s been years since I had more than three drinks in a night. I don’t like feeling out of control, and I definitely don’t like feeling sick the next day.

  He puts the garbage can down. “There. I think I’m done. I feel a little better now.”

  “You have vomit on your chin.” I return to the kitchen to get some paper towels. I hand them to him so he can clean himself up, then sit down on the chair beside him. “Why did you come to my place?”

  “Dunno. I like pissing you off.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “You’re my best friend.” He holds out his arms as though he wants a hug, but I don’t go to him.

  “That’s sad,” I say.

  “I know. Pathetic. I’m pathetic.”

  “You just need to try a few things until you figure out what you like.”

  “Dunno why I’m asking you for help. You always knew what you wanted, and then you did it, and that’s that.”

  This is true.

  “Alone in a crowd,” he says. “That’s how I feel. I keep thinking if I surround myself with more people, I won’t feel lonely. But it doesn’t work. I’m lonely and bored and you’re my best friend and now I want more tequila, though I’d settle for scotch.”

  “No. Drink the water instead.”

  He gives me the middle finger before drinking half the glass.

  “Do you get drunk often?” I ask, rather afraid of the answer.

  “Not this drunk.”

  Well, that’s something.

  “I’m jealous,” he says. “You got a job. You got a girl.”

  “You have lots of girls, too, from the sounds of it.”

  He considers this for a moment. “Courtney is your girlfriend. It’s different.”

  “Is that what you want? A girlfriend?”

  “I don’t know. No matter what I do, I’m bored.”

  “Much as I hate to say it, you’re a very intelligent person who ran a successful tech company. It’s hardly surprising you’re bored now that you have nothing to challenge you. And it seems like you’re also missing meaningful personal connections.”

  He looks at me as though I’m speaking Latin. “Too complicated for my simple brain.”

  I roll my eyes. “Okay. We’ll talk when you’re sober.”

  “Can I stay the night? I don’t want to go home. We can paint our nails and listen to Katy Perry!”

  I sigh. “You can stay the night, but this is not a sleepover party.”

  Settling back on the couch, he burps and closes his eyes.

  Well, I’ll leave him alone for a bit. I go to the kitchen and grab my phone off the table.

  Three missed calls, all from Courtney. A text message that says, Call me, sent fifteen minutes ago. I know she wouldn’t call me three times in twenty minutes unless it was urgent.

  Shit.

  I remember when she tripped on the stairs and lay in a heap on the floor. Her tears and blotchy face. Her flat voice.

  I know exactly what happened to Courtney, and she needs me.

  I call her, but there’s no answer.

  Shit. She shouldn’t be alone. I need to go to her.

  I hurry to the living room and glance at Vince. He’s snoring like a freight train. I don’t want him to wake up alone, since he’s not doing well, so I call Cedric and ask him to check on Vince. Then I hurry to Courtney’s.

  * * *

  When Courtney opens the door to her apartment, she’s wrapped in a fuzzy blanket—even though it’s summer—and her face is shuttered.

  “Hey,” she says quietly, her voice dull.

  I step inside and wrap her in my arms. It hurts so much to see her like this, without her usual spark and joy.

  “I had a meltdown,” she explains. “That’s why I tried to call you. I thought you could hold me.”

  “I’m here now.” I lead her to the couch. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t hear the phone. Vince came over, and he’s drunk and not in a good place. My phone was in the other room and... I’m sorry. About lunch, too. I wish I could have eaten with you.”

  “It’s okay. I understand. I would have done the same for Naomi. Not to worry.”

  But her next words, spoken after we cuddle for a few minutes, make my heart drop.

  “I think we should break up,” she says, pulling away from me.

  “What?” I couldn’t have heard that correctly.

  “I think we should break up. We have to break up.”

  I’m shaking my head before she can finish speaking. Apparently I did hear her properly the first time. “You’re just saying that because you had a bad evening. You don’t really mean it.”

  “Oh, so now you think I’m crazy and you won’t listen to me?”

  What?

  “I never said you were crazy, but you’re not yourself now. You shouldn’t make rash decisions.” She won’t seriously think this is a good idea tomorrow, will she?

  “I have news for you, Julian. This is me. This is who I am.”

  “No, it’s just your depression talking.”

  Her eyes flash.

  I’ve read a lot about depression in the past week. I know it can twist your thinking, and I know some people find it helpful to think of their depression as a separate entity from them.

  But it appears I’ve said the wrong thing.

  “How dare you,” she says, jumping up. “When you’re depressed, that’s all anyone says to you. ‘It’s just your depression talking.’ Nobody believes anything you say. They just assume you’re always f
ull of shit.”

  I hold up my hands and get to my feet. “I’m not saying that, but right now—”

  “Tomorrow, I’ll still think the same thing. We shouldn’t be together. When you asked to keep seeing me after our two weeks were up, I knew it was a bad idea. I just couldn’t stop myself from saying yes because I like you a lot. But it was foolish of me. You think you can handle me now, but you’re going to break up with me like Dane did because you won’t be able to handle it when I’m sick for months at a time.”

  “No.” I shake my head vehemently. “I won’t break up with you. I love you.”

  I didn’t want the first time I said those words to be in anger, but there it is.

  Now she’s the one shaking her head. “You don’t truly love me.”

  Her words pierce my heart. She doesn’t understand how wrong she is.

  I know who I am. A man who loves her more than anything.

  Goddammit. “You’re mad at me for not believing what you say, but you won’t believe what I say, either. Courtney, I mean it. I do love you.”

  “You love the woman who enjoys gingerbread lattes and wandering around the city.”

  “Yes. That’s you.”

  “Sometimes it’s me.”

  “Your depression is not you.”

  “I can’t separate myself from my mental illness. It’s a part of me.”

  “We’ll fix it,” I say. “We’ll get you healthy again. I have resources that you don’t. We can figure it out. Depression is a treatable illness.”

  “You don’t understand. You think you can throw money at any problem and fix it, but it’s not like that. I told you, I tried. I tried so goddamn hard, believe me. I tried every drug they suggested, even though none of them worked and some of them had awful side effects.” There are tears in her lashes. “You know how exhausting it is to keep trying new treatments and having them fail? To have your hopes crushed over and over? I refuse to try any more drugs.”

  “Therapy. It’s not generally covered under provincial healthcare and it can get expensive, but—”

  “I’ve tried. I saw literally every counselor at the universities I attended.”