I
The night is crisp and cloudless, the streets crowded with pedestrians scurrying in various directions – arms full of grocery bags, bundled up children clinging to parents' hands, businessmen and women pouring out of office buildings and onto subway trains. Donna crosses the street, throwing a grin over her shoulder at Harvey, who's taking his sweet time catching up to her – whether from the desire to admire her from afar, or because he's apprehensive about what she's dragging him into, she's not quite sure.
The walk has her feeling lightheaded, all her thoughts spiraling in different directions: what the fallout from leaving Wes will entail, her sudden desire to finally live for herself, her conversation with Harvey…
She doesn't know what's gotten into her; why she opened up to him like that – Harvey Specter of all people – or what she's doing now. Maybe it's his words – soft and sincere, so unlike the joking quips and seductive teasing that, for them, have become normal conversation. Maybe it's how he looks at her, like he believes in her completely, like she has everything within her to succeed, despite how hopeless it all seems. Maybe it's Montana. How the entire night felt like a beautiful dream – a secret, stolen, fantasy romance; a forever crammed into the space of hours.
Whatever it is, she's spilling her secrets, laying her life out on the line, and slipping her fingers into his like he might actually care enough to hold her together when it all comes crashing down. She doesn't know where any of it comes from – this reckless, insane reliance on a man she's hardly had the time to really get to know, and maybe it's another reckless, insane thing to do, trusting him like this. Loving him like this.
Shit.
There it is again. The L word.
What is she doing?
Loving him.
Jesus.
No matter how much she tries to ignore it, it's there. Big and messy and complicated. That's love, right? Complicated. Not perfect. She thinks of Wes. Her heart sinks.
Wes. Strangely, he hasn't tried his usual tactics to lure her back. There have been no flowers sent to her desk, no heartfelt voicemails, no extravagant gifts left in her office. It's unnerving and unlike him. If anything, he's been distancing himself from her.
No doubt his way of teaching her a lesson – withdrawing his approval to punish her until she proves herself deserving of his trust and attention again. It's infuriating; this infantilizing and condescending behavior that always ends with her crawling back, apologetic and desperate and tearful, unable to stand his silence. Begging for absolution, for his affections and concern once more.
Humbled to her knees for another chance.
The thought leaves her bitter. Another chance. She can't even remember a time when the highs of being with Wes felt good. Lately, her happiness has rested in the absence of his annoyance, has relied solely on the lack of anger that clouds his face and steals his attention, the disappointment that drips from his lips.
Her step slows. Despite her anger and frustration, despite the hurt that's hounded her for years and the newfound motivation to break away and leave Wes behind, it's still hard to imagine going through with this. How devastated he'll be. How humiliated. How furious.
She almost wishes she didn't love him anymore, but there's a deep-seated tenderness that she just can't erase, a fondness that she doesn't know how to extinguish. It makes the thought of hurting him unbearable. It makes her want to tell Harvey to forget it. That it's too soon. That she can't do this. Won't.
"I take it I'm not allowed to know where we're headed," Harvey asks, drawing up alongside her, so perfectly him and his droll tone and wry grin and crinkled, inquisitive eyes, staring down at her like she might be the only thing he ever wanted to know the answers to.
"I told you, it's forbidden."
"And yet you're involving me."
"You seem eager to break rules."
"Only the ones I don't like."
"This one excite you?" she teases. "Thrill the thrill-seeker?"
He grins at her. "Everything you do excites me."
She blushes, surprising herself. Still he fails to notice the weight of his words, how thoroughly they penetrate the cracks in her barriers, slipping warm and heavy against the tender, raw places beneath. She's so used to Wes' calculated and manipulative declarations of love, his smooth and polished speeches and grand gestures, that the sincerity and casualness of Harvey's affection are a shock to her system.
"Good to know," she says, trying to sound nonchalant, but her voice comes out breathy and soft, and he's looking at her like he can't quite believe she's real, and it's so goddamn sweet and genuine, and she doesn't know what the hell to do with that, or how to react, so she just smiles and keeps walking.
They pass a row of shops, all closed up for the night, and then turn down a side street, the pavement slick with rain from earlier in the day. The neon lights of the city cast a hazy glow over the buildings, giving the whole place a surreal, almost dreamlike feel. It's quiet here, the only sound the distant hum of traffic from the main road.
She leads him to a small, unassuming building with a single green awning.
Harvey stops and stares. "A flower shop?"
"Not just a flower shop."
He raises an eyebrow, his expression skeptical.
"Come on," she says, grabbing his hand and pulling him down a side alley, taking the less obvious path toward the entrance. He allows her to lead him, amusement lighting up his face as he looks at her, his grin growing wider the closer they get. He's more relaxed now; it's clear in his body language – the way his shoulders slump slightly, the ease of his stride, the looseness of his fingers around hers.
He follows her past a collection of outdoor potted plants, a rose bush with blood red blooms, various other greenery, and trees. They slip into the side entrance, reluctantly releasing their grip on one another, the scent of flowers and potting soil filling their noses as they wait in the doorway. Soft music floats down from the apartment upstairs; the sweet melodic strains of an aria or concerto, the female voice wavering in its timbre and intensity, lending it an otherworldly, heartbreakingly enchanting aura.
