Auburn curls snag on the imperfections of the brick, leaving tendrils of hair left behind as she slides down the wall. She can feel the heaviness in her chest, the one that won't seem to leave her, a reminder of the way he'd slowly wormed his way into her heart, filling it with a hope she didn't think was even possible anymore.
But as she wraps her arms around her knees, willing herself to disappear, the tears start to well up in her eyes, a prick of tearful green taking over the soft brown, a transformation she's only ever allowed him to see. And the regret grips her in its embrace. Regret of the way things ended, the stubbornness that keeps her rooted stagnant, refusing to move on. A soft place to land slowly becoming her cage, denying any chance of having more, of having anything. She'd let that slip through her fingers, chipped cinnamon polish a reflection of her demeanor. Because she can blame him all she wants, but it's all her fault.
"Who am I to you?"
She can feel the words rattling in her chest, the reverberations of their echo refusing to leave her, and the silence that follows from his gaping mouth an answer enough, because there's only so many times she can tiptoe across the line they've drawn before retreating back to the table where he leaves her. The line so scuffed from moving back and forth, that it sometimes feels they've walked back too far, and they're at the finish line before they've even started.
She should wipe the tears from her eyes, mask her face into one she's been adorning since they've met, the one of a confident actress, but as she sits in the dampness of the gravel, the truth seeps into her carefully constructed facade. She never was much of an actress, just a fraud, and the only person she'd ever convinced that she was fine with the way things were, was herself.
"I didn't order this," he says with a small smirk, his soft brown eyes looking up at her, taking a sip of his whisky.
"Technically, you didn't order anything, we're closed. But the way you can came in here, tie askew, this is what you need," she says, wildly gesturing to his attire, blowing a stray curl back from where it's escaped her messy bun.
He looks down, even though he doesn't need to, she knows that she's right, his mood easily read by her every single time.
"Strawberry cheesecake with whipped cream…? I didn't know it was that kind of night," he starts, quirking his eyebrow, leveling her gaze with his own, attempting to reference a time she's tried to bury so deep within, but has only really succeeded in rooting it into her veins, the soft brown of his eyes somehow managing to conjure up that warmth spreading through her, and she shifts on her feet, wiping her hands on her apron.
"You wish it was that kind of night," she says trying to steady her shaky voice, hoping he doesn't notice, as she plops down into the seat across from him, resting her elbows on the table.
"Dare I ask where this came from, because I know it's not on the menu," he eyes the cheesecake suspiciously.
"Maybe I made it myself," she tries, fighting back the grin twitching to make an appearance.
But the mock grimace on his face tells her that he's not forgotten the last time she attempted to cook anything.
"Now I'm scared," he says, tentatively eying the dessert.
"You're an idiot," she teases, refusing to admit she bought it, grabbing his fork before he can even take a bite himself, spearing a large piece of his strawberry cheesecake, and bringing it to her mouth. A bit of whipped cream is left on the corner of her lips, and her tongue peeks out to lick it, eyes closed, a soft moan escapes her. Peeking one eye open, watching him gaping at her, taking a rather large sip of his drink, before she winks at him and drops the act.
"You know, you're really not supposed to eat the customer's meal, right?" Harvey says, and even though she knows he's joking, she can't help but feel her face fall at his labelling of their relationship. A flash of hurt crossing her face, before schooling her features, leaning across the table, her finger gesturing for him to lean towards her, a serious look on her face.
He follows her finger, his expensive tie resting against the table at the strain, as he gets dangerously close to her, his cologne invading her senses, leaving her momentarily lost as to what she was doing. Recovering quickly, she hovers just near his ear, and whispers, "I don't care," before moving back, lightly pushing him on the shoulder.
A gruff laugh comes from him, as he adjusts his crooked tie.
"So what did Norma do this time?" She says, taking another bite of the cheesecake.
"Who says she did anything?" He asks, holding out his hand for the fork.
She acquiesces the utensil with a roll of her eyes, and he takes his own bite.
Donna raises one brow, giving him a look that says, she already knows what this is about.
"She scares you."
