All characters belong to Aaron Sorkin, John Wells Productions, Warner Bros., & NBC. Standard disclaimers apply. Please send feedback. The First One Hundred Days Violet
Farewell, farewell to you who'd hear,
You lonely travelers all;
The cold North winds will blow again
The winding road does call...
- Sandy Denny, "Farewell, Farewell"
Saturday, January 20th: Day One
"I do solemnly swear that I will faithfully execute the oath of office..."
Josh hurled a peanut at the television. "Kiss my ass."
Sam shook his head in mock dismay and sat down on the couch. "Waste of perfectly good food."
"Is the show on the road yet?" Toby emerged from the kitchen carrying a beer.
"He's swearing in." Josh leaned back on the sofa and pegged the screen again. "Look at that. He looks like a shaved chimp dressed in an expensive suit."
"With a cheap tie," Sam put in spiritedly.
C.J.'s voice was slightly sibilant over Josh's speaker-phone. "And marionette strings tied to his--"
Josh cut her off. "You don't get to talk."
"Oh, come on," she protested.
"Look, I'm taking a vote, okay? Toby?"
"She doesn't get to talk," he said, leaning against the wall and folding his arms.
"Sam?"
He turned his head away from the screen slightly. "Sorry, C.J."
She sighed in frustration. "Guys, when do I stop getting the cold shoulder? I left a month early. You're acting like I sold state secrets to the Chinese. What's the big deal?"
"You left a month early!" Sam yelped.
"We had to hold Henry's hand the whole last couple weeks," Josh complained. "You left us in the sinking ship. Which makes you the rat. So you can just sit there in California and -- and be sitting in California."
"This isn't fair."
Toby gestured glumly at the television. "That's that."
"He's sworn?"
"Happened while you were bickering. Like most important events in recent history."
"Jesus," Sam murmured.
"That's it, then," Josh said flatly. "There are Republicans moving into our offices. Republicans walking in our hallways and drinking our coffee."
"Shut up," C.J. groaned.
"Republicans in your press room, and don't come crying to me," Josh said to the phone. He looked over at Toby. "Republicans sitting on your couch. Republicans using your keyboard."
Toby smirked underneath his beard. "I may have inadvertently spilled some coffee on that keyboard yesterday afternoon."
"Yeah?" Josh grinned. "I think there might be a screw or two loose in my desk. I'm just saying."
"I know where there's a couple screws loose," C.J. muttered. "Where's Donna?"
"She wanted to go watch the motorcade go by," Josh scoffed. "Maybe she'll throw a banana to the chimp."
"I miss the Mural Room." Sam frowned at the TV. "It's going to be weird, really weird, not walking into the place on Monday."
"Republicans," Josh said again. "Sitting in your chair, feet up on your desk, right now as we speak."
"That's enough out of you," Toby decided. "I give C.J. permission to talk."
"Thanks." The acid in her tone cut through the hollowness of the long distance line. "Look, it's not like this came out of nowhere. We knew there was going to be an election. We knew. Don't do the sad little face, Sam."
"I'm not doing a sad face," he said, wrinkling his nose.
"Of course you are. Just look at it this way." She tried to sound cheerful. "We're free."
"We're free," Josh seconded, tossing a few cashews into his mouth.
"And that calls for another drink." Toby downed some of his beer.
"You're not really mad at me either," C.J. said.
"Nah," Josh admitted.
"You don't hate me; you just miss me."
"We're just jealous of the weather," Sam explained. "We get six inches of ice and you're dancing around in a bikini and a sarong."
She laughed. "I'm wearing an ancient sweatshirt with a Da Vinci cartoon on it. And cutoff shorts with holes in them."
Josh quirked an eyebrow up and glanced sideways at Toby, who returned a glare at him. "Is this turning into one of 'those' phone calls?"
"You wish," she retorted. "Anyway, Sam, you'll be in Carolina soon. Where it's mid-winter and yet the living is easy anyway."
"Leaving me once again to hold this town together," Josh said. "And Toby--"
"We'll see," he said, in a tone that strongly encouraged a change of subject.
"The Commander In Chimp is going to ruin the country for all of us," Josh predicted. "And I alone am escaped to tell thee..."
"You'll be fine," C.J. said soothingly. "And dandy. Let's not get maudlin. It's not like any of us are falling off the world."
"Add to that, if you start getting maudlin, I'm taking my booze and going home," Toby declared.
"I hope you're right," Sam said to the phone.
"I'm always right, just ask Toby."
Toby grimaced dubiously. "That the Hollywood version?"
"Premiering after the Superbowl," she replied. "Tomorrow night. You guys have to watch. You are going to watch, right?"
"I'd rather have my own teeth fed to me," Toby said.
"Okay, well, the hell with you."
"I'll watch," Josh promised.
"I knew you would."
"Of course, I'll have had a lot to drink during the game."
"Hey." Sam grabbed the remote and turned up the volume on the television. "He's doing his speech now."
"...As I begin, I thank President Bartlet for his service to our nation..."
"Go screw your sister," Josh yelled at the screen.
"It could be worse," C.J. said doubtfully.
"Sure." Sam ducked as Josh aimed a peanut at the side of his head.
"Republican droppings all over the Office," Josh said sourly, and settled back to watch the rest of the speech in silence.
* * *
It's not that she walked away;
Her world got smaller
All the usual places, the same destinations,
Only something's changed...
- R.E.M., "She Just Wants To Be"
Friday, February 9th: Day Twenty-One
So it was Los Angeles.
For C.J., Washington had always been a place of questions, the ones that were relentlessly fired at her and the ones she was endlessly contemplating. Los Angeles was an answer, a closed circuit, a law unto itself. It knew where it stood, even when it didn't stand still. It made her feel older, even as she dropped five years when telling anyone her age.
It was easy to sit in a script meeting and kick around the politics. It was so pleasantly meaningless to discuss the census or funding for genetic research or states of emergency with a group of writers. Writers who wrote stories with endings and smooth edges. It was easy to tell them stories that way, about Ainsley's office and the dozen times Josh fell down in the halls, about poker games and one-liners and the cafeteria and, sometimes, the Oval.
She gave these moments to them, gift-wrapped and ready for the world. It didn't cost anyone's life. No one argued with her version of the truth; no one asked her to compromise anything she believed. No one asked her to lie or to pretend she knew more or less than she did.
No one yelled at her, except Josh on the phone, on Wednesday nights at one AM his time and ten PM hers.
"It's really not," he had said. "That cute."
"I remember," she'd told him, leaning back in her deck chair to peer at the sky through the smog, and picturing Josh balancing the phone between his shoulder and his ear.
"Like, I never tripped and landed on top of a female ambassador," he'd said.