A tall woman wearing dark wash jeans and a light blue button-up greets them. Her braided hair is a warm brown, threaded with flecks of silver, matching the laugh lines that wink at the corners of her honey colored eyes as she flashes them a broad smile.
"You must be Donna," she says. "Aileen. Sorry – I saw your text and came running!"
Donna laughs, returning the smile. "No problem. You mentioned the viewing was open until nine, so..."
Aileen nods her head, and Donna tenses a little; there's a hesitation to the movement, like Aileen is unsure, perhaps unwilling. "Right, right. Well, we were supposed to have it cleaned up better for you, but time kind of got away from us. So, if you don't mind seeing things as they are..."
"Not at all," Donna says, meaning it.
From what she's seen, the place is perfect. Beautiful hardwood floors, spacious, high-ceilings, and lots of light. She can see it now, the way the sunlight would stream in through the tall windows, filling the whole apartment with its golden glow. It's not a big space, but it's cozy and charming and, most importantly, hers. Or could be. No more Wes. No more fighting and walking on eggshells. Just peace and quiet. Just her. Or her and...
She risks a glance at Harvey, who's looking around the place with interest, taking in every detail. He catches her gaze, raising an eyebrow and smirking, a silent question in his eyes, and her heart skips a beat, a thrill running through her at the prospect of being alone with him, of having him in her space, of being free to do as they please without fear of interruption or discovery.
"Great!" Aileen says, breaking her reverie. "Let's have a tour then."
Aileen leads the way down the narrow hallway to an even smaller alcove, where an elevator sits, seemingly ancient, but functional. It creaks as they step on, and Aileen taps a few times at one of the rusty buttons.
"This is by far the quirkiest bit about this apartment, but don't let that scare you away. It works just fine, even if it takes a bit of coaxing."
Donna smiles, more than okay with a touch of the unique.
After a few more pushes, the elevator springs to life, the floors whizzing by with a shudder and thud, followed by the ding of a bell signaling their arrival.
"It takes a lot of power to get it running sometimes, but once you get the hang of it, it's not so bad. Mr. Orloff, who runs the flower shop downstairs, is happy to help on the few occasions it might require a little extra."
Donna glances over at Harvey, who wears a vaguely amused expression. It seems to say, 'you've really outdone yourself this time' and her cheeks flush with heat, her stomach knotting with uncertainty at whether this was too much – this impromptu adventure, dragging him along like this – but all doubts disappear when he catches her eye and smiles, giving a light shrug, followed by a nod.
He nods again, even more noticeably this time, the motion saying, yes; unequivocal in its surety and faith.
Yes, I'm here.
Yes, I want to be here.
Yes, I'm happy to see what all this is about.
His eyes say yes, and she can't look away. Can't seem to breathe. Can't think. All she sees is him and his yes. For her.
She's so caught up in him, that she doesn't realize Aileen has opened the door to the apartment until she's stepping inside, beckoning them to follow with a smile and a wave of her arm, chattering away about the features of the apartment. The spacious kitchen. The large bay windows overlooking the street. The beautiful hardwood floors.
The apartment is empty, but Donna can still see it all so clearly. The couch and armchairs she'll arrange around the fireplace. The dining table she'll set with candles and linens. A large, fluffy rug here; plush velvet drapes there. Bookshelves lining the walls, their shelves stocked full of her favorite books. Some cheery throw pillows on the furniture; touches of soft, beautiful color and patterns. Painted abstract art on the walls.
She's never lived alone. Not really. In her early twenties she'd shared an apartment with a friend from college. Then she'd moved in with Wes, first in his penthouse in Midtown, and later, in his Upper East Side brownstone. But it had always been his place. Always.
This would be hers. Her very own. And she could fill it with the things she loved. The things that made her feel good. At home.
It's a new feeling, this freedom. This autonomy. The ability to make choices for herself, without consulting anyone else. No need to justify or explain herself, or worry about being judged or found lacking.
"Why don't you take a look around. I'll be at the end of the hall if you have any questions."
When Aileen leaves them, Donna turns to Harvey.
"What do you think?" she asks, a note of embarrassment creeping into her voice.
It's so awkward, she realizes. Asking him like that – as if it's some big deal – which, god, maybe it is – but it isn't supposed to be. It's not meant to be anything other than her asking his opinion on an apartment she's thinking about renting. But now, standing there in the middle of the living room, it feels like something more. Something significant. A decision she's making. A choice. A turning point.
He doesn't immediately answer, instead wandering through the rooms in silence, his eyes taking everything in, lingering here and there. Finally he turns around, leaning against the door frame. He takes her in with a sweep of his eyes, his expression unreadable.
"It's...nice," he says, keeping his eyes steady and even on hers. "It seems like you."
"Yeah?" She considers. "All white walls and bare bookcases?"
"No." He shakes his head, his gaze softening. "Warm and bright and welcoming. A place that feels like home. Not a showpiece."
She can't help the smile that spreads across her face, or the warmth that floods her chest. It's exactly what she wanted to hear, and the fact that he sees it too, that he gets it, makes her feel a little less crazy for wanting this so badly.
