Mr. Hotshot CEO

by Jackie Lau

  “It’s not what you think.”

  To my horror, she gets to her feet. Before I can stop her, she starts walking, and she limps for the first two steps, but that’s all.

  “It’s just a scratch,” she tells me.

  She walks toward the guest bedroom. I follow. She sits down on the bed and allows me to roll up the bottom of her pants and look at her leg. There’s only a small mark.

  It doesn’t explain anything.

  “Before you ran downstairs,” I say, “you told me you needed to be alone. What happened? Did I do something wrong?”

  “Oh, God.” She splays her hands over her face. “Don’t make everything about you. The world does not revolve around you.”

  “I just want to understand.”

  “No, you really don’t.”

  “Talk to me, sweetheart. Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Why are you calling me ‘sweetheart’?”

  It just popped out of my mouth, but... “I care about you.”

  I do. As I speak the words, I realize I care about her a lot.

  “You wouldn’t if you really knew me,” she says.

  “Tell me,” I say gently, “so I can decide for myself.”

  We look at each other, Courtney sitting on the bed, her face red and blotchy, and me kneeling on the floor beside her.

  She starts crying. At first, quiet tears fall down her cheeks, but then she’s bawling, sobbing ugly tears, and all of me aches for her. I want to fix it, but I can’t fix it if I don’t know what’s going on. I climb into bed and wrap my arms around her. She buries her face against me and continues to cry.

  After a few minutes, her sobs are less frequent, less desperate.

  “It’s okay.” I stroke her back. “You don’t have to talk to me.” I hate saying those words. I want to demand she tell me exactly what’s wrong, but that wouldn’t be the right thing to do. “Do you want to call your sister? Do you want me to drive you to a friend’s house? I don’t think you should be alone now, but you don’t have to be with me.”

  “I don’t deserve you,” she murmurs.

  I can’t stand those words.

  “You’re not thinking clearly,” I say, a bit too irritably.

  I ease her down so she’s lying in the enormous guest bed, and I hold her from behind like I did a few nights ago when I woke up to find her missing from my bedroom. I rub circles over her body.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I’m here with you.”

  She releases a shuddering breath and snuggles closer to me.

  “I have dessert,” I offer. “It’s apple crumble that I’m keeping warm in the oven. There’s vanilla ice cream, too.”

  “Maybe later.”

  “I could get you a gingerbread latte? Or I can make you a regular latte here. Or tea.”

  She nods against me. “Tea is good. It’s on my list.”

  I’m not sure what she means, but I’m glad to have something to do. “What kind of tea?”

  “Whatever you have.”

  I head to the kitchen and tap my fingers against the counter impatiently as I wait for the electric kettle to boil. Then I make a pot of Earl Grey and bring it to the bedroom on the breakfast tray, along with two teacups. When the tea is ready, I pour us each a cup, and she holds hers just below her nose and breathes in deeply.

  “I can’t smell it right now,” she says glumly, “but I’m sure it’s high-quality stuff.”

  I shrug. “I don’t drink a lot of tea. My mom got it for me.”

  “What do you drink?”

  “When I’m working, I have about ten espressos a day.”

  “Of course you do.” She rocks back and forth. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “Sorry for all the coffee beans that go toward feeding my espresso habit?”

  She laughs, but it sounds hollow.

  “Are you a little better now?” I ask.

  “I’m in control. Sort of. I started to feel depressed when we were eating, and then I completely lost it when I tripped on the stairs, but now...” She looks down. “I’m sorry. None of this is your fault, and I’m sorry you have to deal with me like this.” She hesitates. “It’s like I have these attacks of depression that come upon me suddenly—I think of them as being similar to panic attacks. It probably sounds weird, but it happens sometimes, and now that it’s approaching five years, they’re more frequent. Soon, I’ll be living in a constant cloud of gray. Every five years, I sink into a deep depression, and I can feel it coming on. I don’t know why it recurs on such a predictable schedule, but it does.”