"Jake isn't based on you. And considering that you once lit the place on fire--"
"Only a very little bit."
"Every little bit counts," she'd said. "It's not supposed to be a mirror. It's supposed to be a satisfying ride for an hour."
"It's not bad," he'd said grudgingly.
"They try." She knew they did, all the writers and actors and cameramen and the ones whom she didn't even know what their jobs were. "They work hard and they want it to be good."
"Okay. But it's too easy. It always ends too neatly."
"I know."
"And 'Hail to the Chief' is a dumb title. And Victor Garber..."
She'd rolled her eyes. "I actually have heard this a million times, you know."
"He's Canadian!"
"He's an actor."
"He's a Canadian actor."
"One million and one," she'd sighed.
Josh had chuckled. "Hang in there. It's a decent show."
She had said goodnight and hung up the phone. It was a decent show. So they told her, so the ratings said, and she thought so when she watched it, which wasn't every week. Most of the time it hurt to see this ghostly play, and hear a line or catch a look, and think back. She only did it enough to keep in touch.
The day that Entertainment Weekly came out with her show on the cover, Sam sent flowers and a card with a phone number in his neat handwriting. She called and discovered it was the Ritz in Boston. The desk put her through.
"The Sam Seaborn world tour continues," she said to his hello.
"Lock up your daughters," he said, in a tone that made her see his smile. "How are you?"
"I'm sunny. How about you? I thought you were staying at Duke a little longer, opening minds at your alma mater."
"They got tired of me. I wanted to see some snow." Sam sounded a little wistful. "A couple weeks, I might regret it."
C.J. lay across her couch on her stomach and studied the petals of the daisies he'd sent. "Have you seen Leo while you've been in town?"
"We had lunch last week. He's not doing a very good job of being retired. Josh says he calls him every couple of weeks to tell him how he's screwing up the party. Have you talked to Josh lately?"
"Sure."
Sam hesitated noticeably. "Have you talked to Toby?"
"Not lately," she said, and they both knew it meant not at all.
"He's in New York," Sam told her tentatively. "Not doing anything official yet."
"Are any of us?"
"We all are," he said. "Josh is on the Hill, I'm talking, you're in television. Hey, I caught the show the other night. It was pretty good. The writing and acting and all."
"It's doing well, huh?"
"Yeah. You have a Canadian guy playing the President, you know that?"
She changed the subject. Later, she drove to the beach to watch the sun go down. There were sirens and sunshine and sweat, beautiful sunsets and beautiful people. It wasn't her favorite city in the world, but it wasn't asking too many questions yet. She did understand why Sam found it easier not to stay in one place, and wondered if he'd keep up the academic hobo act for long. She wondered how much Leo missed living and breathing his job every day. She wondered how Josh was adapting to seeing the Presidency from an outsider's distance, an enemy's standpoint.
She was in Los Angeles. She was in television. She did not allow herself to wonder anything more.
* * *
Sam put the phone down and looked around his hotel room. Apart from the frost on the window, it was nearly indistinguishable from where he'd been staying in North Carolina. They'd always blurred into sameness for him, these rooms with dull mirrors and beige carpets and prints on the walls that matched the bedspread.
He was too hot; the thermostat didn't work properly and he couldn't turn off the radiator. He tossed his shirt and slacks across the striped armchair in the corner and sat back down on the bed, picking up the phone again. Josh's new office number was already becoming an automatic pattern for his fingers.
Donna answered it. "Hel-- oh, damn, hold on a second." There was a thud in the background and a muted squeal of pain, then a rustle as she picked up the receiver again. "Josh Lyman's office."
"Hey. Having a little trouble there?"
"Oh, hi, Sam. Yeah, just... one minute..." Her voice was warm, but oddly far away, and he guessed her hands were too full for the phone. "I spent all that time getting his stuff in order, and he throws it into boxes like a toddler putting toys away."
"Higgledy-piggledy?" Sam offered.
"...Okay, is that one of those things you picked up from your mom?"
"Something like that."
"Then I won't argue," she said playfully. "Josh is in a thing across the hall, I can--"
"I called to talk to you," he told her.
"Oh." She sounded uncertain. "Well, how's the Great White North?"
"Great," he said. "I just wanted to touch base, you know."
"It's only been a couple weeks."
"Seems like a lot when it used to be every day."
"It does," she agreed, and paused for a long moment. "Sam, are you okay?"
"Sure."
"You were supposed to do more than just the two weeks at Duke, right?"
It was his turn to sound uncomfortable. "I needed a change."
"You haven't had enough changes in your diet lately?" she said incredulously.
Sam bit his lip and stared out the window. It had taken him the better part of a year to get settled in Washington. An entire year before he got used to the weather, the channels on the television and the rhythms of the traffic. A year before he didn't feel like he was staying in someone else's town. It had taken him more than twice that to make New York feel like home.
"How's Josh?" he asked.
"You know. Moving in, getting used to where all the light switches are. He thinks it's cool that you're at Harvard. I can go get him--"
"No." He swallowed. "It's hot here."
"In Boston?"
"In the hotel."
"Sam..." She started to say at least two things and reconsidered them both. "I really should go."
"Take care," he said, and wasn't sure what he was telling her to take care of. He put the phone down, turned out the light, and lay back on the bed.
Duke had been glad to have him back; he had a standing invitation to guest at Princeton. He had two unanswered messages from law firms in New York somewhere in the morass of mail he was carting around in his briefcase, among letters and job offers from acquaintances and strangers. He closed doors behind him and did not lock them.
At lunch, Leo had listened to his vague plans, nodded, had not seemed judgmental for even a second. But -- Sam tried to picture Leo's face over the glasses of ice water and salad plates on the table. Had there been approval? Had there been disappointment?
He wasn't sure; he didn't or couldn't remember. The room was too hot. Snow was melting against the window. And it was a long time before he was able to sleep.
* * *
Wednesday, February 14th: Day Twenty-Six
In the mire of melting snow and freezing rain, he hadn't noticed that everything was turning pink.
Toby was pleased to note that New York was still New York. It was not satisfying, but gratifying, to be spattered with slush by passing buses. It was good and right to spend too much money on too much wine and too many restaurants. The sounds and the smells and walking in the shadows of tall buildings -- these things were natural. These things were home.
He'd been rattling around in meetings with important people who were offering him jobs and yet seemed vaguely afraid of him. At night, there were bars, or drinking alone in the small, hollow apartment his savings were paying for. He hadn't been paying attention, but one afternoon he came up out of the subway and realized the shop windows were filled with gilded, frosted fluff: crepe paper and teddy bears and arrows. It made him want to throw something through the glass.
