Page 99 of Mr. Hotshot CEO

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 opensthe 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. Wehaveto 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. Thisisme. 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 full 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.