Chapter Two: The Pit of Despair

I sit in a chair, watching the late afternoon light reflect off the same window I broke six months ago. I'm relieved that I don't have the slightest inclination to do it again. I don't, in fact, have the slightest inclination to do anything. I'm still wearing yesterday's clothes, I haven't shaved, and I don't think I even locked my car doors after I parked. And I don't really care.

It's summertime, so it won't be getting dark for a while. I can see, all the lovers, all the kids and their parents and all the elderly couples and their poodles walk under the window. All those happy people.

I've ruined it. I've ruined everything. Donna's not going to hang around after this latest stunt - who could blame her? I'm just trying to imagine the future without her, and am failing miserably.

She was with me even before she actually was. Her...her just flat-out Donna-ness has permeated every part of my life, even the past. When I think back to the really great moments, like graduating from law school, I've somehow added Donna to the memory. I wish she could have been there, to share those things with me.

If nothing else, she would have made sure I actually _remembered_ graduating. I can just imagine her dusting a piece of lint off my shoulder and whispering "Do good up there."

Let's just forget about the fact that she would have been – what? Fourteen?

When I gave up working for a sure thing and followed my heart to work for Bartlet I really had it easy. I wasn't seeing anybody at the time, so I wasn't like Sam, who got ditched by his gold-digging fiancée. I didn't have that grief. But I would have loved to have Donna there with me, arguing, approving, discussing all the great things we could do for the country with Bartlet as President.

The clock on the shelf chimes six. It's a mantle clock I made back in wood shop in high school - it was either wood shop or home ec, and everyone already thought I was a nerd. So I wisely went with wood shop. The clock runs well, and is very sturdy - never let it be said that a Lyman didn't build something to last.

Yeah, I was making that clock when I got this scar across my knuckles - see it? Donna says I'm accident prone - I guess I've always been that way. Ceiling tiles, filing cabinets, patches of ice, poodles, bullets...Donna.

I'm beginning to get really maudlin when someone rings the buzzer. I can safely say that there's no-one downstairs that I really want to see. But just for kicks, I hit the button. "Who is it?" I scratch out.

"Josh. It's Sam."

Great. Sam has just broken one of the major Rules of Guy Friendship. When your friend has had his heart ground into tiny little pieces, you leave him alone. For at least two days. Then, after that very important mourning period has passed, you drag his ass down to the nearest bar and get very, very drunk.

Although, since I am the third most important person in the country, and tomorrow is a work day, I suppose Sam is right in skipping to the end.

I unlock the door. "C'mon up."

He must have run up the stairs, because I'm just turning away when he knocks preemptively and walks in.

"Hey Sam. Come right in," I say sarcastically.

"Josh. You look like crap."

I run a hand over my chin. "Thanks. You're a pillar of support."

"No problem. I heard what happened." Sam looks at the floor and kicks at the carpet, looking vaguely guilty. About what is anybody's guess.

"Who called you? CJ?"

"Yeah." He exhales loudly and then plops onto the couch. I really have no choice but to follow him. I resume the seat I've sat in all day, and my back twinges in protest.

"So you're here to help, is that it, Sam? 'Cause no offense, but I really don't think you have much control over this situation."

"Sure I do. Operation Moss, remember?"

I look up and scowl at him. "That ridiculous mission was accomplished. I was able to discover whether my assistant has any feelings for me, and the answer in case you were still, y'know, not sure – is a resounding negative."

Sam has put on his 'cheering up' face. I hate that face. "You don't know that for sure."

"Well, considering the fact that she one, has never told me she felt anything but friendship; two, practically upchucked at the discovery of my feelings for her; and three - and this is the good one - is actually dating someone who is by all appearances _not_ a gomer...I think I can say she doesn't even like me anymore."

"Who says he's not a gomer? I'd say we still need to gather more information before we can make a fair-"

"Sam! _I'm_ more of a gomer than Dave Marienetti! In fact, when I'm out a job in another four years, I _will_ be a gomer. I'll be just another political shark, circling around Washington. I'm not much better than that stupid insurance lobbyist."

"What insurance lobbyist...?"

I wave this off. "Doesn't matter. What I'm trying to say is that I don't really blame her."

My best friend looks a little confused. Probably because that whole outpouring made a whole lot better sense when I was mulling it over in my head this afternoon than when it actually came out.

"Don't blame her for what?"

"For hating my breathing guts."

"She doesn't-"

"I saw it, Sam. God, I'm such an idiot!" I throw the recliner back and stare at the water stain on my ceiling.

Sam shakes his head. "She looked _shocked_, as in, 'Well blow me down, knock me over with a feather' kind of shocked. That may be a good sign."

Really, the idea is so stunningly ridiculous I turn to him and smile. "Absolutely. I see that you're right Sam. It's a good kind of...whatever."

