I
"Alright," Harvey says once his office door is shut behind him. "One of you better start talking."
Mike and Donna exchange looks. Glimpsing fear and hesitation in the redhead's eyes Mike decides to spare her the unpleasantness of having to spill on a past that obviously still haunts her. He holds the file Jonathan gave him last night, the weight of it is like an anchor dragging at him. He tosses it onto Harvey's desk, but the heaviness seems to linger.
"Jonathan Martell showed up at my apartment last night and gave me this," Mike says.
Harvey walks around to his desk, opens the file and studies it. A moment passes and the severity of what he's looking at must dawn on him because he has to sit down to continue. Mike remembers the content of each page Harvey flips past: New York Senator, Hudson Sindel, White House Chief of Staff, Jay Berling, New York City Attorney General, Evan O'Loughlin. It's a big list of powerful people, each with crippling information Martell has uncovered about them: tax evasion, bribery, distribution of child pornography, statutory rape. The names are terrifying. The crimes are ugly. A chilling voice over mimicking the southern drawl of Frank Underwood echoes inside Mike's head: The best thing about human beings is they stack so neatly.
Harvey gets halfway through the file when he decides he's seen enough. "How do we know this isn't all bullshit?"
"Because you and Cahill are in there for Collusion," Mike says. "Which isn't so bad, but four out of the five attorneys working NYC's disbarment cases are also in there."
Harvey sits forward, eyes intent. "So you think this is a threat?"
"The guy showed up at my doorstep at two in the morning saying he wanted this burned into my memory." Mike shrugs. "Sounds like a threat to me and I would bet—"
"It's not a threat," Donna interrupts. Her tone is mild—maybe even pleasantly nonchalant—for such a tense situation, and Mike can't help but be unsettled by this. "Jonathan is very black and white. If this was a threat you'd know."
"What then?" Harvey asks. "A warning?"
Donna inclines her head slightly, thinking it over. "No, not a warning."
"I don't see what else it could be." Mike turns to Harvey to see what his take is, but Harvey's attention is sharply fixed on Donna. They stare each other down in silence; caught in one of their weird telepathic eye conversations and Mike is forced to look back and forth between the two of them trying to pick up on the unsaid.
He loses his patience. "Yo. Mom and Dad, I get it. This is a heavy subject, but I'm not some delicate baby bird, okay? Let me in on this."
Donna ignores him. Harvey at least makes the effort to flick his glaze over before returning it to the redhead.
"I think this is a friendly gesture," Donna says after a moment. "It's the only thing that makes sense."
"If this is meant to be friendly he has a really screwed up way of showing it," Mike argues.
Donna offers the young lawyer a meek smile. "You should see him try to be romantic."
Let me guess. Knives are involved? Mike bites back the joke, figuring his ignorance of Donna's ex-marital relationship may lead to this being regarded as tasteless. Who knows what kind of damage this guy did to her.
Harvey looks at Donna with some mistrust. "Why would he include me in this if his intent isn't malicious?"
"It's like you said," Donna tells him, "How else would you judge his credibility? It's not like he's going to hand you any evidence."
"So where is the friendly in this then?" Mike asks.
"Gibbs' boss," Harvey surmises. "If Jonathan has Evan O'Loughlin by the balls he has the power to shut Anita down."
"Then what? He gets to walk away?" Mike is outraged. "He's helped fund a war that's ruined the lives of millions of people. He can't just escape justice because one man couldn't keep his dick in his pants."
"You're right. He can't." Harvey agrees. "The cases against Jonathan Martell and Duke-Sanger are too publicized to be swept under the rug. America wants heads on a platter and one man can't stop that. But Donna's case…that's different." Then, to Donna, Harvey says: "Is this why you wouldn't testify against him? You already knew he'd pull some immoral shit to get you out of it?"
"No." Donna gives him a slight frown. "I wouldn't testify because I'm not an idiot. Five years in prison is a spa day compared to what Jonathan and the rest of the board would do to me if they found out I spilled their secrets."
"And what would they do?"
"I don't know, Harvey. All I know is that they make their enemies miraculously go away."
Silence greets this. Then, not without respect, and maybe even with an actual curiosity, Harvey says: "What the hell were you thinking marrying this guy?"