  I absorb her words, then put down our teacups—it’s too hot to drink anyway—and wrap her in my arms again.

  “Is this what happened on the weekend, too?”

  “Yes, but it wasn’t as bad. I think it was worse this time in part because I was trying to keep up a happy front since you went to so much effort to prepare a nice dinner. I appreciate that, I really do. I’m sorry I ruined it.”

  “You don’t need to keep saying ‘sorry.’ For the next hour, don’t apologize to me at all.”

  She nods. “These thoughts...they keep running through my head, and they’re awful. The food you made was delicious, but I stopped being able to taste it properly. Depression isn’t like being really sad. Actually, I consider sadness a positive emotion because it’s manageable. I don’t feel as helpless when I’m sad. It’s so much better, you have no idea. Or maybe you do. I shouldn’t jump to conclusions.”

  I shake my head.

  I don’t know what to do. I’m out of my depth. I just know I want to be here for her.

  “I’m sorry,” she says again. “This isn’t what you signed up for. You wanted someone who knows how to have fun!” She says it with faux cheer. “That’s what you’re paying me for, and I’m failing miserably at it.”

  “No more ‘sorry,’” I remind her. “And you are not failing. You’ve done a great job.” I pause as something occurs to me. “Ten years ago, when you were in university...”

  “That was my worst episode of depression. I had to go on leave during my last year of undergrad, and then my boyfriend dumped me, which didn’t help.”

  I see terror in her eyes as she thinks back to that time.

  “There’s no trigger,” she says. “Everything can be going great and then it just happens. Even in between my bad episodes, I’m not quite normal. I have to be careful. Though usually I’m pretty good at caring for myself.”

  “Have you tried getting help? There are—”

  “Don’t,” she whispers. “Please don’t. That’s what everyone asks when they first hear about my depression—not that I tell many people about it. But from what you know of me, do you really think I would have suffered so much without trying to get help?”

  “No, but maybe—”

  “I’ve tried everything. I’ve lost track of how many drugs I’ve failed to respond to. I’ve tried therapy, and for whatever reason, that hasn’t worked for me, either. I refuse to do ECT—electroconvulsive therapy—because it sounds so damn invasive and because of the cognitive side effects. I know I wouldn’t be able to deal with the memory problems. I tried rTMS, and it felt like I was being hit over the head with a hammer for half an hour. Even then, I went back for a second session, but it was no better. They even talked about a study that would involve drilling a hole in my head to implant a pacemaker, but I draw the line at someone drilling a fucking hole in my head.”

  I don’t understand all the things Courtney is talking about, and I make a mental note to look them up tomorrow. I’m not going to ask her to explain more than she already has.

  “You said it happens every five years,” I say. “It’s not chronic. It goes away eventually, but not with the help of drugs or anything else?”

  “Sometimes it lasts six months, sometimes well over a year. The one constant is that it goes away after I’ve given up on treatment, so that’s how I know none of those things have worked.” She reaches for her teacup. “It�
�s not supposed to be like this. You’re supposed to try a few drugs and find one that works. Maybe it won’t be the first drug, but you’re supposed to find something soon enough. But there are many people like me who have treatment-resistant depression. And if you suggest a little yoga or tai chi will fix it, I will stab you.”

  “Fair enough.”

  “Some people think those of us with depression just don’t appreciate the little things in life, which you know isn’t true for me. Sometimes I wonder if my depression is actually the reason I’m good at that. Every five years, I become incapable of enjoying gourmet ice cream on a hot summer’s day and other small pleasures, so when I’m able to enjoy them, it feels like such a gift. In fact, sometimes I think of myself as an innately happy person who suffers from depression.” She smiles at me weakly. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”

  We drink our tea in silence for a couple of minutes. There are many more things I want to ask, but I keep them to myself.

  “Let’s watch a movie,” I say. “You pick.”

