A/N (Jo): Thank you to everyone who has kindly left us a review. We are still having so much fun with this, but the reviews are a massive dollop of whipped cream on top. It means the world that people are enjoying it, so please keep the feedback coming.

Huge thanks again to my writing partner in crime, Aimee, and to our beta extraordinaire, Stef.

It's teamwork at its best.

You've Got Mail

Chapter 5

~oOo~

Do I believe that people can change? Of course, they can.

I mean, I think fundamentally, we are who we are. But as we go through life and we build relationships with others, we discover more about ourselves. As a result, we begin to realize what's important to us. And THAT is usually very different from what our priorities were when we were younger.

I know we only speak to each other through these emails, so I hope you don't think I'm presumptuous if I say I feel I know you pretty well. I would say you are a man with principles. A good man that is highly driven but fiercely loyal and has a good sense of right and wrong. I'd guess this current self-doubt and reflection that's causing you to question who you are and what you've become is natural. What you really want out of life, what really matters to you is simply changing, evolving, and so everything may seem a little out of whack. Don't fight it. Let your instincts lead the way. I bet they've served you well so far.

I watched the Survivor episode you referred to the other day. I have no words.

No words.

Well, except… WTAF?

I think that about sums up my response. That, and it offered a much-needed distraction from the shitty night I had last night, spent in the company of an egotistical asshat I was forced to share oxygen with.

I've always prided myself on judging the quality of a person pretty much instantly. I'd met this man once before and found him charming. But boy, did I get this prick wrong.

That realization, that I'd misread him so badly, had the added effect of throwing me for a loop and causing me to stutter and stumble. Something I never do. I'll verbally spar with the best of them, yet there I was, once again, open-mouthed like a codfish as he eviscerated me with condescension and spite.

It does explain my weird dream last night, however, once I retired to bed after watching that Survivor episode.

Said asshole was dangling from a platform over shark-infested waters, begging for his life. Thankfully, I had the casting vote on whether he should be saved.

Good dream or bad dream?

~ Theatergirl

~oOo~

You always find a way to make me feel better, you know that?

I suppose you're right. I know from experience because I have already 'evolved' in the past several years. I pushed away anyone who wanted to get close to me because I feared their rejection. It took years of therapy and some difficult talks with my mother to work through those barriers, but the process definitely changed me.

Maybe this is just another step in the right direction to becoming who I'm meant to be. The problem? I'm just not sure it's one I know how to take. God, my therapist would have a fucking field day unwrapping that.

WTAF is a perfect reaction to Survivor. I knew you'd get it. Maybe we can watch an episode together someday.

Sounds like your evening was as bad as mine. Whoever this bag of dicks is, he's clearly got issues of his own if he ruined an evening with you by being condescending and spiteful. You should be happy you were unable to fire back. I have the opposite problem. The minute I feel backed into a corner, I fight my way out, guns blazin'. Sometimes I actually shock myself with the zingers I can deliver on a whim. The reality of it though, of knowing the exact buttons to push on a person and willingly pushing them, is inevitably feeling like an asshole afterward. Trust me, at least this way you left him holding the shit bag and now he's carrying it around with him.

I've been thinking...Do you think we should meet?

~ NYC_901

~oOo~

It's been a shitty week. Weird too.

Following that disastrous cocktail party where she'd been royally humiliated by that asshole, Donna's been completely out of sorts.

No, scratch that. Out of sorts is too tame a phrase to describe how she's felt the last eight days or so. Her life is spiraling out of control. Everything that can go wrong is going very wrong.

Firstly, Velvet Jacks had closed. Si and Devlan bid the neighborhood goodbye after accepting a 'final' offer from Giannopoulos that was just 'too good'. There'd been lots of tears, lots of dramatic hand flapping at the face to dry those tears, and then hugs and promises of free drinks at their new bar in Hell's Kitchen once it opened, and while Donna couldn't begrudge them their dreams of bigger and better things, she felt their loss keenly. They'd been her closest business ally.

Louis had been beside himself. "Where will I go, now?" he'd wailed.

"How about The Cockpit?" Rachel offered with a poorly concealed grin.

Louis had looked aghast. "I'm a man of refined taste, Rachel Elizabeth Zane. Velvet Jacks was a classy establishment with a refined clientele. Suggesting The Cockpit is like recommending a bag of stale cheese puffs as an alternative to fillet mignon!"