The king of not-giving-a-shit-about-anyone's-personal-life, seems to be asking a question that exceeds far beyond his depth. Mike doesn't think there is any book or diagram in the world that would explain to a man like Harvey Specter that sometimes you fall in love with the wrong people. Like tripping on the sidewalk, you collapse into it, because normal people experience moments of clumsiness. But Harvey is too careful and deliberate to trip. Love to him is an unambiguous choice. A true or false. A right or wrong. More of a noun than a verb.
Donna must realize this because she shakes her head at the question. Her expression seems to say, let's not go there.
Harvey doesn't press the subject.
II
Evening brings with it a mid-summer thunderstorm. The seven o'clock news says there are five more companies found with ties to the Duke-Sanger Illegal Arms Scandal. The US Attorney General Joseph Cox is expected today to formally charge the companies they deem guilty in unlawful exchanges. Donna still hasn't slept and paces around her apartment trying to wear herself down. She is in a daze, too much is happening too fast, and no matter how much she tries to convince herself that this is all real—Harvey knows, Mike knows, Rachel knows, Jonathan is back—it just doesn't sink in. She is numb and most of all tired. Her head hurts; her eyes burn; her limbs feel like weights.
She shuts the TV off, pours herself a glass of wine and stands looking out at the skyline. The city is shrouded in a pessimistic gray which seems to suck the life right out of her. Manhattan has been giving her this effect lately. She feels a sense of entrapment; this tug of depression like a phantom chain at her ankle.
Leave.
The thought pops into her head like a lightning bolt splitting against the horizon. And why couldn't she? She's done it before. A chicken left marinating in the refrigerator, a table set for two (when it should have been three), her footsteps imprinted into the February snow leading out of Tribeca and never a returning set. She has it in her: the boldness to leave with nothing, to never look back, to start over. Not a mother, not a wife, not a secretary, but something else, somewhere else.
Her blackberry painted nails tap an anxious rhythm against the side of her wine glass. She bites the edge of her bottom lip, thinking dangerously: what's stopping me? But she already knows the answer to this question because she's asked it of herself an innumerable amount of times.
She can't quit him. Harvey Specter, a man who holds her without ever touching her. That Phantom chain. It's like she ran away from one tragedy to wind up in another. Desperately and hopelessly in love with a man who will never love her—or at least not in the ways she needs—and she keeps trying and trying and trying and all he does is take and take and take without ever reciprocating. But she doesn't demand reciprocation and maybe that's on her.
Amid these thoughts there is a knock. Donna jumps, startled by the unexpected noise; wine slouches up and over the brim of her glass, sending a deep red liquid trickling down her wrist. "Shit," she breathes, catching drops in her free hand as she makes for the kitchen.
Another knock comes, a little louder than the first but not by much. She knows who it is by this knock alone and shouts over her shoulder as she rinses and dries her hands that she'll be there in a moment.
As she expected, Rachel stands at the door, dressed down in jeans and a denim button up. She has a pair of stylish ankle tie flats on that Donna has to fight the urge to complement because she's still pissed off at her. She remembers Rachel's face in the break room, that earnest sympathy: you were a mother and now you're not. How sad. And now she's fighting the urge to slam the door in the young woman's face.
"Hey," Rachel says, looking worried and possibly even regretful. The Donna before her is not what she's used to: tired and worn down, unsmiling; a foreigner inhabiting her friend's body. Donna thinks if she were to look in the mirror, she'd see for the first time in a long time her old self. "They had a wine sale at Sherry-Lehmann's." Rachel smiles, holding up a tote that clangs with bumping bottles. "I thought we could have a girl's night."
"I'm exhausted, Rach." Donna says, and then adds dismissively, "Maybe another night."
The smile falls from Rachel's lips. "Donna…" Her expression continues to slip until she's back to giving her that look.
"Goddamnit." Donna sighs. "Look, I know you have good intentions and you think you're being helpful, but you coming over here, bombarding me with your sympathy, is like opening up her coffin and asking me to look inside. So, please, Rachel, just go home."
Donna starts to shut the door, but Rachel steps in the way. "No—you need to listen to me. I'm not here to talk about her. I'm here because you need me. So you can push me away, you can slam that door in my face, you can lash out, yell, whatever, and I'll still be here. I'll pitch a tent and wait. Gladly. Because you're my best friend and I love you and I'm not going anywhere." She drops her tote to the floor and folds her arms across her chest, defiant and immovable. "So go on, let your inner bitch out. I can handle it."