She leaves him there to examine the space, wandering toward a hallway and peering inside the open doors, her excitement swelling the farther along she goes. The first door leads to a large room, with a beautiful bay window, overlooking a small garden below. The second, a smaller bedroom, perfect for an office or guest room, or perhaps a nursery – not that that's a thought she's entertaining at the moment, but it's a possibility, one she never allowed herself with Wes, and the fact that it's there, that she can imagine such things without feeling a crushing sense of dread, is a revelation. A relief.
She glances back at Harvey, who's watching her explore with what can only be described as a fond, almost wistful expression, and her heart flips, that delicious melting warmth dripping down into her belly as he smiles at her, his eyes full of what she wishes they'd stop skating around and simply admit. But this is, after all, their game – isn't it? Pretend it doesn't exist, even as their eyes or lips or hands trace the truth?
She grins back, wishing she could go to him now, wrap her arms around his waist and pull him down to kiss her, mumble something about letting her show him the bedroom. She wishes for a million different things when it comes to him, and the more time she spends with him, the longer she racks up a list of impossible scenarios.
She tears her eyes from him, taking a breath, and heads further down the hall, past a large bathroom with a deep, claw-foot tub and a separate shower stall, to a set of double doors. She pushes them open, her breath catching in her throat. The space is enormous, easily the size of the rest of the apartment, with high ceilings and a wall of windows looking out over the cityscape. There's a small balcony off to one side, and she slips out onto it, leaning against the railing, and watches the world go by. There are people walking, cars driving, a man on a bicycle. A woman with a stroller. A couple holding hands. It's a normal day, a normal night, but it feels anything but.
She's leaving Wes.
The thought is still so new, so strange and unreal that it's hard to wrap her head around it, to really internalize it. The words are foreign, almost nonsensical when strung together in such a way, and yet they've been spoken. By her. They're true. They're happening.
She's leaving Wes.
And the world continues on. Car engines rev, and tires crunch over pavement. Dogs bark. Music blares from open windows. Life goes on, just as before. Nothing has changed, and yet everything is different.
The door slides open behind her, and she doesn't have to look to know it's him. His hand ghosts her waist, hovering inches from her body, there and not there, close enough to sense, but not enough to feel. It makes her stomach flutter and her chest ache, and god, she's missed his touch. So much. Too much. Her whole body clenches with the memory, with longing, and she silently pleads with him to stop teasing her like this and just put his goddamn hand on her like he means it. Like she's wanted him to every moment she's been with him and all the others in between.
"I want it," she breathes.
It's an admission of so many things at once. Maybe, most of all, she's saying she wants him. But there's also her future and the break from Wes it represents; her renewed sense of self and happiness and independence that she hopes she'll gain from inhabiting this place. It's all swirling inside her, coming together as something new and fresh and exciting, something she feels confident in claiming as her own.
"Yeah?" he whispers, leaning forward, his warmth pressing into her back, his hand cupping her hip, fingers curling slowly into the fabric of her dress. She releases a soft, strained hum of approval, and she can feel his smirk like heat in the air, can see it clear as day in her mind's eye.
"Yeah," she replies, her lids dipping closed as she sighs, savoring the weight of him, the welcome, heavy press of his palm against her body. She tries not to dwell on the rightness of the simple contact, of the sensation of belonging, in being wrapped up in him and the stolen moments they manage to sneak, as few and far between as they may be.
"Have you checked out the best part yet?" he murmurs, his voice soft and sultry, and she can feel his breath against her skin as he leans in, the prickle of his five o'clock shadow brushing her cheek as he nuzzles in closer. "I came across it on my way to find you."
Before she can gather her wits enough to ask him to elaborate, he has his hand on the small of her back, his arm coiling tighter around her waist, moving her away from the view of the city, guiding her into a corner of the balcony, where there sits a pile of discard wares and old furniture.
She follows his gaze down to a dusty, rectangular glass box, cobwebbed and clouded with age.
"Harvey..." she begins, unable to help herself, trying to bite back a smirk. "Is that a fish tank?"
He steps beside her, planting himself firmly in front of the decrepit looking case. "This, Donna, is a saltwater aquarium."
"Uh-huh," she drawls, quirking an eyebrow. "And what use would I have for an old, giant fish bowl when I'm not much for saltwater fish?"
"Are you telling me after all the whale riding you did in Montana, you're not the least bit fond of a certain...sea giant."
"Sea giant?"
His smile broadens, and she fights a losing battle with herself not to grin back. He's a dork, through and through. Such a corny, irrepressible dork. How is it possible that she loves this man's stupid jokes and asinine comments more than anything else she's ever had the misfortune of falling victim to?
"On second thought..." she continues. "Maybe I am a little fond. Although I don't think the living room is quite spacious enough to give megalodon the tank it deserves."
"Who said anything about the living room? Clearly, it belongs in the bedroom."
"Why, so it can beach its way into bed with me every morning?"
"How else would it get its fins on you?"
She presses her lips together to stifle a laugh, shaking her head at him, but her efforts are futile; he has her grinning ear to ear. It's hopeless to even try to pretend his cheesy one-liners don't make her heart race, or his charming, goofy humor doesn't sweep her off her feet.
"What?" he asks, clearly pleased with himself.
"Nothing," she laughs. "You're just..."
Her voice trails off, and for a moment they stand there, their gazes locked, an amused expression on both their faces, and it feels so easy – everything between them feels so natural, so right, so effortless, like this is the way things have always been, like they've been doing this for years. A lifetime. An eternity.