  She picks Wedding Crashers because she wants something that doesn’t require much thought. We eat warm apple crumble with vanilla ice cream as we watch the movie, and I’m pleased with myself for baking something so delicious. I went to a local grocer to buy produce today, and I enjoyed looking at the selection of fresh fruits and vegetables. I rarely go grocery shopping—Elena takes care of that for me—and the novelty of it, combined with the way I’ve been seeing the world through Courtney’s eyes lately, made it a pleasurable experience.

  Or maybe my baking skills aren’t all that impressive. Maybe the crumble just tastes so good because everything tastes good these days.

  Courtney laughs occasionally during the movie, but it’s a brittle laughter. She’s not quite herself. The thought of her hurting so much causes an unbearable ache inside me; I can’t stand to see her suffer. I need to fix this for her. I have resources and contacts that she does not.

  I put it on my to-do list for tomorrow, along with planning our trip to Montreal. For some reason, I want to plan the trip myself rather than ask Priya for help. Plus, I have the time to do it.

  I ask Courtney if she wants some wine, but she says no, it’s probably best if she doesn’t drink more tonight. So I make another pot of tea.

  When the movie’s over, I gather her up in my arms and carry her to my bedroom. She puts on one of my T-shirts for bed, as she’s been doing the past few nights. I like seeing her in my clothes.

  “It’s nice to have you around,” she says, running her hand over my face, like she’s exploring me. “It helps. It can’t solve everything, but it helps.”

  Five minutes later, she’s asleep.

  Chapter 21

  Courtney

  It’s a new day, and I’m walking to work. The sun is out, but it’s still cool, reminding me that it’ll soon be fall. Leaves changing color, pumpkin spice everything. I associate fall with falling into depression because my episodes of severe depression always start at this time of year.

  For now, though, I’m mostly okay, though I feel vulnerable and exposed after last night.

  I don’t like talking about my problems. Some people find it cathartic, but I never have. Plus, it reminds me of the time I told my parents when I was sixteen.

  I knew there was something wrong with me, so I starting talking to a guidance counselor at school. She said I was probably depressed, and she insisted I tell my parents and get them to take me to the doctor. I knew my parents would not react well, as I told her again and again. But her only solution to my problem was to tell my parents, and she assured me they’d be understanding. I thought she was full of shit.

  And I was right. They did not take it well. My mom acted like it was all my fault, and my dad refused to believe there was any real problem and thought I could just snap out of it.

  So I don’t like telling people about my problems, though talking to Julian went okay. He listened. He held me. He asked what he could do for me, and he did it. In the end, it was good to have him there, even if I had to patiently explain all my efforts to treat my depression.

  Except now I feel like I’ve cut open my skin and forced him to look at my heart, my kidneys, my liver, and although I’ve been sewn back up, it’ll never be the same again.

  It’s hard to keep secrets when you’re living together. I had to tell him—he deserved to know why I flipped out. But in less than a week, it’ll be over, and I’ll go back to my regularly-schedule life. It sounds impossible, but that’s what will happen.

  Two weeks. That’s what we agreed on, and it’s for the best. Although I’ve become a bit attached to him, I still think I’ll be able to manage.

  If I gave him a chance to break me like Dane did, that would be a different matter.

  When Dane dumped me, it sent me into an awful tailspin. I felt worthless and stupid. People kept telling me that was just my depression talking, but the fact that my long-term boyfriend didn’t want to be with me felt like proof that all the negative things I’d been thinking were correct.

  Anyway, it’s fine now. It really is. But I won’t let it happen again.

  I’ll enjoy my remaining days with Julian, and then we’ll go our separate ways.

  * * *

  Julian texts me in the afternoon, after a meeting about the Charles Fong Cardiology Wing. He told me about this earlier; it’s the only meeting he’s attending during his two weeks off.

  He asks me to meet him at an Italian restaurant for dinner when I’m finished work, and he also asks if it’s okay if he invites his brothers. Cedric is back in town and Julian wants to catch up, but he says he understands if I don’t want to, if I’d prefer to see my sister after work or just spend time alone with him.

