It could be worse than last time.
That’s the thing about life. It canalwaysget worse.
More tears build up behind my eyes, but I feel too disconnected to actually cry. I want to cry, because when I’m in this state, my best hope of sleeping is exhausting myself from crying. There have been weeks when I cried myself to sleep every night, and there have been weeks when I was too numb to cry but desperately wanted to.
Finally, the tears fall, and finally, I sleep.
* * *
When I wake up on Saturdaymorning, there’s still a heavy pressure in my chest. My right foot is okay, though. When I press on it, there’s a bit of pain, but if you press on anything hard enough, there’s going to be pain.
I don’t want to get up and face the day. I don’t want to fake a smile for Julian.
It’s only seven o’clock. I can stay in bed for a while.
I force myself to take a few deep breaths. In and out. In and out. Unlike last night, my thoughts aren’t spiraling out of control. Later, I’ll call Naomi. That will be good for me. A nice walk will be good for me, too, as will brushing my teeth, taking a shower, and putting on a cute outfit. Today isn’t going to be a great day, but I should be able to stop it from being a truly awful day with a little self-care. It would be better if I were at my apartment, because then I wouldn’t have to worry about Julian, though at the same time, it’ll be good for me to socialize.
I think tripping on Julian’s dresser last night was what set me off. Sometimes the stupidest things get to me, like trying to turn on my laptop and discovering the battery is dead. That’s made me cry inconsolably before.
And yet when my grandmother died last year, I was okay. I mean, I was sad and bereaved, and I knew that feeling would last a while, but somehow it felt bearable.
I am a freak.
Shh, I tell myself.You’re okay.
The morning light filters in through the blinds. Sometimes that would make me smile, but not today. Maybe tomorrow. It’s August, and my once-every-five-years episodes of depression usually don’t begin until late September or October, so I should still have several more good weeks, punctuated by the occasional bad day.
“Courtney?” It’s Julian. He’s standing in the doorway, frowning. “Why are you in the guest room?”
It’s early and my brain isn’t functional enough to come up with a compelling lie. “I wasn’t feeling great, so I came here in the middle of the night.”
“Are you coming down with something? Do you have a fever? A sore throat?” His eyebrows knit together, and his concern is touching. “Do you need to go to the doctor?”
I sit up and shake my head. “No fever or anything. I’m just...not feeling great.”
I wait for him to ask for clarification. He opens his mouth, then shuts it. Opens his mouth, then shuts it again. Julian likes answers, and he likes to fix problems.
But he doesn’t ask, perhaps sensing I don’t want to talk about it. Instead, he crawls into bed with me and curls his body around me from behind.
He’s just holding me, nothing more, and there’s something lovely about being held, especially by Julian. A person’s touch is so simple, yet it can mean so much. It won’t make last night go away, but it makes me feel a little better. A little less alone, even if it’s only temporary. I’m still tender and vulnerable, but I can feel myself getting stronger with each breath.
“If you’d prefer to be by yourself, I can leave,” he says.
I burrow against him. “No, I want you to stay.”
He holds me closer and wraps his leg over mine so I’m completely surrounded by him. It almost feels like he could make everything go away, make me whole again, turn me into a person who doesn’t fall to pieces because her laptop isn’t charged. Or because she tripped over a piece of furniture or knocked a pile of books off her desk. Even Julian Fong is not that powerful, but he’s still good for my mental health right now, and I’ll take what he’s giving me.
He’s also getting aroused.
“Ignore that,” he says when I rub back against him. “I’m sorry, I can’t help it when I’m with you. We certainly don’t need to do anything now.” He pauses. “How about I make you breakfast in bed? What would you like?”
I almost feel like crying, but it’s different from last night. He’s so sweet to me.
“I liked your eggs and bacon last weekend,” I tell him, trying to keep my voice from cracking. “But don’t go. Not yet.”
We stay curled up in bed for a few more minutes before I let him prepare breakfast for me. The kitchen is a long way from the bedrooms, so I don’t smell the bacon or hear the banging of pots and pans. I just relax into the mattress and try not to think too hard. Focus on my senses and not what’s going on in my poor brain. Elena has replaced the duvet cover since the last time I slept in this room. It’s pastel-colored with flowers, and it’s quite pretty. I run my fingers over it.
Julian returns with a wooden tray that has little legs on the bottom. There’s a plate full of bacon and eggs and toast, as well as two lattes.