For a moment Donna can only gape at the young woman, genuinely surprised by someone's behavior for one of the few times in her life. Never in all of her years has she had a friend reach into the hole she retreats into and drag her out like this. Let your inner bitch out. Did she really just say that? The audacity...
Donna's lips curl into a smile and Rachel's lips lift along with hers. They both laugh. The tension between them seems to dissipate.
Donna gestures to the tote bag at their feet. "Cab Sauv?" she asks.
"Extra dry."
She steps aside, offering Rachel entry. "Get in here."
III
By the time Harvey gets to Lower Manhattan the rain is coming down so hard it seems to bounce against the sidewalk. He steps out of his town car at the Duane intersection, beside the limestone hotel, and runs up the street toward the address he has mapped on his phone. He is soaked when he gets to the building entrance, his oxfords wet to his socks. The best he can manage against his disheveled appearance is a hand through his hair, tousling it up. He feels soggy and edgy, but he struts through the doors with his normal easy confidence.
He takes the elevator to the top floor, finds the apartment he's looking for and knocks without hesitation. On the other side of the door a dog barks, paws strike a hard surface in a rapid excited succession. A man says "Sit, Molly," and a moment later the door swings open to reveal Jonathan Martell dressed in a white V-neck and jeans. His dark hair is a little too long and sticks up chaotically; it makes Harvey feel better about his own messy appearance. The dog—a golden retriever with a coat the color of mahogany—lets out a whine, tail wagging in an uncontrollable swing that's beats rhythmically against Jonathan's leg.
Without a word the man moves aside, his long arm sweeping out, offering Harvey entrance. The moment Harvey steps through the door the dog is at his knees sniffing his clothing, nuzzling against his hand, licking at his fingertips. When her nose dives for his crotch, he yields and knells down to give her a decent scratch behind the ears.
"We don't get a lot of visitors," Jonathan says apologetically, watching idly as his dog licks savagely at Harvey's face. "Hey, come on now. Get off of him."
"Okay, girl, that's enough," Harvey tells the pup, ruffling her fur as he stands. He follows Jonathan out of the foyer and into a large industrial looking kitchen; the appliances are all chrome, the walls are rustic red brick that stack up to a glass ceiling.
"Want a beer?" Jonathan asks.
"What do you have?"
"Ale, lager, some disgusting German pilsner that tastes like bong water." Jonathan pulls his fridge open and surveys his stock. Harvey glimpses on the steel door a drawing hanging from a plastic magnet; three crayoned stick figures conveniently labeled: Mom, Dad, Alice; beneath is a note in the large, inexperience handwriting of a child: To Mommy and Daddy. I love you. Harvey feels a little sick as the reality of the situation starts to truly sink in. She was real. She was here. She was his.
"I'll take an ale," he hears himself say.
"Pale or dark?"
"Dark."
A beer appears around the side of the door, waggles at him. Harvey takes it and allows himself a glance around the loft as Jonathan continues to dig around for his own drink.
The apartment is a triplex and obviously more expensive than Harvey's single floor penthouse. The architecture is outlandishly elegant, with cast iron pillars, wood floors and exposed brick walls. The oversized windows and skylights make for a dramatic experience as the rain clatters loudly overhead and the dark clouds swirl above them ominously. Still there is a comfortable domesticity about the place, something in the decorations and color palette, a warm, vibrant personality haunting the rooms. Then it clicks: Donna. He sees her everywhere: in the paisley accented wall, in the multicolored china, the throw pillows, the rugs, the indoor plants. This was her home.
Jonathan pops the cap of his beer and hands the bottle opener to Harvey. He says, "I knew you'd show up here, but I thought you'd be a bit more passionate. I can't say I'm not disappointed."
"Well, I was planning on beating the shit out of you, but—"
"You lost your nerve?"
"No, my socks got wet." Harvey removes the cap from his beer and takes a deep swig. Jonathan leans lazily against his counter, eyeing him carefully. "Nothing's more sobering than soggy feet."
Jonathan nods and suggests amicably: "I can toss them in the dryer for you, if you'd like?"
