Page 39 of Mr. Hotshot CEO

Like the wine, it has a nearly orgasmic effect on me, but this time, I choose my words more carefully. “It’s delicious.”

“I’m glad you like it,” Julian says, as though my enjoyment of the food is the most important thing in the world.

The lamb ribs are exquisite, too, and I think they go perfectly with the wine.

It’s is the best meal I’ve ever had.

“Courtney,” he says a few minutes later, “you really have to stop making those noises when you eat.”

“What noises?”

“You know what I’m talking about.” He gives me a look. “The noises that make it sound like someone is pleasuring you.”

I don’t stop.

* * *

It’s a quarter to seven. We’ve finished eating and Julian has paid the bill. He refused to let me see it, so I’m not sure how much it cost.

“I’m going to the washroom,” he says. “Then we’ll head out.”

He walks away and I have the last of my wine, but this time, it doesn’t taste glorious. This time, I hardly taste anything at all.

I take a deep breath, and when I exhale, there’s a heaviness in my chest.

This happens to me every now and then. I call it a “depression attack”—I don’t know if there’s a technical term for it.

I’ll be having a good time and all of a sudden, it feels like I’m moving through molasses and I can’t experience anything properly anymore. It’ll start happening more often—and last longer—as I approach my once-every-five-years episode of severe depression, and then it’ll become all I know.

I don’t know what depression is like for other people, but this is what it’s like for me.

I take a few more deep breaths, look around, then try to focus on what I can see and hear. Sometimes this stops my thoughts from spiraling, even if I can’t fully appreciate my surroundings. Just acknowledging the existence of the outside world is helpful.

I focus on the line of pruned shrubs at the edge of the balcony. The clink of a utensil against a glass. The purple of the tablecloth.

Perhaps it was the alcohol. Usually, alcohol agrees with me just fine, but occasionally, if I have multiple drinks, it has a depressive effect.

The traffic on Cumberland Street below. The smell of lamb and spices...

“Courtney?” Julian says, returning to the table. “Are you ready to go?”

“Yes, I’m just fine,” I say, though that wasn’t the question he asked.

* * *

We enter Julian’s penthouse. I’m back to feeling normal now, and I’m very much aware of the man standing next to me.

“Thank you,” he says. “I had a good time.”

“Me, too.”

Silence stretches between us.

He looks at his watch. “It’s not even seven thirty. We could watch a movie?”

“Sure.”

“I have a fancy system.” He gestures to the screen on the wall. “But I rarely get to use it.”