He just shakes his head and pulls out a magazine from under a stack of newspapers on the coffee table. It's a copy of that magazine Donna's sister writes for. I wonder if Norie realizes how closely Donna's been following her career. I bet not. Donna's pretty sparing with her praise, although she shows her pride in other ways.

Here I go again. If I break out any pictures and start to weep over them, I want someone to whack me over the head with a leg of lamb. Sam won't - he's too busy talking to the self-help column on page twenty-three. "Are you going to sit here and mope all day?" he asks out loud.

"Was that a quote or a question?"

"Josh."

"Well," I reach up and stretch, hearing my back pop and my left shoulder twinge. "I got here at eleven, it's six now, so..."

"Let's go," Sam states, dropping the magazine back down again and standing. "You're wallowing, and it's disgusting."

"Thanks. I'm not going anywhere."

"Yes, you are."

"I am not."

"_Yes_, you are."

"_No_, I'm-"

"I called Donna's apartment today," he says abruptly.

I stare at him. "You – you – what? What did she say?"

Sam smirks. The bastard actually smirks! "I'll tell you over dinner," he says smugly.

I try to come up with a way to concede without appearing needy. I have to pretend like I don't care what Donna says. I have to pretend like I was going out anyway. Even though a minute before I had every intention of taking root in my arm chair. Hmm...

"I'm hungry," I say lamely. "Let's go get something to eat." It doesn't help that Sam isn't at all upset at having lost that battle of wills. But instead of re-directing my energies and making him plead for mercy, I take the high road. I check to make sure I have my wallet and walk out the door, leaving him smirking in my living room.

The ride to the restaurant is very exciting. For such a disgustingly nice guy, Sam has an A-type personality behind the wheel. His black BMW zips through the traffic at such a high speed that I can't even turn my head to look out the window due to sheer G-force. The car screeches to halt and Sam performs a neat parallel park. I peel myself off the leather seat.

"I thought this would make a nice change from all that Chinese food," Sam comments, locking his car by remote. It emits a Sam-like cheerful chirp, and flashes it's headlights in farewell. "We ought to have Ching's Chinese Chow set up shop in the mess. It would save us the delivery fee."

I don't reply. I'm too busy trying to pull myself together before entering the restaurant. No amount of willpower is going to make me look presentable, but hopefully I can at least pull off human. I push open the stained glass door and shuffle into the warmly lit interior of Tony's.

Me and Donna used to come here a lot after a long day at work. Sometimes we'd bring a load of files to sort through, sometimes we'd come just to unwind. It's a great place to unwind. It reminds me of a place I used to go to when I was in college - open all night, with cheep food and newspaper for table cloths. It had no delusions of being a classy place - instead of art work, students would pin their expired driver's licenses, library cards, and school ID's to the walls.

Granted, Tony's caters to a more adult crowd. For one thing, it has a bar. Instead of driver's licenses, it has pilfered license plates and road signs covering the walls. Each table also features salt and pepper shakers.

Sam goes to the first table and starts to sit down, but I keep walking. At the back, I find the booth I'm looking for. Hanging over the table is one of those faux Tiffany lampshades, patterned in round shapes that are either hot-air balloons or deformed watermelons. With the ease of practice, I reach up and flick the light bulb once with my index finger. It goes out like...well, a light, and I relax into the darkness.

I sigh and rest my head against the wall behind me.

"So," Sam says, sliding in across from me. "I called Donna today."

"Yeah?"

"She was asleep."

This annoys me a little. "She was ASLEEP? You drag my ass all the way down here to tell me she was asleep? This couldn't have come out, oh, I don't know -when you first showed up at my apartment?"

"Josh, keep it down. People are starting to stare," he hisses.

"Whoop-ti-do," I tell him. Which just goes to show how out of it I am, 'cause I never would have said that if I was my normal lucid self.

"Her room-mate was there," he continues.

"Her room-mate is always there. I think she's agoraphobic."

"Cammie thinks you should try again."

"Try what again?"

"Telling Donna."

I shoot up out of my chair. "Are you NUTS?"

"Cammie thinks it's a good idea."

"Yeah, well the last good idea Camilla Brown had was buying those two blood-sucking cats."

"Donna thought you we're drunk."

"Well, of course she - what?"

Sam blinks at me impatiently. "She thought you were drunk, and it upset her."

"She thought I was drunk...hmm..." The gears are turning, the ticker-tape is accumulating... "That's fantastic!" I finally shout.

"What is?"

I realize I've stood up and am slapping the table next to our booth, much to the alarm of the people sitting at it. I smile nervously and give their table a few more pats for good measure before returning to my own. "The solution, Sam," I say, leaning across the Formica surface. "I've got it!"

He grins. "Really?"

I grin back. "Yeah!"

"Excellent! What is it?"

"I'm going to pretend like I don't remember it!"

His shoulders slump. "That? That's your wonderful plan? That's one of the worst ideas I've ever heard!"