His eyes drop to her mouth, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows thickly.
"What?" he asks again, softer, less playfully now, his gaze still boring into hers, his expression suddenly serious. She shakes her head again, her mind spinning with thoughts of what she could say to make him understand how she feels. There are so many words waiting on the tip of her tongue, but all she manages to get out is, "You."
It's so nonsensical and meaningless, and for a second she worries that she's ruined everything by speaking, but then he moves closer, his gaze hot and intent on hers, and he's searching her eyes like he wants to drink her in. Like he can't bear to miss a single expression that might cross her face, because maybe there's something in it that will make this make sense to him, too. And just when she thinks he might kiss her – the idea of which is both thrilling and terrifying because she knows once they start down this road again there will be no stopping them, and the risk of getting caught here is far too great – Aileen pops out onto the balcony.
"So? What do you think?"
Donna startles a little, jumping back from Harvey, though they were hardly touching. She clears her throat, trying to get her bearings again, to remember why she's here, what she's supposed to be doing, but all she can focus on is the way he steps away from her, the distance between them suddenly so great.
"I love it," she says, turning to Aileen, her voice coming out far more breathless and strained than she intends. "It's perfect."
"Fantastic!" Aileen grins and motions them back inside where she has paperwork laid out on the kitchen island. "So," she begins, "you do have an excellent application – income, job history, security check, etcetera. But your credit report was a bit spotty, which doesn't entirely make sense, given your description of your financial stability. It seems like you haven't had a credit line open in the last decade, and your score is..."
She pauses, and Donna's heart sinks.
"It's not great."
Of course it's not. How could it be? Wes pays for everything. Always has. And she's never been allowed to have a credit line of her own. He handles it all. Her bank accounts. Her investments. Everything.
"Oh, right. That. I, umm – I've had a lot of financial support over the last few years. My...fiancé..." She can feel Harvey's eyes burning into the back of her skull. "...has a strict financial plan for us, and he handles most of our expenses."
"I see." Aileen nods slowly, her brows furrowing in thought. "Well, if you can get him to co-sign for you, we would be more than willing to consider your application."
God, of course. Of course that's how it would go. Of course she has to get Wes to sign on her lease if she's going to have a chance of renting a goddamn apartment in this city. Why hadn't she thought about that? She should have. This entire idea was stupid. Why did she think she could do this? That she could be on her own, without him? She doesn't know anything. Doesn't have anything of her own. Doesn't know how to make it in the world. She feels like a child playing grown-up, playing at leaving Wes, like it's some sort of silly little game instead of her fucking life. How is this happening?
"Or," Aileen says tentatively, "if you have someone else who would be willing to vouch for you...?"
"Right. Let me..." She trails off, her chest feeling tight, her breath coming fast and shallow. She can't think straight, can't focus on anything but the feeling of panic that's building in her. Her heart is hammering in her chest, her palms sweaty, and the room seems to spin around her, the edges blurring and warping. It's the same feeling she had during Reed's deposition; like the whole world has tilted off its axis, like her entire life is crumbling around her. But instead of the dread and terror, all she feels is shame. Shame at her stupidity and naiveté. At her weakness and vulnerability. At her utter lack of preparedness for this. For life without Wes. She can't do it. She can't survive without him.
She can't breathe.
Can't breathe.
Can't breathe.
"Excuse me," she manages, before turning and stumbling toward the door, her vision blurring with tears. She hears Harvey say something to Aileen, but the words don't register, and she doesn't care anyway. All that matters is that she gets away from this place, from this mistake, from this ridiculous, impossible dream.
It's not until she reaches the end of the hall that she realizes she's sobbing, great heaving gasps that shake her entire body, and she can't stop. Can't get a hold of herself. Can't do anything but lean against the wall and try not to collapse onto the floor. She can't even go to her car, because her keys and purse and phone are all still in the apartment, in her dream home that will never be hers.
She sinks down to the ground, her legs finally giving out, and she buries her face in her hands and lets the tears come.
II
The room has gone eerily still, as if the very air is holding its breath. The silence is deafening, broken only by the soft click of Aileen's pen as she sets it down on the counter.
Harvey stands there for a moment, his eyes fixed on the spot where Donna had been standing, his brain trying to catch up with what just happened. He knew something was off. The moment the credit report came into play, she got that look on her face—the one he can read in a single glance—that told him things were about to go sideways.
Another anxiety attack.
It kills him that he hadn't seen this one coming.
He wants to go to her, to wrap her in his arms and murmur quiet reassurances. And then, once the storm has passed, he wants to kill Wes – wants nothing more than to put his fist in that smug prick's face for everything he's done to Donna. It just keeps adding up – the manipulation and control...the abuse? Because there is a word, he can feel it, lurking behind her every wince or hesitation. The shadow it casts looming so large in her eyes that there are times he can barely meet her gaze. God, Harvey thinks, if she's been dealing with all that...
Well, he's keeping score now. Cataloging, noting, filing. When the dust settles on this shit, when Wes is in the rearview for Donna, he's coming for his goddamned blood.
But now isn't about vengeance. Now is about her. And first, he has to deal with the matter at hand.
"I'll sign," he says, turning to Aileen, his jaw clenched. "I'll co-sign the lease."