There had been years when he'd bought chocolates and jewelry and written small elegant messages inside Hallmark cards. There had been years of silly presents -- he'd once bought a woman a stuffed platypus for reasons that he'd lost to memory. There had been years when Cupid flew entirely under his radar. And there had been years when the sight of a heart-shaped box caused the veins in his head to pulse painfully. This was shaping up to be one of those years.
People wanted to know what he was going to do. Toby had a number of prepared answers to the question. He was going to find some fresh-faced assistant district attorney and propel him to stardom. He was going to resume his losing streak with New York Governors and Senators. He was going to hole up in Manhattan and write obscure legal treatises or the great American novel. He was going to teach, or play the ponies, or take to the streets and push a pretzel cart.
He was pretty sure none of those things were true.
"Although there's a chance I'm serious about the pretzel thing," he told Sam brusquely on the phone.
"Well, you'd be your own boss," Sam replied.
"There's no partisanship in it." Toby stood close to his window and looked out at an undistinguished patch of New York skyline. "You got a buck, you get a pretzel."
"This is a heartwarming side of you," Sam said. "Seriously, what are you going to do?"
"Sam, you know, unless you're possessed by the spirit of my mother, I don't want to discuss it."
"And if I am possessed by your mother?"
"Call Father Damien. Do it now."
"You'll think of something that feels right."
"If I sit under this bodhi tree long enough," Toby muttered, yanking the blinds down.
"Have you been watching C.J.'s thing?" Sam asked hopefully.
Toby kept his voice neutral. "I watch the news, not much else."
"It's pretty good." Sam paused, then added truthfully, "You'd probably hate it."
"Yeah."
"You should watch it anyway." There was a long silence, until Sam finally spoke again. "So. I'd say take care--"
"But you're trying to avoid sounding like my mother again, right?"
"You really have one hell of a set of priorities," Sam said, and hung up almost before the sarcasm could register.
Toby left the phone on the windowsill and trudged into his closet-sized kitchen. It left little elbow room, but enough to pour a glass of bourbon. He stood there and sipped it, leaning on the dusty stove, leaving the lights out. He heard his neighbors arguing through the wall, and supposed his senses weren't quite adapted to the city again yet. He could still hear things he didn't need to hear, still glanced at things he didn't need to see.
There had been better times in the city, better days to walk the street when everything wasn't lace and flowers. And he was too tired to care what happened next. There was someone who would understand that, who had already seen him at his worst. He was too tired to care if she still had the power to hurt him.
He set the empty glass down in the sink and left the apartment, checking both locks to make sure they caught. Then down the elevator, and he walked. Thirty-five blocks, and Toby barely noticed lights changing, traffic roiling, roses in windows and the cold rain beginning to fall. New York was still New York, and he breathed it in until she buzzed him up and met him in the hall.
* * *
Josh twisted around in the chair that didn't quite suit him yet, scowling at the phone cord that seemed to be constantly in the way. Frustrated, he looped it in his fist and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk.
"He's a sad sack, Leo," Josh said. "Shallick's pissing on members of his own party all over the place, with no regard--"
"Yeah," Leo interrupted. "We wouldn't know anything about doing that."
"What?" Josh tried to sound innocent. "I've never alienated anyone in my life. Me with my effortless charm."
"Shallick thinks you're about as charming as a sharp stick in the eye."
"He's misguided."
Leo gave a short, sharp laugh. "You don't get to act like he's inconsequential, Josh, he got the American people--"
"He's a damn dirty ape." Josh put his hand to his forehead in frustration, elbowing several loose sheets of paper off his desk in the process. "Shit."
"Josh."
"Sorry, Leo, I just -- the thing isn't long enough, and I had my notes on 109 in order."
"You'll get comfortable," Leo reassured him. "Took about six months in the White House before you remembered which door went into C.J.'s office and which one went into the hall."
"That never happened."
"Josh, you walked into staff meetings every day talking about how you were going to tie a ball of twine to the door so you didn't get lost."
"It was less than six months." He rubbed his face irritably. "I'm just a little dizzy right now, is all."
"It'll go away."
"Will it?"
"No, I make this stuff up as I go along," Leo cracked. "It'll go away, Josh. You'll find the next big thing in four years and get swept up and before you know it you'll be enjoying your retirement."
"Some retirement," Josh teased back. "You call me up three times a week."
"I'm just making sure you don't get soft. Soft in the head. You gotta stop talking about Shallick like he's a badly-trained puppy."
"He's tearing his own party into pieces."
"Once again, where have I heard that before?"
Josh stretched as much as the phone cord would allow. "Yeah, but when we did it, we did it out of necessity."
"Maybe it didn't look that way from the outside?" Leo suggested gently. "I'll talk to you on Friday."
"Yeah." Josh hung up and put the receiver down hard. He bounced up from his chair and paced around the office. He kept expecting to see guards in the hallways, kept expecting the old glass dividers around the bullpen and familiar faces that did not appear. Except for one. Donna stepped into his doorway and regarded him, her arms folded and an ominous look on her face.
Josh furrowed his brow. "What'd I do this time?"
"Do you know what day it is?"
He groaned. "I never, never know what day it is, Donna. Have we not established that by now?"
"The fourteenth of February. Commonly known as St. Valentine's Day."
He made a face. "Okay, that was an easy one. Now when's St. Crispin's Day?"
"Every year," she said. "Every year you've gotten me something dumb, ugly, useless, or immature. Something that made loud inappropriate noises or had annoying flashing lights. Something with no conceivable value."
"What's your point?"
"It's six o'clock already. Where's my worthless present?"
"I didn't think of it." He plopped back into his chair. "I owe you one of those little cans that when you turn it over, it says moo."
She grinned. "And a little Cupid made out of tape and paper clips. I'm expecting it on my desk before I go home."
"I don't have time for this."
"Make time."
"I don't have time and I really don't have the inclination," he snapped. "And you know, you're not on vacation either."
"You're not cute when you're like this," she said abruptly, and swung out of his office again.
Josh shook his head and tried to straighten some of the clutter and chaos spilling off his desk. For a moment he was tempted to sweep it all into the wastebasket. Then the heading on a tax bill caught the corner of his eye, and he started to read. It was complicated and dry and elaborate, but if he couldn't pretend everything was the same, it reminded him that some things were.
"Donna!" he yelled.
"No," she yelled back.
"You got any paper clips?"
She stalked into the office and dropped a handful of them on his desk without a word, but he thought he saw a smile under the sway of her blonde hair. He didn't feel like smiling himself, so he didn't, but some of the tension visible in his neck and shoulders eased as he shifted in the new chair and looked for his tape dispenser.