"You shouldn't be so quick to dismiss it, Louis," Rachel had countered with a wicked glint in her eye. "I hear they have a 'Call of Booty' theme night on Fridays where everyone dresses up in combat gear underwear and the moment they play 'Two Tribes' by The Pet Shop Boys, the night ends with a massive water pistol and soap sud fight."

Louis' horrified expression and subsequent histrionics had been amusing but it hadn't lifted Donna's spirits for long. That same day, two of her most talented actors had announced that they were leaving the theater. They cited different reasons, but she knew that their resignations had little to do with family commitments or moving to New Jersey, but everything to do with the development that was looming over them. It was starting to feel like rats leaving a sinking ship.

This feeling was compounded by the second blow she was to suffer.

Stu Buzzini pulled his play.

Unlike Velvet Jacks selling up, this was something she hadn't expected. Stu had stood by her side at the cocktail party and staunchly defended her. Yes, he'd flirted with the woman that Mr. Dickweed was with, but Stu flirts with everyone, so she'd paid it no mind. He was there as a friend and had offered to help her network at that party to garner much-needed support for the theater. When she'd been confronted by the very man that was trying to take it all away from her, Stu had jumped to her defense. Not only that, but in the cab ride home, he'd sworn faithfully that his new play, written specifically for her, would be ready the following week. With promises of help with casting, pre-production, and promotion, he vowed to be at her service.

"Use me and abuse me, Red. All my resources and connections are at your disposal. This play is gonna be a triumph. You'll see!"

Except she didn't see. The call she received from him only three days later crashed all her hopes that salvation was on the horizon.

Stu had heard through the grapevine that demolition was due to start on the theater's neighboring properties within a few weeks, and the whole area was likely to become one huge building site, with her theater slap bang in the middle of it. Even if she stands her ground and refuses to sell, access to her building will prove to be problematic at best. With Pearson Specter involved, there's no doubt they will make it impossible and will do everything they can to ensure running her theater is no longer viable.

Stu hated doing it, but reason and logic dictated that staging a play with her now, would be a disaster. He'd therefore reluctantly already offered it to another venue in Brooklyn.

It was a severe blow, but she couldn't really argue with his reasoning. He's a sought-after playwright, hot property at the moment. She was lucky he had offered in the first place.

"You'll get through this, Donna. You're the most formidable woman I've ever met. Once this development is done, I promise, my next play will be yours. Until then, anything I can help you with, you only have to say the word."

She'd appreciated the sentiment, but his words had seemed hollow. They both knew that the chances of her theater surviving the duration of the development were pretty non-existent. Basically, her days were numbered.

It was salt added to an already open wound. For that's how she's been feeling since that cocktail party. Deeply wounded.

She still remembers the heat and fissure of excitement she felt when she first saw Harvey on the day of the workshop. Those deep warm chocolate eyes that captivated her. His effortless charm. That smile!

To discover he was none other than THE Harvey Specter, the man that had financially ruined her father, and now could potentially ruin her too, hadn't been a slap in the face. It had been a howitzer cannon to the gut. She'd felt betrayed. Duped.

From the second she'd discovered his identity, she was predisposed to hate him, due to the machiavellian way he subverted her father's business deal. But then he fanned the flames of her dislike with the way he spoke to her. Belittling her beloved theater, gloating about putting her out of business and then dismissing her like he was swatting away an irritating fly. He'd left her standing there shell-shocked. Speechless. That stung the most, the fact that she just stood there gaping at him like the idiot he inferred she was.

Later, when she'd managed to gather her wits, it occurred to her that he clearly hadn't made the connection between her and her father. If he had, he'd surely have thrown that in her face too. The fact that he hadn't is hardly surprising. The man probably crushes so many spirits on a daily basis, that Jim Paulsen has long since been erased from his memory. Still, she felt the need to remind him. To justify her anger to him. So she'd given him a little clue. Let him know that they'd crossed swords before, albeit indirectly. Leaving him standing frozen in place, confused and lost for words, had marginally made her feel better.

But then, this week, as though the fates really are conspiring against her, she keeps seeing him. Everywhere. Pretty much every day.

It's bizarre because she's sure she'd never crossed paths with him before that day at the workshop. She's damn sure she would have noticed him. He is, unfortunately, that hot!

But ever since the cocktail party, and now that she feels this burning rage towards him, compounding her current misery, he's frickin there, every corner she turns. If she were the paranoid type, she'd reckon he's stalking her. But he always seems oblivious to her presence.

