~ True or
false, Josh? My life would be better right now if you and your girlfriend
swapped jobs. Why is it for every good thing you do around here, we have to
endure three screw-ups? Sorry doesn’t get me 218. It doesn’t get back the ad
that slipped through your office, any more than it gets back tobacco, which you
gave away for lunch money. ~
The words played
over and over in his mind. He deserved the President’s contempt. He was
failing. He had let his personal life overshadow his professional life and he
was failing miserably at both. And he wasn’t quite sure how to fix either.
He remembered
the conversation he had with Amy on his front steps.
~ I’m not
good at this. ~
~ I wanted to
do this, so I studied. ~
~ I never
learned… ~
And he hadn’t,
so now he felt as if he were failing at Relationships 101, as well.
He clicked off
his desk lamp and turned his chair to face the window. He thought about all the
good he had accomplished so far, and balanced it against all the mistakes he
had made, including this latest catastrophe. So much that he had done
outweighed this issue, but his heart was heavy and he wouldn’t let the scales
tip in his favor.
He sensed
Donna’s presence and he turned to see her standing in the doorway. The
backlighting from the bullpen and the dimness of the office made it difficult
for him to see her face clearly. He was grateful that the same shadows hid his
own face and the weariness he knew must be showing.
“Josh? You’re
still here?” she asked, concern evident in her voice.
“Yeah.” He
turned back to the window, looking out at the dark, starless night, thinking
about how he could fix things. She didn’t leave, but she seemed to understand
his need for quiet and simply took a seat in one of the guest chairs. They sat
this way for several moments until she broke the silence.
“I heard about
what happened in the Oval. I’m sorry.”
And he knew that
she genuinely was sorry. Not the way that Ed and Larry were sorry, an almost
skittish response to witnessing one of their own being yelled at by the
President. Or the way that Sam was sorry, half-hearted sympathy from someone
else who had made mistakes recently. Donna’s sorrow was born of genuine
feeling. It hurt her to see him hurting. And he cherished her compassion at the
same time that he wondered what he had done to deserve it.
“I don’t know
what the hell I’m doing anymore,” he confessed in a whisper.
“I think you
do,” she answered simply.
He turned in his
chair and looked at her intently. There was no subterfuge in her expression,
just a wordless understanding. “How?”
“Because you’re
doing what’s best for this administration. I know you don’t like the marriage
incentives. Neither do I. But you know they need to be included to get the job
done,” she explained.
Again, he
searched her face, looking for a hint of scorn or sarcasm. He found none, just
a simple acceptance. He sensed that she wanted to say more, but she lowered her
gaze, refusing him deeper access to her thoughts.
“I should go.
It’s late.” She stood and started toward the door.
“Donna, wait.”
She paused, her
hand on the door jam, her back to him.
“Thank you.”
His words
startled her and she turned around. “For what?”
“For being here.
For understanding. For... everything.” Her eyes lit up at his words and he was
glad he had spoken. Her expression, her smile, made him feel better. Her simple
presence had calmed his tortured thoughts and for that alone he was grateful.
“You’re
welcome.” And with one last gentle smile, she left.
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