* * *
Waiting for the moon to come and light me up inside,
I am waiting for the telephone to tell me I'm alive
Well, I heard you let somebody get their fingers into you
It's getting cold in California, I guess I'll be leaving too...
- Counting Crows, "Daylight Fading"
Tuesday, March 6th: Day Forty-Six
They had invited C.J. to the set several times already. Half of her was worried that she'd be star-struck and wide-eyed when everyone else was displaying cultivated cynicism. Half of her was afraid they'd all realize that she didn't know anything about what they did, and privately thought much of it was trivial. But they invited her, and they were paying her more money than they should, and finally she went.
She started by walking through the set. It was too sleek, too glossy, but there were touches -- the podium in the Briefing Room, the windows in the Oval -- that echoed something. When she squinted and chose not to see the lighting and wiring and flimsy walls, the familiarity became unsettling. She shook it off and followed the crew outside.
They were filming a scene where the sardonic-but-brilliant spin doctor was chastening her friend, the idealistic-but-conflicted strategist, on a gritty-but-picturesque street that was supposed to look like Georgetown. It didn't, really, not when Burbank was glinting beyond the stoops and sidewalks. C.J. learned quickly that the craft was both more complicated and more boring than she'd expected. It was not difficult to look disinterested when they'd run through the same two pages a dozen times. She sipped coffee, thumbed through someone's shooting script, and answered her cell phone when it rang.
"Hey, Josh."
"You know, I hate when you do that."
"What?"
"Say my name when you pick up the phone. Couldn't you at least pretend you don't have caller ID, you know, for me?"
"No. So how's tricks, sailor man?"
"I'm in trouble." His voice was solemn. "I need your help."
She slipped her sunglasses on and leaned forward in her seat. "What's going on? Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, I just wanted to see if that would still work."
"Christ." C.J. fell back against the chair so hard it wobbled. "Okay, you know I'm going to have you killed, right?"
"Right."
"I mean that literally. There are union people out here, I'm sure some of them are connected. And even if they're not, the guys doing the lighting are awfully big."
"I'll make sure Donna answers my door from now on." Josh snickered. "Where are you?"
"On the set. Watching the same conversation over and over again."
"'On the set'?" he repeated. "You're sounding very Hollywood."
"Must be something in the coffee." She glanced at her watch. "It's the middle of the morning out there. Aren't you busy?"
"Sure. But it doesn't seem -- it's not as much as it used to be, so it doesn't feel like being busy at all, you know?"
"I guess. Having fun?"
"Not really. Are you?"
One of the actors caught her eye and she gave him a convincing smile. "Kind of," she said into the phone.
"This thing's going to be making me pull my hair out all month," Josh mused.
"And you really don't have the luxury," she joked. "What thing?"
"The budget niggling." His tone dipped, sounding dejected. "You didn't know what I meant?"
"I was just checking," she told him uneasily, crossing her legs.
"Sure." It was obvious that he was making an effort to sound bright again. "So, working on your tan?"
"I've got all the time in the world," she said. "Honestly, I don't appreciate the heart attack you almost gave me, but the fact that you're giving me an excuse to look busy and not pay attention helps make up for it. But I know it's early in the day for you, and my phone bill's going to be ridiculous--"
"Sam's getting antsy," he interrupted.
"In Boston?"
"He says it's really hard to drive there. And he says they have terrible sushi."
"What on earth is that boy doing ordering sushi in New England?"
"Latent death wish. Maybe he'll turn up in your part of the world sometime soon."
She liked the idea, and then again she didn't. Of course it would be a pleasure to get to spend time with Sam again. But she wasn't sure what they would talk about, or how much they would lie. "We'll see," she said. "Did you really call just to say hi?
"Yeah. No. Look. I mean, listen. The thing is."
"You know, you're starting to make me nuts, so--"
"Toby and Andrea Wyatt are back together," he blurted.
Her expression did not change; she did not miss a beat. "Yeah?"
"I wasn't sure you knew," Josh continued rapidly. "I mean, Sam said he wasn't sure you'd been talking, or how you'd, you know -- I sound like an idiot, don't I?"
"A little."
"Have you and he talked, or--"
"Toby's my friend," she said smoothly, as if it answered his question. "Don't have an anxiety attack, Josh. If they've worked things out, I'm glad."
"Really?" He exhaled carefully. "I'm supposed to be in this meeting ten minutes ago. People are going to be pissed at me."
"Go."
"C.J.--"
"Josh. Go."
C.J. pressed the button and ended the call. As she slipped the phone back into her handbag, her stomach twisted suddenly. The queasiness hit her, a tide coming in. She screwed her eyes shut, remembering the bagel she'd snagged from the Craft Services table and wishing she'd skipped the cream cheese. She sat very still for a long moment, willing the feeling to pass. Then it didn't, and it was nearly too late. The lot around her blurred and she made a mad dash hoping she remembered where the bathroom had been.
She didn't see the sound supervisor at all until after the collision.
For a few seconds, she sat stunned on the ground, the wind and everything else knocked out of her. The first thing she realized was that she still felt sick, and the second was that everyone was staring at her.
"Oh, God," she managed, hoarsely. "I'm sorry."
The sound guy blinked and dusted himself off. "Well, that was unexpected."
"I ruined something, didn't I?" She looked around, and most of the crew nearby looked away from her. "I think I had some bad cream cheese. I'm sorry."
"It's all right," the sound guy said mildly, helping her to her feet.
C.J. pulled away from him. "No, it's not. I'm the biggest klutz in the world, anyone can tell you that, and I ruined your thing. I'm so sorry."
"C.J.?" She spun around. The director laid a comforting hand on her elbow. "C.J., it's all right. Really. We'll fix it in post."
She stared at him, uncomprehending, and choked on an unpleasant laugh. Then there was another twinge in her belly, and she stumbled the rest of the way to the nearest bathroom, letting the door clatter shut behind her.
She was hovering over the sink, her hair turning limp and stringy around her face, her eyes and nose running, when there was a tentative knock at the door. She raised her head. The sound guy -- she thought she remembered his name was Jeff -- opened the door a crack and stood there nervously, running a hand through his blond hair. "You doing okay?"
C.J. nodded vaguely and drank cold tap water from her hands, washing the sourness out of her mouth. She splashed more of the water on her face. "Stupid cream cheese."
Jeff looked at her, sizing her up, and she looked back. He was blandly, Midwesternly handsome, almost as tall as she was. His expression was open, easygoing, easy to read. He seemed nice. C.J. felt like hell, knew she looked like hell, but he smiled at her.
"I could give you a ride home," he offered, gesturing over his shoulder with his thumb.