Aileen's brow furrows, and he can see the concern in her expression, the doubt and hesitation written across her face, but he doesn't give her a chance to object. He knows what he's doing. Or, he knows how stupid it is, at the very least. Knows he's breaking every rule he has for himself in a singular moment – his rule to avoid attachments and romantic entanglements, his rule to never get involved in other people's lives, his rule to never put himself in a financially vulnerable position for another person – and that's not including the professional lines he's blurring, the ethics and codes he's violating.
He knows it's not wise. Not smart. Not sensible.
He doesn't care.
He's already reaching for the papers she'd laid out on the counter, flipping through the pages to find the appropriate section, and when he finds it, his hand is steady as he scrawls his name on the dotted line. He doesn't hesitate, doesn't give himself a chance to reconsider. This isn't about him. It's about Donna. And he can't let her lose this. Can't let her lose another piece of herself because of the selfish, controlling asshole she's saddled herself with.
Aileen stares at him, her lips parted, and for a moment, he thinks she might protest, but then she just shakes her head and sighs.
"Okay," she says, her voice soft, resigned. "I'll run your information and if all goes smoothly, she'll receive the keys in a few days."
He nods, and then he's grabbing Donna's belongings, his feet carrying him out the door and down the hall, his mind focused on one thing and one thing only. Finding her.
She's not hard to locate, sitting in a heap at the end of the hallway, her head in her hands. He approaches slowly, his footsteps soft, and he crouches down beside her, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder. She startles at the touch, her head snapping up, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy, and she looks at him with such anguish and despair that it nearly breaks his heart.
"I'm sorry," she whispers, her voice hoarse and broken. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be," he says. "It's alright."
"No, it's not." She shakes her head. "I'm a fucking mess. I can't even get an apartment on my own. How am I supposed to..."
Her words trail off, and she looks away, her gaze fixed on the floor.
"I'll admit," he says, keeping his tone light, "you are a little high-maintenance."
She huffs out a laugh, but it's devoid of any real humor, and she shakes her head again, her eyes still averted. He reaches out, his fingers brushing her cheek, and he tilts her chin up so that she's looking at him.
He doesn't know what to say – doesn't have the right words, or even the wrong ones. Doesn't have any words at all, really, and the silence stretches out between them, taut and heavy, and he can feel her pain and fear as if it were his own. Can feel the way her heart is breaking, the way she's struggling to hold on to some semblance of hope.
And then, without thinking, he's leaning in, his lips brushing against hers. It's just a light, fleeting touch of his mouth to hers, a chaste kiss meant to comfort and soothe more than anything else. But she leans into him, and her fingers clutch the collar of his shirt, her mouth parting beneath his. He can't resist her invitation. Can't stop himself from pulling her closer, from deepening the kiss, from sliding his tongue against her bottom lip until she's letting him sweep into her, to taste her again – salty tears, strawberries, and Donna.
And for a moment, it's just them. No baggage. No complications. Just two people lost in each other.
But the moment doesn't last. Nothing with her ever does – everything is fleeting; every touch, every taste, every glance, gone before he can cling to it long enough to fully appreciate it.
The ache deepens when she breaks away, turning her face as he tries to capture her lips again, and he closes his eyes, trying to suppress the hurt he feels. He knows she's not rejecting him, but still, it stings. His lips are swollen from her kiss, his body still pulsing with desire, and he can't ignore the sinking feeling that there will always be something between them, that they're always going to be denied the chance to be together, that maybe this is as good as it will ever get for them – shared breaths, chaste caresses, stuttering hearts, and parting ways.
"We shouldn't..." she starts, her voice low, her gaze flicking down to his lips.
He releases a mirthless chuckle, his hand still resting on her cheek, their foreheads touching. "Famous last words."
"Harvey..."
"I know," he replies, unable to keep the trace of bitterness out of his tone. It's not fair, he knows that. He shouldn't expect more. Shouldn't be pouting like a kid who didn't get his candy, or better, his bike. But the disappointment and sadness come anyway, like a freight train barreling toward him, dragging him into the dark pit of regret and hopelessness.
This is what love does to you. Makes you crazy and sad. Makes you lose your mind. Your dignity. Your very fucking will to live. Because maybe it would be easier to bear his own sorrow, if only that were the end of it. But the knowledge that she suffers, and might suffer doubly so, were they to enter a greater commitment to one another, destroys him. He doesn't want her to struggle. To suffer for him. God, never for him. Not because of him.
She leans in and presses her lips to his cheek, kissing him softly, lingering for a moment. It's not what he wants, but it's a consolation. Something to carry him through the next few weeks. Maybe months, years. Perhaps forever.
She pulls away, letting her fingertips slide across his jaw as she does. He follows her movement slightly before catching himself and stilling, his hands dropping back to his lap. His fists clench with the effort of it, the sheer force of will required to not chase her lips, begging for the promise of more.
"I'm sorry," she murmurs. "For mixing you up in all this."
He's sorry too, or he wants to be. There is part of him—a small, guilty part—that knows he brought this on himself. He kissed her first. Touched her, enticed her, persuaded her, and then stayed. Waited around for more of her, let his defenses down, welcomed the turmoil her very presence causes – gave in and then kept giving.