First, it was at her favorite coffee house. She'd been standing in line for a good five minutes, her nose in her cell phone when she heard his distinctive deep velvety voice placing his order at the counter. Her phone almost dropped to the floor along with her stomach. She'd spun on her heel and hightailed it out of there, deciding she didn't need caffeine that day after all.

Then, the following night, after a few reluctant drinks with Rachel and Louis, that they'd insisted on in an attempt to take her mind off of everything for a short while, she was outside, hailing a cab when she saw a sleek limo pull up outside the bar she'd just vacated. A chauffeur stepped around the car and opened the passenger door. Curious to see who the obviously wealthy occupant was, she'd lingered on the sidewalk only to be horrified when Count Specter stepped out, buttoning up his long cashmere overcoat, no doubt preparing himself for yet another evil deed, and looking sinfully gorgeous doing it. Determined not to be caught ogling, she'd practically leaped into the back of the cab that had just pulled up before it had even properly come to a stop. Like a getaway criminal in a heist movie, she yelled at the poor bewildered driver to "Go! Go! Go!" She didn't dare glance back, in case her panicked escape had had the opposite effect and drawn his attention.

And so it's been happening like that all week.

Thursday: A rare indulgent lunch at The Fig and Olive. She'd had to strategically maneuver her chair so that she was concealed behind a large potted plant when he was frustratingly seated by the waiter only three tables away. Fortunately, he had his back to her, but she wasn't taking any chances. She made a quick exit as soon as she was able to and therefore added the fact that she was forced to skip dessert to her long list of grievances against him.

Friday: After a very depressing meeting with her accountant, she'd been walking down 7th Avenue in something of a daze only to nearly slam straight into him as he exited some high-rise glass-built monstrosity right in front of her. Fortunately, he didn't spot her as she was blocked from view by another man accompanying him who, weirdly, seemed to be dancing around him feigning punches and jabs like a boxer. She had no idea what that was about but the two men seemed to be engaged in friendly banter and the faux boxing was enough of a distraction that she was able to do a one-eighty and retreat in the other direction without being noticed.

Sunday: A ruined attempt to escape her troubles browsing rare vintage jazz LPs at Human Head Records. By this point, she'd become convinced that she was cursed. After all, while the used vinyl store has the best collection of jazz music in New York, it's little known and very much under the radar. Only serious jazz enthusiasts know about it, yet there he was, rifling through a collection of Stan Getz albums while munching on a hot dog. Not only was she cursed, but she was also clearly losing her sanity, because instead of making a quick exit the moment she saw him, she lingered, holding up a Duke Ellington EP to hide her face. The fact that she hadn't bolted but was rooted to the spot might have had something to do with the way he was licking the onion relish from his fingers. She was mesmerized. It was only when he turned toward the counter, three albums under his arm, that she was able to snap out of it. She darted for the shop door, keen to escape, and on her way, she definitely didn't check out his taut backside in those perfectly fitted Spoke jeans.

This morning: The final straw! This one really got her goat. Looking forward to her morning chat with Abe on her way to work, who should be standing laughing with her favorite newspaper seller but the asshole who seems to be haunting her daily. Feeling irrationally possessive of her old friend, she was sorely tempted to stamp her foot in irritation like a toddler. Especially when, just to make matters worse, the gorgeous bastard said something that had Abe rolled up in stitches. The two then fist-bumped! Actually fist-bumped like a pair of frat boys. With a growl, she stalked off to work, minus her paper.

"Oh no, it's happened again, hasn't it?" Rachel closes the legal tome she'd been studying and sets it aside. Donna had stomped into the office, tossed her purse onto the desk, and thrown herself into her chair with a fierce huff. "Where was it this time? The coffee shop again?"

"Nope," she said, popping the 'p'. "Buying a newspaper. He's now best buddies with Abe! Honestly, Rach, I'm starting to think it's a conspiracy. That's every day now."

"You sure he's not stalking you?"

Donna nods. "Yeah. Most of the time he's been there first. So now I'm thinking I must have just done something really really bad in my former life."

"Or maybe it's just fate giving you a nudge."

Donna scowls. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Rachel holds up her hands. "You've got to admit, it's a bit freaky how, ever since that cocktail party, you keep seeing him. I'm just saying fate might be trying to tell you something."

"Yes, Rachel. It's telling me he's the asshole that relishes torturing me on a daily basis as a prelude to putting me out of business."

"He's purposefully torturing you? I thought you said he hadn't noticed you each time."