It hits Harvey then of what a strange world he's entered. He stands at heart of Tribeca, in Donna's old home, next to a drawing done by her deceased daughter, having a beer with her ex-husband. Surely this has to be a nightmare?
"Thanks, but I don't expect to be here long."
"Suit yourself." Jonathan lifts himself off the counter and walks toward the living room. "Come then, let's discuss what you're here for."
IV
"Why is everything is so expensive?" Rachel pouts, flipping through a bridal magazine. "The catering, my dress, Mike's tux—you know, I did the math and I could buy a house in Nebraska for the price of just those three things."
Donna refills both of their glasses and then sits down next to Rachel on the couch, curling her feet up under her. "True. But the food will be amazing and your dress is gorgeous and Mike will look smoking hot. Plus, you're saving a ton of money having the reception at Harvey's." Donna shrugs, sips her wine, and then adds, "And who the hell wants to live in Nebraska? I'd pay a million not to."
Rachel nearly spits her drink, choking down a laugh. "God. I love you. Why am I marrying Mike?"
"You can still call it off."
Rachel smirks and nudges Donna with her foot. "Don't tempt me."
Thunder booms above them. Rachel pictures bombs dropping out of airplanes. She doesn't know why but her mind always goes there, ever since she was a little girl. Perhaps she read too many World War II books as a child; she was obsessed for a period over how things could fall apart so quickly and in such a massive way. Now here she is, in her mid-thirties, and the sound still spooks her in a way that sends chills up her arms.
Across from her Donna is calm to the point of serenity, idly leafing through a catalog. Feeling Rachel's eyes, she glances up and smiles at her in a pleasant, knowing way. Rachel sees it now—that innate maternal temperament—it's like one of those optical illusions where at first you see only a vase but then someone points out the alternative—two faces, a beach ball, whatever—and your perception switches and yes, there it is, the reverse side. How could she have missed this when it has been staring at her so blatantly?
"Have you guys picked your song yet?" Donna asks.
Rachel rolls her eyes. "I don't think Mike takes it seriously. He keeps saying he wants it to be Hello by Lionel Richie, but you can't dance to that."
Donna shrugs. "Could be worse."
"What was yours?"
"Mine?"
"Your song."
Donna frowns and shakes her head.
"So, Jonathan is off limits too?"
"Yes."
Rachel lets out an irritated sigh and gulps her wine, giving Donna an intense stare over the brim of her glass. I'll have you spilling your dark and dirty by the end of the night, she thinks, and Donna, as if reading Rachel's mind, smirks at the challenge.
"I guess I don't care what our song is," Rachel says. Something is starting to mesh; she feels loose and confident, coming into a nice buzz. She adds, "What I really care about is seeing you and Harvey dance together."
Donna face contorts almost theatrically—disgust with just a hint of confusion—making if seem as if Rachel is romanticizing about her and a close relative. Rachel doesn't buy it. "Why?" Donna asks.
"Because it'll be the moment where you both realize you're stupidly in love with each other."
"Oh, for Christ's sake."
"Mike and I have a bet: I say first dance, he says when Harvey accidentally catches my garter."
"You guys are delusional. And for your information, I'm not dancing with Harvey. I'll be wearing my favorite Valentinos and I can't have that gorilla stepping all over my feet."
"You can take them off."
"I never take my shoes off. It's a sign of weakness."
Rachel huffs. "You deserve an award for your stubbornness."
"I deserve an award for a lot things."
It seems so obvious to Rachel: she loves him, he loves her, they're both single. So why aren't they together? Who is resisting who and how can the other believe that bullshit? How complicated does their dynamic have to be for them to put themselves through this kind of lovesick purgatory? It's cruel to watch. They see each other every day. They work together, walk the same halls, talk, joke, laugh and go on pretending that every time their eyes lock sparks don't fly. Everyone sees it—sometimes Rachel and Mike have to back out of the room because the "fuck me eyes" are so intense they feel like they're intruding on a private moment. Rachel used to think it was just a matter of time before they took the plunge, but now she's starting to feel more like it's a matter of the stars aligning. And that makes her sad, for both of them.
Donna's phone goes off on the coffee table. Incoming Call: Lord Bardolph and center screen is a picture of Louis in a bathtub full of mud. Donna reaches over and slides her finger across to answer.