She considered him for another moment, then turned to the mirror and looked her reflection in the eyes. It might just have been kindness, but she'd caught him scoping out her ankles earlier and it might have been kindness with potential.
"Yes," she decided, and followed him out.
* * *
"Can it ever be right to do wrong?" Sam asked, resting his hands lightly on the sides of the lectern. "Can punishing the innocent be justified? Can we move backwards and forwards at the same time? We've considered Kosovo, World War II, Johnson and Nixon. We've considered this past administration as well. Let me leave you with this: Effective politicians have to make hard choices. Effective politicians have to get their hands dirty. Political ethics and personal morality are different animals." He scanned the faces of the students that filled the auditorium. "If we did for ourselves the things that we did for our country, we would be great sinners. Thank you."
There was scattered applause, from professors and some of the grad students. Most of them looked thoughtful, though many of them looked bored. Sam squared his shoulders and walked down the steps.
The program director came up and touched his sleeve. "Good show," she said warmly.
"Thanks, Ms. McCloskey."
"Alice."
"Alice. Well, I was going to juggle," he joked. "But I couldn't get the act together in time."
She laughed throatily, in a way that left little doubt that she wanted to sleep with him. She was five or ten years older than him and pretty, he supposed, in a slutty-librarian sort of way; the kind of woman who never capitalized on her looks. She even looked uncomfortable wearing a skirt, but she was smiling through it for his benefit. He inclined his head toward the exit. "I should get going."
"I'll see you at the luncheon," she said, touching his arm once more.
Sam nodded and backed away. He headed toward the door, shaking a few hands along the way, exchanging smiles with people he passed, trying to avoid entanglement in conversation. He was ten feet away from the door when someone tapped him on the shoulder. As he turned, he expected Alice McCloskey, and his eyes were at the level of hers. She wasn't there, and he lowered his gaze a few inches, and nearly gasped out loud.
"Nice talk," Mallory said, crossing her arms and looking up at him.
"Mallory," he stammered.
"Samuel."
He wrinkled his forehead. "I didn't know you were in town."
"I'm spending some time with my dad, now that he has time to spare."
"Oh. Well, if I'd known you were coming today, I'd--"
"You'd have what?"
"--I'd have had an excuse to get out of this lunch thing," he finished weakly.
"You always did know how to flatter a girl, didn't you?" She drummed her fingers on her upper arm impatiently. "So, ask me."
"Ask you what?"
"Ask me what I thought of your thing. I can tell you're dying to. You've got an expressive face."
Sam made a concerted effort not to look interested. "What'd you think?"
"I thought it was well-written, deeply felt and clearly communicated to the audience," Mallory told him. "Which, since it's you, I expected."
"Thank--"
"It was also complete bullshit, which I should have expected too."
"--you." Sam's blossoming smile transformed quickly into a frown. "Well. I'd love to chat, but I have this wonderful lunch to get to."
She shook her head. "It was bullshit, Sam. Do you even hear yourself talk anymore?"
"Years of women yelling at me have impaired my hearing," he said.
"Well, someone obviously didn't yell loud enough. You don't sound like you at all." Mallory sighed. "Or maybe that's what you sound like now."
"You're losing me. What do I sound like?"
"Like you're..." She chose the word carefully. "Embarrassed. Like a little kid who got away with something bad and feels guilty about it."
He felt his face growing hot. "Well."
"You worked in the White House," she reminded him sternly, her eyes snapping. "You fought hard and you earned your place, and you used to be proud of that. You used to stay up all night struggling to get something right or make something happen, and you wrote speeches that were much more productive and significant and beautiful than the things you said today."
"Yeah." Sam stuffed his hands into his pockets. "And a lot of those speeches were full of bullshit, as you so delicately put it. I'm a lawyer, after all."
"And a politician."
"Not anymore."
Mallory flicked a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. "No, I guess not. But you shouldn't -- listen. When I was a teenager, you know, my father drank a lot."
"I know."
"He wasn't easy to live with." Her voice softened. "And I was a pretty angry kid, and I blamed him for everything he did and then some. I started using my mother's last name whenever I met someone new. She used to yell at me when I did it, but I guess she understood the impulse. I got it changed officially when I turned eighteen."
"O'Brien," Sam said quietly.
She chuckled to herself. "It made him so mad when he found out. I was really glad it did. You know, it wasn't until a year or two after he cleaned up that we really started talking. It took a long time for us to get close. And by the time that happened, it would've been really inconvenient to change my name and be a McGarry again. But I always wished -- I always regretted having been ashamed of him, when underneath all his mistakes and his flaws, he was everything he is."
"I get it."
"My point is, you shouldn't be embarrassed about the hard things, you should be proud of the good things."
"I get it." Sam steeled his jaw. "I never realized everything I was getting into there. And I think I'm entitled to look back now and see it in 20/20, so other people who are considering this life--"
"This is 20/20?" Mallory scoffed. "So you had to compromise sometimes. You think you're the first? You didn't get to wear the white hat every day. You think that entitles you to cross out all the things you did that actually helped people? You used to be sweet, Sam, but you were never that stupid."
He looked at his shoes, the chairs, the architecture; anywhere but her face. "You think I'm stupid."
"I think it's way too soon to pretend you're objective, is what I think." She checked her watch. "And I have to hit the road, and so do you, I guess."
"Yeah."
She took a few steps away, then turned back with a slight smile. "It really was a nice speech. You made people listen and think. If only you were using your powers for good instead of evil."
"Great seeing you too," Sam said curtly. He resisted the impulse to watch her walk away, pushed the door open instead, and left.
* * *
Thursday, March 22nd: Day Sixty-Two
Josh was making a mental list of the angriest people in the world. To keep the length reasonable, he was limiting it to people he'd met. It wasn't helping much.
Henry Shallick had to be close to the top. He was always angry, and he had to be chafing at the difficulty he was having with Congress. Josh grinned to himself, satisfied with the knowledge that he deserved credit for a lot of that difficulty. Shallick was on the list.
So was Toby. Josh hadn't talked to him in a few weeks, and Sam didn't say much about him either, but it was a safe bet that Toby would be angry about half a dozen things at any given moment. Of course, the Congresswoman was probably keeping him to a slow burn, which dropped him a few notches down.
He added a few Senators and Middle Eastern leaders and paused. That comedian Sam had dragged him to see once. Lewis Black. He'd been pretty righteously hacked off. He was in the running, too, and then Josh thought of someone else, a real contender. He considered the election, the last few months, the last several years, and decided. John Hoynes, whatever he was doing at home in Texas, had to be sending the needle into the red zone.
"Balancing the budget?" a voice asked from somewhere behind and above him.
Josh set his pen down. "Hey, Danny."
