He bowed his head against the door, and though the tension in his body eased just a little, the ache in his heart did not. It had been two weeks since Donna had come to him, looking for a place in the Santos campaign, asking to be his deputy. Turning her down had made sense, he knew, but he also knew that he'd hurt her. The look on her face when she'd realized he was saying no had nearly killed him, and after two weeks that felt like slowly dying, he had come to try and make amends. It had taken him five turns around the block, two trips up and down the stairs outside the building, and three minutes of pacing at the end of the hallway to finally bring himself to her door and knock. And she wasn't home. He closed his eyes, leaned into the door, and sighed. What to do now? Go home and get drunk, camp out in the lobby, curl up on her doormat like a lost puppy –
"Josh?"
His head snapped up, and he whirled around to see Donna standing a few feet away, staring at him. His heart stopped beating and his mind raced, trying to read her expression – was she glad to see him? Pissed? Upset? Beautiful. Looking at her, his mind slowly forms the word, and for some reason it allowed him to breathe again. Smiling nervously, he offered a shaky "hi."
"Hi." Her expression, he decided, was primarily perplexed. "What are you doing here?"
"I – I came to see you." Smooth, debonair.
"I gathered that." Her voice was calm, but not cold, and he relaxed a little.
"I couldn't leave things. . .the way we left them. I had to see you, had to explain – "
"You don't have to explain, Josh. I thought about it after I left and realized I was stupid to go to you in the first place."
Now he was perplexed. He'd expected coolness, or anger, or hurt – but not this calmness in her voice, not her light words. "You weren't stupid. I –" Stopping short, he looks around. "Can I come in?"
Her eyes hold his for a second – so steadily! so calmly! - then she wordlessly steps around him and opens the door. They walk to the living room in silence and then, putting down her things, she asks if he'd like something to drink. As if this were something they did on a regular basis, as if nothing were out of the ordinary.
"No, thanks." He watches her shrug off her sweater, then collapses heavily onto a chair across from the sofa where she sits with one leg tucked under. Suddenly, he is almost overwhelmingly tired. He had come expecting a battle – well, at least a heated argument, some pleading – and instead she seemed already to have forgotten the pain of their last encounter.
"You were saying. . ." she prompts him.
Looking up, he tries again to read her expression – nothing. "I don't know what I was saying."