They make it inside the hotel, the doors closing heavily behind them.
Fighting the urge to flee, MacKenzie allows herself to be led to the elevators where the security detail pushes the button for the penthouse suite. Aware of the physical and emotional space between them, she looks early at Will and sees that he is pretending to be deep in thought, looking anywhere but at her.
As they ascend, she tries to keep the rising tide of hysteria in her stomach. Despite several Peabody awards, her absolute competence the newsroom, her ability to survive a war, a stabbing and myriad other mishaps, she's startled to realize that even now, one disapproving look from Will is all it takes to send her equilibrium out the window. She leans heavily against the elevator's mirrored glass, looks down at her shoes and grips the handrails tightly behind her.
The bell rings and the elevator doors open into Will's suite. He motions for MacKenzie to step out first.
"Have a seat - wherever," he says, waving his hand awkwardly around the room. Her mind flashes back to the last time they were in a hotel room together. They'd been in London for work and MacKenzie had thrilled Will by presenting him with tickets to a musical that was only playing in the West End. They'd spent the rest of the next day in bed, only stopping their exploration of each other's bodies long enough to order room service.
She swallows hard, already on the verge of tears. The contrast between then and now is devastating. Before, he would have helped her off with her jacket, settled her on the couch with a glass of her favorite wine, and then gone to prepare her a perfectly temperate bubble bath. He'd have lain his iPod on the bathroom counter, tuned to her favorite songs and she would have sunk into the bath, luxuriating in the music coming through the waterproof speakers he'd purchased just for her, and the knowledge that he was hers alone. He would usually be ensconced in bed when she emerged from bathing (no matter the hour) and he'd welcome her to bed with wide open arms ready to enfold her in his embrace.
Will's thoughts have been travelling along similar lines. He tries to shake them off but the happy memories of past hotel stays assault him: the long hours in bed, completely in tune with one another, the laughter, the teasing, the mutual accord - all the reminders that once upon a time, they were perfectly suited to one another.
Why did she have to ruin it? We were so happy together.
His alter ego tries to jump in and tell him he's dead wrong, that he was the only happy one but Will doesn't buy it. He knows (knew?) what a happy MacKenzie looks like – as surely as he recognizes the melancholy and unhappy one currently seated across the room.
"Can I get you anything to drink?" Will says brusquely as he pulls a Diet Coke from the mini-bar.
"No, thank you," she says.
"Listen, Mac, I'm not sure I can get you out of here in 30 minutes with all the paparazzi hanging around but I'll try to get you out of here as quick as I can."
He sees her wince, but no matter.
He will not be made a fool of again. Well, any more than he has already been today.
She nods and lets the silence fill the space between them.
She can feel him slipping away from her. She'd felt such hope on the car ride over but that now all she feels is despair.
The chasm between them seems to widen with every passing second and she's not sure how the fuck she's going to get across.
There has to be some way to stop the progression.
"Will – what the reporter said – " she begins, but he cuts her off.
"Don't worry about it," he says matter-of-factly. "That's exactly what was supposed to happen."
Dismissing her, he says, "I should call Charlie, ask him how he wants to handle this."
He picks up the phone and turns his back on her.
She studies his hands over his shoulder, watching his fingers press the buttons.
They're trembling.
He's not completely indifferent, then.