But the larger part of him, the part that is desperate and selfish and stubborn – the part of him that is his most persistent self – isn't sorry at all. Not sorry for this. Not sorry for them.
"Don't be."
His words come out soft and soothing. She smiles, small and tired. It doesn't reach her eyes. Still, he's glad to see it.
"Come on," he says, rising to his feet and offering her a hand. "Let's get out of here."
III
Samantha paces her apartment, nursing a glass of scotch. She glances over at the files scattered on the coffee table, the photographs of Donna's bruised skin staring back at her accusingly. She can't get a hold of her. She hasn't seen her since the morning, when they discussed her plan to leave Wes. When she told her to set a date for trial. Now it's late, the day is almost over, and Donna's trial date is still blank. And she's not returning her goddamn calls.
Samantha's mind races as she tries to sort through the various scenarios. There are a multitude of reasons why Donna could be ignoring her. She could have lost her phone, or forgotten to charge it, or simply gotten distracted by something else. But Samantha can't shake the feeling that something is wrong.
What if Wes has caught wind of Donna's plans to leave him? What if he's decided to take matters into his own hands and confront her before she can break things off? What if he's done something to hurt her, or worse?
Samantha's recent research on domestic violence has taught her that the most dangerous time for a survivor of abuse is when they decide to leave their abuser. This is when the majority of fatalities happen. She doesn't want to think about it, but the possibility is there. And coupled with the fact that Wes uses some form of strangulation on a consistent basis to control Donna's behavior, she can't help but fear for Donna's life.
If anything happens to her, Samantha knows she will never forgive herself. She's the one who encouraged Donna to leave. She's the one who pushed her to go through with it. She should have listened to Donna when she said she wasn't ready, that she needed more time to prepare and figure out her next steps.
God – how could she have been so stupid? Why did she assume everything would be okay, that everything was just going to fall into place, that all Donna had to do was draw a line in the sand?
Jesus fucking christ, she's not fit for this shit. Friendship? Counseling? Relationships? She's a lawyer. She should stay where she belongs – behind a desk or in a courtroom. On the sidelines. Away from people. Life is easier from afar. Less messy. Less complicated.
But Samantha chose this – didn't she? She's the one who stuck her nose in where it didn't belong, who encouraged Donna, who prodded and prompted, and hounded and asked more questions than was normal for her to seek. She did this. She caused this. She triggered Donna's decision to leave and the cascade of events that would follow – including this mess.
Just as she's about to reach for her cellphone and try her again, she hears the lock on the door click open, and then Donna is there, slipping inside and kicking off her heels.
"What the fuck? Where have you been?"
Donna stills, lifting her gaze, and Samantha stops, her words dying in her throat as the look of sheer vulnerability that meets her – it's so unlike Donna. So foreign. So disconcerting.
"What happened?" she asks, her voice softer, less accusatory now.
"I had an apartment showing," Donna says, her voice quiet. "Turns out my credit score is shit. Named partner at one of the most notable firms in Manhattan and I can't even secure a rental in Greenwich."
"What do you mean?"
"It was awful, Sam. I thought – fuck, I was so stupid." Donna scoffs, her face flushed with embarrassment. She sinks into a chair, her head falling forward onto her hands.
"It was like this sick reminder of how dependent on Wes I am." She laughs, a sharp, humorless sound. "I'm not sure if it was intentional or just something he could leverage after the fact." Donna waves her hand in the air dismissively. "But either way, it's embarrassing. I'm an intelligent, educated woman – an attorney, no less – yet, somehow, he's still dictating the terms of my fucking life."
"Did you try talking to the realtor about a co-signer or something?" Samantha suggests, trying not to let the concern bleed through in her voice as Donna falls silent. "I'd vouch for you."
She doesn't respond. Her gaze is focused on her hands, twisting the diamond on her left ring finger over and over.
"No. I have to do this on my own. I can't owe anything to anyone else. This whole...thing..." Donna pauses, a pained look flashing across her face. "If I don't do it on my terms – it won't feel like it's real."
Samantha understands. She does. That doesn't mean it's rational, but it's true that if Donna wants this, whatever "it" might turn out to be in the long term, to feel like a clean break from Wes – a true beginning in which Donna is fully and utterly in command of her own future – then it can only come by doing things her way.
"Alright." Sam agrees. "Well, what are your options then? Could you pay six months in advance?"
"Moving that kind of money would alert Wes, and then there goes my shot at surprise." Donna huffs out a deep breath that blows the loose strand of auburn waves from where they have settled across her forehead. "Maybe I could sell some of my equity in the firm?"
"No. You can't afford to lose footing at PWP," Sam reminds her, grimacing a bit as she thinks of the next most logical step.
"I'm not selling my Porsche." Donna's reply is swift and definitive.
"Did I mention it as an option?" Sam says with a smirk. She'd rather Donna hold onto her wheels if there is an alternative to selling.
They fall silent again, the weight of the dilemma resting heavy on them both as Samantha ponders her predicament.
After a few long moments of strained silence, Sam breaks the tension, her mind made up.
"You can move in with me. I'll put you on the lease to help build your credit back up." Sam's voice is steady, but the words come out in a rush, as if saying them too slowly will give her the opportunity to reconsider. Her words hang in the air, heavy and awkward. "I'll turn my office into a bedroom. But I swear to god, if I have to hear Harvey or, even worse, Wes, sneaking around in the middle of the night looking for you, I'll throw your ass right out and you can try to figure out how to couch surf."