"Hey." Danny walked around the desk and sat down beside him. "You up to anything I might be interested in?"
"As a reporter or as a guy?"
"As a guy."
"I'm making a list of the angriest people alive." Josh indicated the notepad.
Danny raised his eyebrows. "A list?"
"A roster. Two more and I'll have a baseball team."
"Who's batting cleanup?"
"I'm thinking maybe the entire population of Burkina Faso."
Danny chuckled. "So why the list-making? Isn't that kind of effeminate?"
"It's therapeutic."
"Therapeutic as in relaxing to do, or therapeutic as in actual therapy prescribed by a practicing shrink?" Danny inquired.
"Off-limits," Josh replied automatically.
"'Kay." Danny adjusted the collar of his overcoat. "I heard you've been working your mojo in the negotiations. Heard you might even be turning things around."
Josh leaned back and took in the view of the Capitol building and the cloudy sky. "Shaking my moneymaker."
"I heard you threw a couple hissyfits."
"Sweet little old me?" Josh deadpanned.
"Sweet little old you? When people hear the name Josh Lyman, a lot of words come to mind. But not 'calm'."
Josh shrugged. "When people hear the name Jeffrey Dahmer, a lot of words come to mind, but not 'ice cream' or 'Indian chief' or 'seashell.' This game's easy."
"How're the hissyfits working out for you?"
"We'll get beat eventually," he admitted. "Best we can hope for is, we'll gain some ground in the long run."
Danny nodded. "And so it goes. You gotta love this town."
"Yeah?" Josh tilted his head. "You don't have another place you'd rather be?"
"Nope. It's a place of power and important decisions, and there's nowhere else like this. I love my job, I love the atmosphere, hell, I even love the damn traffic."
He looked thoughtful. "I'm the same way."
"And frankly, I think anyone who comes here and leaves again doesn't have a real appreciation for it. They're missing out."
"Don't let C.J. hear you say that," Josh warned him.
Danny glanced around, waving his hand exaggeratedly. "Oh, hi, C.J., I didn't see you there. Oh, wait, it's because you're not there. She's not here, man."
"I'm just saying--"
"I can keep a secret. Do you know what 'Concannon' means in Gaelic?"
"No."
Danny looked smug. "Well, I'm not going to tell you."
Josh ran his hands over his face. "Cute."
"You miss her?"
"C.J.? Of course. And everyone. I kind of think this place sucks these days, if you want to know the truth."
"Yeah, well, you can't really blame them for burning out and fading away." Danny stood up. "I have a briefing to get to."
"In all seriousness, and you can quote me on this," Josh said. "Doesn't the guy strike you as kind of simian?"
"Around the eyes," Danny agreed. "See you. Have fun with your list-making."
Josh shut his eyes briefly as Danny walked away. He opened them again and stared into the middle distance, at the tourists taking pictures and office workers taking their lunch. Then he picked up his notes and carried them away.
Stepping up to the plate for the most annoyed baseball team in the world, he thought. Number 31, Josh Lyman.
* * *
She had beautiful skin; as far as Toby knew, she always had. Beautiful skin and good hair and eyes, and the kind of mouth that could change almost imperceptibly from sultry to sullen. He'd gotten too good at detecting those shifts, and he knew she was bordering on a pout as the waiter poured their drinks.
"You look good," he told her, reaching for his Seven and Seven.
"No thanks to you," Andi said, as she stirred sugar into her lemonade. "You haven't made it very easy for me to sleep nights."
"I'm an inconvenient person," he agreed.
"You don't have to tell me." She sipped her drink carefully. "So do you have plans for this weekend?"
"I think I'm hosting Saturday Night Live," Toby said. "Been working on the monologue all week."
Andi laughed so dryly that he wondered if it hurt her throat. "Can I be the musical guest?"
"What are you going to do, straddle a chair and sing 'Let Me Entertain You'?"
"Well, you've never complained when I've done it before." She took a roll from the basket in the center of the table and broke it in half. "I'm starving," she announced. "I'm going to consume mass quantities and make you pick up the check."
"Fine." He fiddled with his fork and napkin. "You won't eat everything and I'll finish the rest of it and we'll call it even."
She ate her bread and looked around the dining room. "Our waiter's pretty handsome."
"Are you offering to pay for lunch with nature's credit card?"
"I'm going back to Washington on Sunday night," she said, continuing to ignore him. "You know, before the morons mess up our money too badly."
"If you took all the fools out of the legislature," he recited.
"It wouldn't be a representative body anymore. I can quote Carl Parker too." She tossed her head. "It's true to an extent, I guess. But you always had an annoying habit of assuming everyone is stupider than you."
"Many people are."
"Maybe," she said. "You know, when we split up--"
"You left me," he reminded her without much rancor.
"...Yes. And you threw yourself into your work."
"I didn't throw myself into my work," he said dourly. "I didn't lock myself in a garret and slave feverishly over a typewriter. You watch too many movies."
"You know what I meant." She pointed the rim of her glass at his. "And lately, you drink too early in the day."
He looked into the glass. "Drinking, like painting, has its mechanical and poetical aspects, just as love has."
"Another aphorism?"
"Lichtenberg."
"Well, fuck him," Andi said in a perfectly pleasant tone. "I'm not talking to Lichtenberg, I'm talking to you. I think I know you pretty well, after all. But I never thought you'd be like this."
"Oh, what the hell. Like what?"
"Empty." Her mouth tightened into a narrow line. "Tiresome."
"You're tired of me?"
"I'm getting there," she said bluntly. "You know, there are things I want in my life, Toby. I want to save Social Security. I want equal rights to mean something and I want to lower the number of Americans living in poverty. I also want to buy a nicer apartment with a better view, and I want to meet someone and fall in love again."
Toby laid his hands flat on the table. "I'm certainly not trying to stop you."
"No, you're not. But you're not..." She trailed off, exhaling slowly. "My sister's never liked you. She thinks I'm crazy. My mother thinks I'm crazy, my friends too."
"You are crazy."
"They think we're back together. As does Sam Seaborn, since he had the bad luck to call you at eight in the morning and have me pick up the phone."
There was a hint of amusement in his eyes. "Because you're far more terrible than I am."
"Indeed." Andi smiled ruefully. "But what they think is happening isn't what's happening, is it? We're not--" She stopped talking again as the waiter approached and placed two salads on the table. "Thank you."
"No," Toby stated flatly as the waiter left. "We're not."
"They're sharing a drink they call loneliness," she sang, swirling the ice in her glass.
He speared a cherry tomato aggressively with his fork. "Whatever."
"What, you can quote dead 18th-century wiseasses and I can't quote Billy Joel?"