"He hasn't, but that's not the point," she snaps, knowing she sounds irrational. "He's always there in his perfectly tailored Tom Ford suits, or casual Henley shirts and Harrington jackets, with his tousled hair, and that goddamn lethal smile of his. Always looking relaxed, calm, and totally at ease as he goes about his business destroying dreams, breaking hearts, and trampling over us lesser mortals!"

Rachel lifts an eyebrow. "Tousled hair and lethal smile?"

"Don't!" Donna lifts a finger in warning.

"And lesser mortals! Are you likening him to a God?"

"Rachel!"

"Look, I'm not denying that he's a first-rate asshole, Donna. But he's sparked something in you. He may be ruthless and scheming and all those things you've just said about him, but I remember how you looked at him the day of the workshop. The heat between the two of you could have melted the polar ice caps."

Donna snorts. "I didn't know who he was then!"

"Maybe not, but you're still attracted to him. You can't help it. This stuff is chemical, primal even. He excites you, riles you up. I haven't seen you react like this to a man since… hell, never! Well except for NYC_901, that is."

Donna's eyes widen in horror. "Harvey Specter is nothing like NYC_901. How can you mention them in the same sentence?"

Rachel shrugs. "They may have different methods, but they both seem to get your juices flowing. If you know what I mean." She adds a little wink which only incenses Donna further.

"That's ridiculous. No way!" she cries indignantly. "They couldn't be more different. NY is kind, funny, warm, and caring. He makes me smile, he makes me feel good about myself. Whereas that… that…," she's waving her hand and pointing a finger towards the window as though the man himself might be standing outside, "... good for nothing arrogant douchebag is nothing but a cold ruthless… jackass."

Rachel is biting the inside of her cheek and is clearly trying desperately not to smile.

"It's not funny, Rachel. He's currently the bane of my life!"

Her friend immediately drops her smirk and her eyes soften. "Hey, I'm sorry, Donna. I don't mean to mock you at all, I swear. I know how much he's upset you. And I promise, If he was here now, he wouldn't be able to say one more nasty word to you due to the fact that his balls would be up in his throat courtesy of my shoe!"

That makes Donna's lips twitch. "I like the sentiment, but I really don't think you'd do much damage with those comfy sneakers you're wearing."

"Wanna bet? They're steel-toed."

"Why the hell are you wearing steel toe-capped sneakers?"

"Have you been on stage with Harold when he's moving set furniture around? You're lucky to escape without losing a limb."

Donna smiles, then sighs and shakes her head. "Well, I don't think that will be a problem for much longer."

Rachel's shoulders drop. "Is it really that bad? You never told me what the accountant said."

"He basically confirmed what we already suspected. Ticket sales are down, costs are still rising and word is out that Tony Giannopolous has the green light to go ahead with his multiplex, which will make it nigh on impossible for me to stage any kind of production for at least twelve months, if not longer. Unless I can find a way to stop the development, I'm done!" Her voice wavers and she looks away.

"Then we need to find a way to stop the development!"

"Easier said than done, Rach. You should know. You've been looking for days now and haven't found anything I can use."

Rachel purses her lips and leans forward. "No, I haven't. But I'm just a first-year law student. My knowledge of corporate law, and specifically construction law, is scant at best. Certainly not enough to help you go up against Pearson Specter. But... I might know someone who could help."

"Oh?" Donna looks up expectantly.

"Do you remember that guy I told you about that I met the other week at The Blond in Soho?"

"Of course I do. You came to work the next morning with moon eyes and didn't shut up about him all day. Mark, wasn't it?"

"You know damn well it was Mike… Anyway, I'm seeing him again tomorrow night."

"I'm really happy for you, but what's that got to do with my current legal situation."

Rachel's eyes flash with excitement. "He's a lawyer! Not only that, he's a corporate lawyer, and even better than that, he happens to be an associate at a big firm."

"Really? Which one?"

"He didn't say, but I know he wasn't bullshitting me. His mind is like, unbelievable. I was sitting at the back of the bar reading Constitutional Law: Policies and Procedures and he did this thing where he asked me to pick any page in the book, any statute and he'd recite it for me. It was crazy. The guy is not only really really cute, but he's also got a brain the size of Arkansas."

Donna frowns at her friend. "What were you doing reading a Constitutional Law textbook in a cocktail bar?"

"I had an exam that week, remember? You know I study better with Espresso Martinis!"

Donna rolls her eyes, then sighs once more. "I dunno, Rach. You've only been out with the guy once, I doubt he's going to want to get involved. If you really liked him, it might not be the best idea to scare him off with something like this on your second date."