A beat of shocked silence follows her offer and Donna's expression is wide and disbelieving as Samantha continues, unable to stop herself from running off at the mouth like an over-excited idiot.
"You'll need to help with the rent and other costs, of course. This isn't a charity operation. I've been thinking about taking a tenant on, so you wouldn't have been the worst candidate…even though strands of your red hair are already clumped up in my bathroom sink and I can barely stomach it. God. It would be like living with a giant cat or...or...a ginger dog. I can see it already...red furball clumps in all the places my maid misses, in the corners, and in between the grout –"
"It's called stress shedding. Look into it. It's a thing." The smile is tenuous, and not nearly as dazzling or confident as what Sam is used to, but the sharp-edged Donna who can bite back as good or better is still in there somewhere, which makes the sting in Sam's heart burn just a tiny bit less.
"Or just don't shed. There's that, right? That might make us both better off. Just don't shed."
Donna's expression has shifted, her eyes sparkling, and she can't hold back a laugh as Samantha's words sink in.
"You're serious?"
"I don't crack jokes. Not unless someone's paying me a million an hour for it."
"Sam, I don't know what to say..."
"You say thank you."
A faint, hesitant smile tugs at Donna's lips, and Samantha can see a flicker of gratitude and hope in her eyes.
"And I'm sorry," Donna adds quietly. "For scaring the shit out of you today. I should have texted...or called. After the appointment ended, I went for a long drive. And Harv..."
Samantha raises an eyebrow.
Donna's face flushes.
"You don't have to tell me anything. I don't care. The less I know about your weird, twisted little fling with him, the better."
"Okay. It's not –"
"Unless it has something to do with a trial date, I don't want to hear it."
"Next Thursday," Donna says. "Harvey's going to get it on the docket in the morning."
The air between them hangs heavy and somber, as if having a date for the trial is the end of some era. Like the last nail is about to be hammered in on an unfinished part of their lives that would soon be laid to rest. And maybe that's exactly the case, because the outcome of this trial– whatever that might be – is going to set the course of the future.
"Thursday," Samantha repeats with a nod. "Well, we've got our work cut out for us, then. You okay to prepare over the weekend? I can help where needed, but..."
"You'll be working on my leverage against Wes."
"Yes."
There's a pause as both women take in the gravity of the upcoming weeks ahead.
"So... I can take your office?"
Samantha sighs heavily and looks at Donna pointedly before giving her a terse nod.
"I can't keep sleeping in the same bed as you. You're cold toes always find my back – and that's even if I can sleep without you constantly kicking the shit out of me." She can see Donna rolling her eyes and a grin cracks across Samantha's face. It doesn't feel right to joke when so much is wrong and so many heavy emotions are being processed, but she needs Donna to laugh more and she's willing to make a fool out of herself and be a constant punching bag if that's the price that comes with the sound.
And then, just like that, a spark of humor flashes through Donna's green-hazel eyes, followed by the hint of an impish smile. She knows what Samantha's playing at, knows that her prickling is meant with love and amusement.
"Alright," she says, the trace of a grin playing on her lips as she holds up her hands in mock surrender, her left ring finger still glittering, "I get it – you're tired of snuggling."
Sam snorts. It feels forced; everything does, really, when they both know there are so many things that haven't been dealt with or properly discussed. The bruises are healing, but there is the emotional damage that's going to linger in the recesses of Donna's brain. And that's only the first item on the list of issues.
"I'll have my maid clear out my office tomorrow," Samantha says, turning toward the kitchen to grab the bottle of Macallan, pouring two healthy portions.
"What will I owe for a portion of rent?" Donna's voice is timid, as if she is afraid of what the number might be, and Samantha shrugs a bit.
"We can worry about it later," Samantha tells her with an apathetic glance over her shoulder. The last thing she needs is Donna panicking over money, not with everything else on her mind.
The truth is – the truth she's keeping to herself until after Donna's situation stabilizes a bit and her sanity returns – is she wouldn't care if she got a cent in rent from her friend, so long as they managed to get through this nightmare together.
When Samantha returns to the living room, she finds Donna staring down at her phone with an odd look.
"My application for the Greenwich apartment was approved." Her words are hushed, hesitant and confused. "I'll have my keys tomorrow." The moment the words slip free of Donna's lips, Samantha's heart thuds loudly against the walls of her chest. A deafening thump-thump, thump-thump.
It takes all her composure not to let it show.
"What?" she asks, her voice is tight, her lips forming a thin, brittle smile as her eyes dart away from the woman sitting in front of her. The reality of Donna living alone – alone and far, far from Samantha's watchful gaze and her protective care – is enough to make Sam's throat dry and her chest squeeze. "You said your credit score was abysmal," Samantha continues, swallowing hard around the lump that's risen in her throat and praying her mask stays on.
"It is..." A puzzled expression furrows across Donna's face as her words trail off and her focus shifts to the screen once more. "But apparently it wasn't low enough to warrant an immediate refusal of the application."