"Louis. You're on speaker and Rachel is here, so if you're thinking about criticizing how she's handling the associates, think twice."
"Goddamnit, Donna," Louis snaps. "You're such a traitor."
"Yes. I know. I'm so terrible. Anyway, it's Friday evening and we're trying to relax, so if this can wait until Monday—"
"No, it can't. I need you to read Les Mis to me in your British accent like you did the night Bruno passed. I'm having a crisis and that's the only thing I can think of that will simmer me down."
"What are you a soup?"
"My emotions are very soup-like, yes."
"Louis—"
"And when you read Cosette try not to sound so damn arousing this time. She's supposed to be innocent and I feel like you sexualize her for me."
"Okay, my Cosette is dead on. I've been complimented by Claude-Michel Schönberg himself for my reenactment of her."
"Schönberg is a composure. What the hell does he know?"
Donna almost growls, her index finger cast out like she's debating whether or not to hang up on him. Rachel grabs her wrist. "Maybe we should invite him over," she whispers.
Under her breath, Donna bites out: "Are you crazy?"
"Tara just left him and now he has to spend Friday night by himself? That's sad."
Donna lets her angry posture relax out with a sigh. She says flatly, "Louis, would you like to come over and have wine with us?"
Louis gasps. Something clatters and crashes on his end. There is a distant shitshitshit and then he's back, out of breath, saying, "I was going to Feng Shui my breakfast nook, but—who the hell am I kidding? I'd be honored. Do you have a Bluetooth speaker system? I have a dance party playlist I've been meaning to try out. And—oh, I know this won't be an issue, but as a courtesy, I have to bring Gretchen. My therapist says I should journal about all of my social interactions for the next month, but my Dictaphone is being upgraded."
Rachel bites down on her bottom lip, trying not to laugh. Donna rolls her eyes up toward the heavens, muttering, "God, please just kill me."
V
Following Jonathan, Harvey enters the living room with the golden retriever trekking at his heels. He receives his final confirmation—that last nail in the coffin that separates the Donna he knows from this other woman—when he sees the family portrait hanging above the fire place. Donna is holding a toddler in her arms, her hair is a dark auburn, the baby's is a sun bleached orange. Jonathan is beside the two girls, animated in a way that makes it seems as if he's done a quick jump into the frame to give Donna a loving kiss on the cheek. They look happy and Donna looks beautiful, smiling the way she is, like she has her whole world is in order. It shatters him.
Up until this point Harvey has been okay—maybe because it didn't feel real, or it hadn't sunk in, or he didn't want to believe it was true. But there's no denying it now. She really lived this other life, she really had that much happiness and then had it ripped away…and the worst part is he should have known. He should have noticed her loss. Grief. Devastation. Whatever it is she feels because she must be hurting in some silent way that he's been oblivious to.
"Tragic, isn't it?" Jonathan says, collapsing into a chair at the center of the room. His stare is a cool, calculating gray that remains transfixed on Harvey as fights to keep his composure. Seeing straight through him, Jonathan adds, "She never told you, did she? I got that impression when you came see me at the office. I would have told you then, but I felt I shouldn't impose on whatever neverland Donna's got herself living in. Denial is a fragile equilibrium. We wouldn't want to send her back over the edge."
"You sound bitter," Harvey says quietly, feeling that the room deserves the respectful tones of a mausoleum. He remembers his beer, takes sip, would gulp it—chug it if he could, but he already feels sick.
"You mistake me, Harvey. I hardly feel anything anymore." Jonathan pats the couch next to him, and Harvey is unsure if he wants him to sit or the dog. They both obey, Harvey wading over on heavy legs. A sleep walker. He sits himself down a couch that was Donna's (it's a mustard color—bold but it works well with the red brick), moving aside a throw pillow that was Donna's. The dog curls up next to him and rests her head in his lap. Harvey looks to Jonathan to fill the growing silence. The ex-husband continues, "Although I would say in my defense I'm entitled to a little bitterness. She did leave me, you know."
It's Harvey's turn to speak. He's not sure if he can get words out, his mouth feels too dry. He takes a time-buying swig of his beer, says in a surprisingly natural way, "Did you deserve it?"