"Well, I don't know any living 18th-century wiseasses to quote."
"I have pop sensibility. That's how you win an election."
"That's how you win an election," he countered.
She rolled her eyes. "You really are an exhausting person to be around. I think you ought to buy me dessert."
"You haven't even started your entrée yet."
"I'm planning ahead." Andi took a large bite from a cucumber. "We're still very good at not saying much of importance to each other, Toby."
"And other things," he said, gently nudging her ankle with the side of his foot underneath the table.
"And other things. But I know you pretty well. Things were ending with us and you threw yourself into work. And now--" She made circles in the air with her fork. "You're a fucked up son of a bitch, my friend."
"Do your constituents know you have the vocabulary of a sailor?" He watched her polish off some of her lettuce. "And the appetite of a piranha?"
"Those are two of the things they like about me." She set her chin in her hand and ran her left toes along his right instep. "You could take the flight down to D.C. with me. It might give you some kind of inspiration or whatever you need to get out of this thing you're in."
Toby's eyes clouded. "I can't think of many things I want to do less."
Andi's mouth wavered between a smile and a frown, settling into something uncertain, something unfamiliar to him. "Okay, stay here then."
"I will." He tossed the French dressing into his salad. "I like New York."
"More than anything else, I sometimes think."
"Sure." He glowered at the indecipherable expression on her face and gulped the last of his drink. "Sometimes."
* * *
Oh, God, I can't stop laughing
This sense of humor of mine, it isn't funny at all
But we sit up all night talking about it
Just being alive, it can really hurt...
- Kate Bush, "Moments Of Pleasure"
Monday, April 9th: Day Eighty
Sam was running late, and he hated it.
A hundred times -- every New Year's, every time he got waylaid at a red light, every time his phone started shrilling when he had a foot out the door -- he'd resolved to become a punctual person. He'd set his watch and his alarm ahead ten minutes, tied strings around his fingers, asked for wake-up calls and warnings. None of it worked. The problem was chronic, and the damnedest thing was that it wasn't always his fault.
He hurried through O'Hare, anxiously checking his boarding pass and luggage and the time. It wasn't his fault, this time. It had been kids, grad students, a group of them who had attended all eight of the lectures he'd given at the University of Chicago. They'd come to the discussion afterwards, trying hard to pretend they didn't believe that the world was an essentially good place. Three of them -- a redheaded political science major named Tabitha, a brunette law student named Holly, and an education major named Kyle who had bleached his dark hair blond -- had been fairly obvious in flirting with him. Sam thought he should be flattered, but he was unnerved. They were young enough, technically, to be his children, and they would have gone to bed with him. The thought made him want a long shower and a long night's sleep.
They'd gathered him into a discussion of cancer research at a coffee stand just off the campus. He'd managed to disentangle himself from the group, but the sixty-minute grace period he'd allowed himself to make his flight on time had somehow evaporated. Then he'd gotten stuck at the tail end of every possible long line, and of course his plane was at the farthest terminal. Airports were like hotel rooms; they were all alike and they were rarely above awful. The boarding call crackled over the intercom. He groaned, slipped past a couple of stodgy gray-haired women who were standing still and dashed down the moving walkway.
Predictably, as Sam sprinted off the end of the belt, he lost his footing and fell face forward, landing in a jumble on the cold tile as his briefcase skittered out of his hands.
He sat up, dazed. Several adults snickered. At least two children pointed and giggled outright. "Serves him right," he heard one of the matronly women say as she walked by. For several seconds, his mind was blank. He knew, of course, who he was and where he was going, but all that seemed irrelevant in the pure absurdity of the moment. The floor was cold under his hands. His elbows were definitely bruised. Everything was the white of reflected fluorescent light.
Then everything in his head became very clear.
He seized his carry-on and scrambled to his feet, rummaging frantically for his cell phone. The number flew off his fingertips, and rang and rang until he felt like a schoolboy counting down until recess. Finally, there was an answer.
"Josh--"
"Put Josh on," Sam said automatically, before he even heard the voice.
"Dude, it's me. You caught me right on my way out the door."
"Hey, sorry. I thought you'd be Donna."
"I promise you, I will never be Donna." Josh sounded drowsy. "I was heading home. It's like nine-thirty here."
"That's early," Sam observed.
"Only in our sick little world. What's up?"
He paced a few steps toward the wall, away from the flow of human traffic. "I'm lucid."
"Okay," Josh answered warily. "Is this one of those times like when people say they're sane and it means they're too crazy to know they're crazy?"
"No, I'm really lucid."
"Also, I thought you could only be lucid if you had been unconscious for a long time," he continued. "Like, 'How's the patient?' 'Oh, she woke up from the procedure. She's lucid, but she can't eat yet.' And then the other guy says--"
"Josh? Can you stop doing a one-man rendition of 'St. Elsewhere' and listen to me?"
"I'm a little punchy," Josh apologized. "So, you're lucid?"
"I'm like O.J. Simpson in the old Hertz ads," Sam declared.
"I have to tell you, O.J. Simpson is the last person that I think of when I think of you."
"Are you going to stop interrupting?"
"Yeah, but--" Josh stifled a yawn. "You have to get to something like a point soon."
"All that time we were running on a moving walkway," Sam said, running his fingers through his hair. "Like the Hertz ad. We were going with the direction, and it was all the time, and we never thought about it. We never realized how fast we were going. And then we went right off the end and our legs were moving way above normal speed, and we're out of control and we have to catch ourselves."
"So let me get this straight," Josh said. "You fell down at the end of one of those people belts in the airport."
"No," Sam said defensively. "Well, yes, yes, yes, but that's not the point. It's a perfect metaphor, you see?"
"There is nothing more dangerous than you with a perfect metaphor."
"We went flying off the thing," Sam persisted. "That's why everything keeps spinning away from me. That's why everyone's lost and confused and crashing into things."
"Yeah. So." Josh hesitated for a heartbeat. "You're coming back here, then."
Sam didn't know it, hadn't decided or realized it until he was speaking. He filled his lungs with air and let it rush out of him. "Yeah."
The sleepiness left Josh's voice with speed. He was alert now, Sam thought, and awake and alive. Lucid, and pleased about it. "It'll be good," Josh said.
Sam realized he had to look ludicrously, stupidly happy. "It will!"
"It'll be great. It'll be really -- it hasn't been the same here." Josh sounded infinitely relieved by just saying the words. "I mean, it has, but it hasn't. It'll be good now. Within a week we'll be painting the town red."
He tried to stop smiling, found he couldn't, and wondered if his face had really frozen that way. "Columbia's gonna be pissed when I don't show up."
"You cash their check yet?"
"No."