"Nah, he'd be fine about it. To be honest, I suspect he'd do anything I asked. He seemed really into me."

"Well, of course, he was," Donna says with a knowing smile and a nod to her friend. "Okay, well, If you're sure, I guess it wouldn't hurt."

Rachel clasps her hands together and grins. "Excellent! Consider it done, Miss Paulsen. And on that slightly more positive note, I'm going to go help Harold finish painting that forest backdrop scenery. He's petrified Louis is going to tear him to pieces if it's not finished today, so I promised I'd lend a hand for a few hours before I head off to college this afternoon. Wish me luck with my limbs."

Donna chuckles. "I think the reason Harold is so clumsy has nothing to do with being scared witless by Louis, and everything to do with the fact the poor boy is besotted with you."

This time it's Rachel's turn to roll her eyes. She stands, walks to the door, and pauses, then quickly strides over to where her friend sits and throws her arms around her shoulders and gives her a hug.

"Stay strong, Donna. Don't give up hope yet."

Donna doesn't reply but squeezes her friend back.

~oOo~

She leaves work early.

There are only so many invoices she can check, scripts she can review, and emails she can reply to before the sinking feeling that she's about to lose everything threatens to overwhelm her. She's tried to carry on regardless. After all, Rachel's new beau could come through for them and find them a way out of this situation in which case all these day-to-day matters still need to be dealt with.

But she's really struggling with it. She can't help feeling it's all futile.

Besides, she really can't tolerate Agatha's fierce unyielding stare today. Lately, it feels less disapproving and more condemnatory. Like the formidable writer knows that Donna is about to lose everything her Grandmother had built and is furious with her for it.

"If I lose this place, don't think for one minute you're coming with me, you old hag!" she spits out at the life-size cardboard cut-out as she finally gives up for the day, leaves the office, and locks up to go home.

Once there, she reheats leftovers, finishes off a bottle of wine, and then reluctantly calls her father. She loves him dearly, but his woes on top of her own just make her even more depressed. The fact that he tries to put a brave face on his own situation so as not to worry her just makes her feel even worse.

She doesn't disclose that the man that ruined him financially is the same one that is driving her out of business. Jim was devastated when he lost his deal, but he didn't fight it. He knew he was no match for Harvey Specter and his sidekick.

But if Jim discovered that Donna was their next victim, she dreads to think what he might do. Something stupid and irrational for sure. So she keeps her lips sealed on that front, tells him she loves him, and wishes him goodnight.

After finishing her call, and then binge-watching four episodes of Survivor - God help her, she just can't resist, she considers going to bed.

Her eyes fall on her laptop, and she bites her lip, contemplating sending a reply to NY_901.

"Do you think we should meet?"

Despite the clusterfuck of her day, that little nugget that he signed off with hasn't been far from her thoughts. When she'd first read it, her stomach and heart both simultaneously did a triple backflip somersault with a double tuck. She'd slammed her laptop shut in panic and decided to run away from that question as quickly as possible.

Was there a part of her that wanted to meet him? Of course, there was. His emails these last few months have honestly kept her sane. They've been her comfort blanket, the distraction that she so desperately needed. And with every response, every word, she feels their connection growing stronger.

But meeting him is a huge step. One fraught with danger. What if in person, they don't click? They're awkward, tense, and uncomfortable? They lose the ability to talk so effortlessly?

What if he really is a serial killer that lives in his parents' basement?

Still, she longs to talk to him again. She needs his words more than ever. She wants to hear more about Rembrandt, his cool sax-playing Dad, and their joint love of jazz music, and also hear him bitch and moan about all the daily NY stuff that drives her mad too.

She reaches for her laptop, switches it on, and loads up his last email. She decides to bench his last comment for the time being, and just carry on as though he hadn't asked her.

Do you enjoy Christmas? I do. It's probably my favorite time of year. I go overboard with decorations, spend way too much on gifts, bake endless batches of rock-hard tasteless cookies, because I actually can't bake at all, and just generally regress to being a big kid again.

This year though, I'm finding it hard to muster up any enthusiasm.

I miss my mom. I miss my grandma even more. She passed away too, just a few years ago. Did I tell you that?

We were so close. Especially after losing my mother, she stepped up to the plate big time, and then some.

God, I wish she was here now. She was the wisest owl and the bravest, smartest person I've ever met. She always seemed to have the answer, to know the right thing to say.