"Blame, blame. Who do you blame?" Jonathan plucks at the fabric of his chair and stares Harvey down. Vacant. Expressionless. Not for the first time, Harvey finds himself questioning Jonathan's sanity. "They say eighty percent of bereaved parents end up divorced. I went to a counseling session about it just after Alice died. Donna had made the arrangements beforehand, said it would be good for us to recognize the obstacles we'd be facing. Which is quite comical in hindsight, because cut to the actual session and Donna doesn't even show up. She wouldn't leave the house. Alice dying, it was like…Donna died with her. She had folded in on herself. Become desolate and inconsolable. I would come home from work and try to talk to her, try to engage and it was in one ear out the other. Some nights she wouldn't even look at me. I felt like I was throwing fists at a steel door that was never going to open.
"Fast forward to six months later and she's gone. I sat up every night for weeks waiting for her to come home, knowing she had to come home because her closet was still full of her clothes and her cell phone was on the counter and her husband—a shit husband, I'll admit, but a husband all the same—was there waiting for her. But as you already know, she never came back and the next I hear she's working at the DA. Odd, right?"
"Are you implying something?" Harvey asks.
"Is there something to imply?"
"She was already working for the DA when I met her."
"Was she? Interesting." Jonathan gives nothing away. Harvey can't tell if he's angry or genuinely curious. The man is a blank slate and he wonders pointlessly how he'd fair against him in poker.
Harvey feels the need to make one thing clear: "I didn't have an affair with her."
"Oh, I know. Harvey Specter, the notorious womanizer with morals. I got your M.O. You know, we have a certain symmetry in that regard. My mother was unfaithful too. In fact, I was a product of her infidelity. The illegitimate child. It was a constant uphill battle for me, trying to earn the respect and love of my father. Really screwed me up."
"Not to be an asshole," Harvey says, "but I didn't come here to talk about your daddy issues."
"Oh. My apologies. What was it you wanted to discuss?"
"You showing up at Mike Ross's apartment in the middle of the night." Harvey stares at Jonathan levelly. "You could have brought that file to me and instead you took it to him. I take that as a threat."
Jonathan nods in understanding. "I wasn't aware of how late it was and I can assure you that it won't happen again."
"You're full of shit."
"Okay. Fine. You caught me." Jonathan throws up his hands. "It was a threat. So now we've established that, let's talk terms. I would like to think we're on the same side in this messy situation—allies, if you will. But I want to make sure you understand: if anything happens to Donna, I'll destroy you."
Normally Harvey doesn't take well to being strong armed and threatened, but he can't help but find himself in agreement with these terms. If anything bad were to happen to Donna he'd probably welcome the destruction.
He gives Jonathan his honesty: "I would never let anything happen to her."
Jonathan reaches his arm over, offering Harvey his hand to shake. Harvey stares at it a moment, long fingers, stubby nails; he pictures the man's reptilian gaze locked in on him with all the patience in the world. Taking Jonathan's hand, Harvey expects something more inanimate feeling, but he is warm and human and for some unexplainable reason this makes the hair on the back of Harvey's neck rise.
VI
Today 8:57 PM
Harvey: Can I see you tonight?
Donna: I don't think tonight is a good time
Donna: I have a lot on
Harvey: Donna I'm trying to fix this
Donna: Harvey I would love nothing more than to have you come here so we can work this out but I'm seriously telling you tonight is not a good time
Donna: Rachel has been fighting with Louis since he got here
Harvey: What?
Harvey: Louis is there?
Donna: He said her wedding dress is very chic
Donna: But everyone knows chic means boring
Harvey: I'm lost
Donna: Me too
Harvey: So Louis and Rachel are at your apartment?
Donna: And Mike and Gretchen
Harvey: Why wasn't I invited?
Donna: No one was invited
Donna: This just happened and I don't know how to stop it
Harvey: How long do you think everyone will be there?
Donna: Louis' baroque era playlist is 32 hours long if that's any indication
Harvey: Do you need me to come shut it down?
Donna: You would do that for me?
Harvey: I would do anything for you
Donna: But you're mad at me
Harvey: I am. Very mad. But I'm willing to put that aside for you if you need me
Donna: Thank you Harvey
Harvey: See you soon?
Donna: Wait
Donna: Not too soon
Donna: I need time to hide all of my expensive glassware & cactuses
Donna: Or is it cacti?
Harvey: You're not funny
Donna: See you soon