Page 95 of Mr. Hotshot CEO
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.