I could really do with her words of wisdom right now. I need her to tell me that what's currently happening in my life is all part of a bigger plan and that everything will be okay.

I'm sorry for being such a Debbie Downer. Blame my friend with the Main Coone. He's been feeling low too so I lent him my Richard Gere movies and gave him my complete supply of Chunky Monkey ice cream. So without those go-to staples, writing to you seemed the next best solution to getting me out of this funk.

~ Theatergirl

She clicks send and sits back with a deep sigh. Not her most cheerful email for sure, but she already feels better just reaching out to him. She stands up and stretches, then takes her plate and wine glass into the kitchen to clean up.

As she is drying her dishes, she hears the familiar pinging sound that heralds a new email. She pauses, her heart skipping a beat. It could be anything. Junk mail. A notification that her dental check-up is due.

But her gut tells her it's him.

She sprints back across the living room to her laptop and with a gasp of delight, she sees confirmation. He replied.

'Enjoy' is such a relative word. If you're asking if I play Christmas carols starting Thanksgiving weekend and place holiday knick-knacks all around my apartment while Santa-shaped cookies bake in the oven, then no.

If 'enjoy' means seeing the value in taking a break from the marathon of meetings and business ventures to enjoy quality time with those who really matter, the answer is yes. It's one of those changes we talked about earlier.

You hadn't mentioned losing your grandmother. I'm so sorry you've had to deal with losing two people who meant so much to you. I barely survived losing my mom.

It must have been terrible for you.

What is it that's troubling you tonight? I've been known to give words of wisdom from time to time. Depending on the topic of course.

Maybe I can help?

~ NYC_901

She nibbles her lip again and thinks. Can he help?

She opens up a reply and begins typing that very question when an instant message appears on her screen.

NYC_901: Hey!

She gasps, lifting a trembling hand to her mouth. He's online. He's there right now. It feels strangely intimate like he's sat right beside her. She surreptitiously glances over her shoulder for God only knows what reason and then decides to quit being such a chicken shit about it, and just respond to him.

Theatergirl: Hey. Sorry about that last email.

NYC_901: What do you mean, sorry? That's what friends are for, right? At least that's what I've heard in commercials and greeting cards.

I'm no therapist, but I've been studying mine pretty carefully, and I think I'm catching on to his tactics.

Try me.

Donna drums her fingers nervously on her laptop. This is new territory. Talking like this, in real-time. What should she say? She's doubtful he can really help her, but the fact he is offering...

Theatergirl: I'm not sure you can help. Not without giving you specifics.

NYC_901: Keep it general then. What is it in regards to? Love? Work?

Theatergirl: It's work. My business is in trouble.

NYC_901: Business? Well, that is my specialty. What kind of trouble?

Theatergirl: Basically, it's under threat. An external threat. And I don't think there's much I can do about it.

NYC_901: There is always something you can do about it. When someone holds a gun to your head, you do what they say or they shoot you, right? Wrong! You take the gun, or pull out a bigger one, or do any one of 146 other things! Go on the offensive! Go to the mattresses!

Theatergirl: The Godfather? Really? But I'm not in the mob. I don't even have any brothers. Although, right now, I wish I did have those kinds of connections. That would solve most of my problems.

NYC_901: Impressive cinematic knowledge. But you don't have to be in the mob to take business advice from the greatest movie of all time. The answer to your problem is, go to the mattresses. You're at war! It's not personal. It's business. It's not personal, it's business.

Just repeat that phrase any time you feel like you are losing your nerve.

Theatergirl: You're the second person to tell me that this isn't personal. I admit I'm finding that hard to get my head around. It's incredibly personal to me.

NYC_901: Some honest advice?

Theatergirl: Please!

NYC_901: It may be personal to you, but I can almost guarantee it's not personal for them. Use that to your advantage. Fight like it's personal.

Donna's heart is pounding. Fight! His words are suddenly like a mainline of adrenaline pumping into her veins. He's so right! Enough moping around and feeling sorry for herself. She needs to fight!

Theatergirl: Thank you. I think I needed to hear that. Oh and by the way, The Godfather is NOT the greatest movie of all time, but we'll park that discussion for next time.

NYC_901: You're welcome. I'm glad I could help. And, it figures you'd say that. Being a girl and all. Your favorite movie is probably Pride and Prejudice.

Theatergirl: Wouldn't you like to know! ;-)

She closes her laptop with a wry smile. She actually feels positive for the first time in weeks.

"Donna Roberta Paulsen, you heard the man. It's time to fight. FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT!"