"Then you've obviously never heard Margaret's plan to take over the world," I say, really getting into it. This could actually work. If I can pull this off convincingly, then everything can go back to the way it was before. And I can try winning Donna over again at a later date, with more finesse and skill.

"Josh, this isn't exactly something you can pretend didn't happen, you know. You've been drunk before, usually around Donna, and you've never blurted out that you loved her."

"Exactly."

"You're doing this by yourself," Sam warns. "I hope you realize that. I'll stick by you if you want to burn down the west wing, but I'm not going to stand by and watch you blow your chance with Donna."

I grin at him. I am a man with a plan. No, scratch that. I am _da_ man. "Quit being so dramatic! I've got it all figured out. I'll go to work tomorrow and pretend like none of this ever happened, and everything will be okay again. Or at least," I amend, "more okay than things presently are."

Our drinks arrive - a Heineken for Sam, a Dr. Pepper for me. 'Cause let's face it, for me, nothing good every comes from me drinking alcohol. Sam takes a swig of his beer and checks out the waitress as she retreats; I concentrate on trying to hold a piece of ice onto the bottom of my glass with my straw. "So," I say idly. "Why was Donna asleep in the middle of the day? She gets usually gets up at seven." The ice bobs back up to the surface and splashes me.

"Oh-" Sam makes a vague hand gesture and swallows his drink. "She and Cammie went on a bender last night. After the party. She was sleeping it off."

"What?" I stare at him. "Donna went out and got drunk? Donna doesn't do that. _I'm_ the one who does that. This is...this is _beyond_ bad! Don't you see, Sam? I'm driving her to drink!"

"C'mon, Josh. What makes you think it was because of you? Maybe she went to another party and got carried away. Maybe she and Dave got in a fight. Let's look on the bright side."

I just groan and let my head fall forward onto the table. *Thunk.* I am a horrible person. I'm turning the woman I love into a binge drinker.

After about five minutes of close examination of a few breadstick crumbs and some grains of salt hidden under the napkin holder, I smell something. It's probably my over-active imagination, still reeling from a series of heartaches, but I look up anyway. I can swear I smell Donna's kiwi-lime shampoo mixed with her lavender hand lotion, wafting like a cool breeze through the aroma of charred garlic that fills the restaurant.

I must make some strange squawk, because Sam looks away from the waitress with whom he is now openly flirting and gives me an annoyed look.

"What?" he asks.

I can't speak. I'm having a little trouble breathing, but I think this is mainly due to the fact that my heart has jumped up into my throat and is holding onto my trachea for dear life. I just point and stare.

"Oh, fantastic," Sam mutters.

It's Donna. It's a whole lot of Donna. Where did she get that dress? Isn't it illegal to go out in something like that? And why is she here? Could it possibly be that she's here to see-

Nope. Crap. There's Davy boy. And there goes my evening. Give me a second and I'm pretty sure we can also bid farewell to my lunch. Hopefully Donna and Dave aren't the kind of cutesy couple who feed each other food in public places. And if they decide to share a plate of spaghetti with only one meatball....

Oh, the mind boggles.

Sam, the waitress having teetered off to work, slouches down in the booth. "They haven't seen us," he whispers.

"Nope."

"Maybe we could sneak out the back."

"Are you crazy?" I demand, looking at him. He does look a little crazy with his eyes peeking up over the table. "We're not going anywhere. We were here first."

"The age-old cry," he mutters. "But don't you think that in this case you would be more comfortable somewhere else, considering-"

"Considering what?"

"Well, you know. What happened."

"What happened? I don't remember anything," I say staunchly.

"Oh, God," he groans.

I ignore him and watch the couple across the top of my Dr. Pepper. Dave picks a table right in the middle of the restaurant, when I know for a fact Donna hates to have her back to the room. He makes a big production about pulling her chair out for her and then tucking it back in.

See, when I did that for Penny Titherton, right before senior prom, I accidentally squashed her against the table. I have since come to the conclusion that the only men who can perform that particular move are ones who have far too much time to practice it, and far too little strength.

While I am damning Dave as a weakling, Sam is perfecting his 'I just escaped from Belleview' impression. Namely, he's attempting to use the reflection in his beer-bottle to see behind him. The impression is a success, because the flirty waitress takes one look at him and doesn't come back to take our order. No matter. I am no longer hungry. I am a man on a mission.

I decide to wait until their food has arrived before embarking on my 'Deny All Knowledge' crusade. I watch Donna fold and re-fold her napkin, and laughing at something Dave says. But when he reaches across and takes her hand, I realize something must be done. I square my shoulders and slide out of the booth.

"Where are you going?" Sam asks from under the table.

"To fix this."

I swagger through the maze of tables, trying to find my carefree groove, and getting the feeling I'm failing pretty badly. But what the hell. Here I am, right behind the happy couple. Let see if I can remember how to be Donna's _friend_.