  I’m curious to meet his other brother, and I decide I’m well enough to go.

  When I step into the restaurant in Little Italy, Julian comes over and greets me with a kiss on the cheek. That relatively chaste kiss sends tingles all through my body.

  Julian Fong is, indeed, a very powerful man.

  We walk to the table, and he introduces me to Cedric.

  Although Vince and Julian don’t look much alike, I can see the resemblance between Julian and Cedric. They have similar builds and smiles, but Cedric’s doesn’t light me up the way Julian’s does.

  “So you’re the woman who’s got my brother buying phallic cacti and sunbathing in the middle of the week,” Cedric says.

  Vince walks over and takes the seat across from mine. “Cacti? Has Julian bought another one?”

  “No,” I say, “but I’m thinking of making him a terrarium. I’ll name each cactus in it.”

  “Are they all going to be named after characters from Friends?”

  “Dear God,” Julian mutters, putting his hand to his forehead and shaking his head. “Please don’t.”

  Despite his words, I know he enjoys his brothers’ ribbing.

  “Hmm,” I say. “I’ll think about it. And I’ll put a picture of the terrarium in the scrapbook. Julian, honey, you still have to book our private scrapbooking lessons.”

  “Can I come, too?” Vince asks.

  “Don’t you have better things to do with your time?” Julian says. “Posing in calendars? Attending orgies?”

  “Let me check my schedule.” Vince pulls out his phone and swipes his finger over the screen a few times. I don’t think he’s actually looking at anything. “I have some free time on Saturday morning.”

  “Will you even be awake on Saturday morning?”

  “Good point, good point. Maybe Sunday? My hangover and the girls I pick up should be gone by noon.”

  “We’re going to Montreal this weekend,” Julian says, “and honestly, I was hoping everyone would forget about the scrapbooking. Why do you want to attend a scrapbooking lesson anyway?”

  “Because I would take great joy in watching your reaction when someone asks you to stencil hearts and flowers. Not that I have any idea what scrapbooking involves. I
’m just making shit up.”

  “Clearly,” Julian mutters.

  “You’re planning a romantic weekend in Montreal?” Cedric asks. “This is serious.”

  I shift uncomfortably in my seat, and Julian opens his mouth, probably to protest that it’s not serious. But even though that’s true, I don’t want to hear him say the words, so I quickly change the subject.

  “I hear you’re a writer,” I say to Cedric.

  Unfortunately, this seems to be the wrong thing to say.

  “I was a writer,” he grunts. “I don’t what I am now.”

  A brief silence settles over the table.

  “Come on, man,” Vince says. “You’ll figure it out soon. Now, how about we order a bottle of wine. What do you like, Courtney?”

  “I always let Julian pick. I don’t know much about wine, except that there’s white and red.”

  Cedric turns to Julian. “It doesn’t bother you to hear her talk about wine like this? You’re usually rather serious about your wine.”

  “I bet Courtney has other skills that make up for it,” Vince says.

  “Vince,” Julian growls.

  “I wasn’t talking about those skills. But her skill at picking out phallic houseplants is definitely impressive, and she’s succeeded in keeping you away from the office. Priya says you haven’t been in since that first day. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

  “He made me a nice three-course meal yesterday.” The words pop out of my mouth before I can think better of it. I don’t want to talk about last night’s dinner.

  Vince and Cedric exchange a look.

  There’s a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. Shit. They know about my breakdown and my depression. Julian must have told them.

  I cannot handle his family knowing about that. I feel too exposed as it is.

  Before I can shoot Julian a dirty look, Cedric says, “It’s hard for me to imagine him doing anything in the kitchen beyond making an espresso. He’s certainly never cooked for a girlfriend in the past. Or maybe he did and we just didn’t hear about it.”

  Okay, I was wrong about the reason for their reaction. I breathe out a sigh of relief.