There are things Samantha could say to convince her to change course – maybe even insist that it isn't safe to live alone right now. Her words are on the tip of her tongue; please – don't leave – I need to see you're safe and alive and taken care of. She opens her mouth, the protestations beginning to form in the space between breaths. But it sounds so silly, so childish, that she bites back her words, knowing that Donna won't think she's serious. Maybe Samantha should let her think she is joking. Perhaps a bit of sarcasm wouldn't hurt...
But nothing comes.
"Isn't this great, though?" Donna's eyes have widened with disbelief. She stands abruptly and begins pacing back and forth, gesturing emphatically as she speaks. "I have my place. My fresh start..."
Donna laughs then – really laughs – a throaty chuckle that bubbles out of her as her shoulders relax, the sound unstrained. It's been so long since Samantha has heard her so unencumbered – it almost feels unnatural. Like the universe has tilted and Samantha's perception is out of sorts. It is not a laugh that comes from a woman with fading bruises on her back and legs from her lover, the remnants of his latest punishment littering her pale skin, turning sallow shades of yellow and green and muddled red as the blood recedes back into her veins.
The laugh is beautiful and bright and it makes Sam want to cry.
Donna pauses her pacing, turning toward her, the corners of her lips still turned upward in delight, her cheeks flushed and eyes shining, and that's when the words spill from Sam, the only ones that truly matter:
"You're happy, then?" Samantha asks. Her voice is barely louder than a whisper, and it breaks on the question, but she can't stop the tremor that lingers on its edges as the implications of her words sink into her consciousness like lead weights.
For the first time since Donna arrived at Sam's doorstep in the early hours of that Tuesday, Samantha finally believes what her friend is telling her.
I can leave.
I am ready.
I will do this.
She sees the truth written plainly in Donna's eyes. Sees her unburdened by the doubt and uncertainty that Samantha is sure has plagued Donna these past days.
"Yes."
Donna's words are firm, a vow to herself more than anyone else, and Samantha swallows down the emotion that threatens to well up inside her. Swallows it, swallows everything that comes bubbling in the wake of that single syllable that's come to mean the whole world in the space of an instant.
"That's good, Donna."
And god – Samantha means those three words – means it so fervently and deeply that, just for once, there's no hint of her usual sarcasm or wry wit that laces her words as they stumble through the heavy space that seems to linger between the two of them. There's too much emotion – so much emotion, and Sam can't be sure it isn't rolling off her in thick waves of worry and protectiveness.
She turns, the scotch sitting forgotten on the coffee table, the deep hues of amber liquid untouched as Samantha moves away from Donna – toward her bedroom door, because fuck it. The façade that Samantha has clung to with everything in her these past few days is beginning to splinter. She has no idea how she's supposed to deal with the feelings that have crested over her, the way the thought of letting her go and leaving her in the world alone makes her feel like her heart is about to break all over again, like it did the night Donna stripped herself bare and showed her the bruises that marred her body like pain etched in skin, and the shame that settled there, and the tears that came after.
It isn't fair – isn't fair the way she wants to scream her frustration, to rail and rage and beg Donna to reconsider. Beg Donna to understand that Samantha can't keep her safe if Donna isn't here. If they aren't in each other's pockets, and in the next room where Sam can hear if there is shouting. And hitting. And crying.
Samantha isn't sure who she'd kill first – Weston or herself – if anything were to happen.
So, she moves, steps toward her door and pulls it shut behind her. She leans her forehead against the doorframe and breathes. Just fucking breathes. And tries not to focus on how it will feel when Donna walks away – and if that makes Samantha miss the days when she didn't give a shit about the redhead's fate in the slightest. How easy it was then, when they were both just lawyers fighting their way to the top, who were determined to hate one another for as long as the battle wore on, and then maybe a lifetime thereafter.
Sam would do anything to bring back that sense of detachment. That feeling that, even though they were colleagues, she didn't have to give a rat's ass what Donna did in her spare time. If she lived or died or fell off the goddamned face of the Earth.
But Sam does give a rat's ass. And a lion's, and a hippo's ass – the whole goddamn jungle gives a huge, steaming shitload of an ass.
Samantha's eyes press shut, and the silence stretches on until she thinks it might last forever – but it can't, of course, it can't – until there is a tap-tapping against her bedroom door. It echoes like a drum in Sam's chest, each sound pounding like a hammer against a fragile organ that can't quite contain the feelings that swell within it. She stands up straight, turning her head toward the sound before swinging the door wide with a sigh of resignation as the inevitable question slips from Donna's lips:
"Are you okay?"
No.
The answer is an overwhelming no.
She will miss her cold feet.
And her bitchy remarks.
She'll miss the way she steals the blankets at night, even when Sam tells her not to.
The way her red strands clog up the shower drain and somehow, the vacuum. How the fuck she's still shedding, when there is no possible way for her to have any damn hair left is absolutely astounding and equally annoying. She will miss her stupid obsession with Harvey and her incessant, unrelenting loyalty to the people she loves. Her laugh and her wit, and her sharp edged charm. How she makes Sam a better person without asking her to try too hard.
It will hurt to be away from her.
"Yes."
It will ache not knowing what she's doing every day.
"Yes, of course I'm okay."
A/N: Sorry this one took so long. Life has been busy lately. Next chapter, the long awaited trial starts. And what the hell is Wes up to?
Thank you to everyone who has been reviewing and enjoying the ride.
Until next chapter.
- Kelly