"She does not," he fires back, the idea appearing absurd to him.
"One time you actually had me call her to ask where Louis was," she says, stealing the fork back and pointing it at him to prove her point.
"That was one time, and it was only because I was busy," he counters with a tilt of his head.
"Yeah, so busy you couldn't push a button on your desk, but not busy enough to call me. In the middle of a shift. As I hid in the kitchen to do your job," she emphasizes with her eyes wide, knowing that she's won their little game.
"I wouldn't have to if you came to work with me."
Donna narrows her eyes, before a slow smirk plays on her lips.
"Pay up, Specter," she taunts, holding out her hand.
He sighs, reaching into his pocket, pulling out his wallet and handing over a fifty.
She takes the money and quickly deposits it into her apron.
"If I didn't know just how desperately you think you need me, and how much you hate to lose, I'd be convinced you only asked just to pay me," and she catches a brief twitch of his mouth, before he shakes his head.
"I do. Need you," he claims, and she waits for the joke, the teasing lilt to his voice, but he appears to be serious, and it infuriates her that a blush is threatening to appear on her freckled face. Looking down, she tries to avoid wherever this is going.
"Of course you do, I'm Donna," an air of false bravado working as her self defense. "But for the thousandth time, no. We would never work as coworkers," she claims in mock horror.
He falls silent then, picking at the whipped cream on the plate, before pushing it towards her. And she almost feels bad for shooting him down, again. But the thought of working in an office feels a bit like giving up. Plus, the idea of working with Harvey, simultaneously sends a thrill down the roots of their past inside her, and that's all the confirmation she needs to know that it would only be a matter of time before she sent him running. As it is, every interaction she has with him is met with baited breath, wondering if he'll find more outside of…whatever it is they're doing.
"So when are you going to tell me about your promotion?" She peeks up through the errant curl, with a glint in her eye, trying to change the mood of the situation.
It seems to work when he stares back at her, a satisfied smile taking over his face, causing one to contagiously mirror back at him.
"You knew."
"Hence the cheesecake," she says with a wink, offering him the last bite, but he shakes his head. "So it's official, then?"
"Yep, handed over the money today," his fingers drumming against the table nervously.
Donna whistles, "Nice. Congrats. I hope this new title means bigger tips for me, because…"
Harvey gestures with his hand against his ear, like he can't hear her, before he stands up, the dessert now done. And she smiles at him, knowing he'd picked that gesture up from her.
"I'll see you around, Donna," he says. "Thanks for," he nods towards the now empty plate, sliding her what he owes for the drink, with a more than generous tip, and heads for the door.
Donna swallows, nodding.
"Hey Harvey," she nearly whispers as he pulls the door open, stopping to turn around. "Seriously, congrats. You deserve it."
He gently smiles, his hands coming to the back of his neck, like her words somehow pain him.
"Now get out of here, you're not the only one who's the best closer around," she says with a grin, gesturing to the mess she has to clean for the night, making him shake his head with a silent laugh.
Exhaustion hits her, the trek up the the stairs to the second floor of her apartment building seeming more tiresome than usual. Stepping out of her shoes, she tosses her bag of Thai food leftovers that she gets whenever she closes onto the counter, reaching for a wine glass in the cabinet, finally able to shed the skin of the day's performance.
Pouring herself a glass of cheap wine, she scrunches her nose at the taste, but swallows down what could only be considered poison, settling onto her couch, releasing her curls from her hair tie before leaning her head back, her eyes closing, thinking about how she was likely just the first stop on the Harvey Specter celebration train. The thought bringing that familiar feeling to her chest that crushes her beneath its weight.
The choices she's made the last ten years leading her to settle into the quiet discontent of security, losing herself as each day passes by, until she doesn't even recognize the woman staring back at her every morning in the mirror. But she doesn't allow herself to get swept beneath the waves that come with those thoughts either, instead practicing her lines to convince everyone she's fine, or else she'll have to admit that in not settling, she'd somehow managed to plant herself in this dissonant static of all she wants and all she can't have. And Harvey had somehow managed to be a part of both of those categories.