"Then let 'em eat cake," Josh said gleefully. "Now we're in business."
Sam bounced up and down on the balls of his feet. "You think Georgetown'll have me?"
"They'd be fools not to. Plus, we have connections."
"We are connections."
"And after you do that for a while -- you don't have to, you know, commit to anything," Josh told him. "I don't want this to be like you got the wind knocked out of you and it seemed like a good idea to go back."
"No, no." Sam shook his head as if Josh could see him. "It's more like when amnesiacs in movies get hit on the head and remember everything."
"You sure?"
"Yeah." He turned up his forearm to inspect it. "I tore my jacket."
Josh's laughter was warm. "Honest to God, Sam, how do you even get dressed in the morning?"
"I don't know!" He whirled around. "I gotta -- I gotta go find the ticket counter again and see if they'll give me some of my money back when I change this."
"They won't."
"I know it." The phone was hot against his ear. He pulled it away for a second and looked at it. "Do you think this thing is giving me brain cancer?"
"Who cares? You're coming back!"
"I am!" Sam took a few steps forward. "It really is this simple."
"Everything should be. So I'll talk to you again soon. I'll see you soon. It's gonna be good, Sam. Hard but good."
"It takes a nation of millions to hold us back," Sam agreed cheerfully. "We'll talk later."
"Proud of you," Josh said.
Sam thought of the students that had flirted with him, the ones that had listened to him, the ones who had simply tolerated his presence for extra credit. He could see Mallory chiding him, and at the same time Leo's steady gaze over lunch, both -- he knew, now; it was all so clear - saying the same thing.
"I am too," Sam said. "Later."
He hung up the phone and stuffed it back into his briefcase, striding through the terminal -- and avoiding the moving walkways -- with the oversized smile shining from his face.
* * *
Saturday, April 14th: Day Eighty-Five
"So the long and short of it is--"
C.J. put a hand over her eyes and leaned back against her pillow. "You're back in Washington. I know."
"You don't sound surprised," Sam said, disappointed.
"Danny told me yesterday afternoon."
"Danny Concannon?"
"The once and future Fishboy," she confirmed. "People keep me in the loop."
"So it can all become grist for Sweeps month?" he teased.
"You know, it's not like I'm putting your words in anyone's mouth."
"I still think Jake should ask Julie out."
She gritted her teeth. "Jake is still not based on you."
"I can't believe Danny told you I was back. I wanted to tell you."
"You want to tell everyone," C.J. guessed. "You want to stand on top of the Monument and bellow it to the assembled masses. You're pretty pleased with yourself, Sammy."
"I am," he said without humility.
"Are you getting fêted?" she asked. "The return of the prodigal, that kind of thing? Are you the toast of the town?"
"'Hey, you're that guy,' is what I mostly get," Sam said. "Well, and Donna's happy because now when Josh feels the need to show up at someone's door at two a.m. and rant, he has twice as many victims in the neighborhood. How are you doing? How's California?"
She massaged her left temple lightly with two fingertips. "It's great. We're both great."
"I know it must've been weird for you," he said softly. "I mean, you're in the loop. You hear things. I know it must've been weird."
C.J. fought the urge to slam the phone down on him, and managed to finish with a friendly goodbye instead. She was alone in the unlit bedroom, curtains blotting out the sun as she nursed the migraine she'd awakened with three hours earlier. Jeff was asleep somewhere downstairs on her couch. He spent half his nights there and half in his apartment, to which, after a month, she had never been.
Jeff had brought her home the day she'd booted her guts out on the studio lot, had patted her hand and made mint tea in her kitchen and not once questioned why a bad bagel was wrecking her so thoroughly. He'd called her the next morning, to make sure she was okay and invite her to dinner. He didn't know anything about politics. She supposed that was fair, because she didn't know anything about sound editing. There wasn't any pressing need for either of them to learn. But he was a nice guy in all kinds of ways, and so uncomplicated that she felt like she was constantly getting away with something.
They'd fucked on her back porch after their second date, drunk and starry and hysterically amused by some comment on the weather. It wasn't amazing; it wasn't a letdown. It was simply nice. Over burnt coffee and greasy omelets the next morning, he told her he'd grown up in Ohio and liked to smoke pot. She told him her real age; he took it in stride.
That was how it proceeded, easy and casual and mildly decadent. She was significantly older and smarter than he was, but it didn't matter. And the most delightful thing was not to have to worry about who saw them together, or whether they felt each other up in doorways, or where they ate breakfast, because neither of them were names on marquees and nobody in the world cared. Los Angeles was beautiful that way.
Her head hurt. She wanted water, but her glass was empty and it was a toss-up whether getting out of bed and walking to the bathroom would be worth the pain. She wanted to rest, but between the ache, the cars passing on the street, and the mid-morning sun trickling through at the windows' edges, it seemed impossible. She wanted to pass out for an hour or a day or about four years.
The phone rang again.
"Shit," she said, and wished that Jeff would pick up the extension, although she was glad he never did that. She pulled herself up straight, reached for the receiver, and mumbled her name into it.
"Well, you sound awful as all get-out," a lively voice greeted her.
For a few moments she couldn't quite place it. "Um."
"Headache?"
"Mm hmm."
"Drink fruit juice and take Advil, not aspirin," the voice advised.
It clicked into place then. "Hi, Abbey."
"Hello, C.J."
"I'm sorry, I'm kind of out."
"So I gathered."
C.J. leaned back across her bed. "How are you? How's the family?"
"I'm perfectly fine. My husband, however, is threatening to go build his library with a load of lumber and his own two hands." She snorted. "And I wish he'd go do that and stop walking around the house ranting about how he can't find the right translation of Quintus Smyrnaeus's 'The Fall Of Troy'."
"Smyrnaeus Quintus," a distant voice in the background corrected her.
She sighed. "You see?"
C.J. furrowed her brow. "I didn't think Presidential Libraries had, you know, regular books. I thought it was for historical documentation."
"Well, some people don't seem to have gotten that through their heads. Zoey's arguing her first court case in a couple weeks."
"I'll send her flowers."
"She'd appreciate that," Abbey said. "But I called to see how you were. We haven't heard from you in a while."
"I know. I'm sorry."
"We've been hearing from everyone else lately. I'm sure you know that Josh and Sam are giddy as schoolgirls."
C.J. squinted up at the ceiling. "Like Thelma and Louise without the crime spree."
"Yes. Sometimes they remind me of a couple of other guys I know." Abbey was silent for a moment. "But how are you?"
"I'm good." She rested her hand just above the collar of her T-shirt, tracing a finger along the scar on her throat. "You know, I'm having a lot of fun out here."
"With the TV thing?"
"Yeah. They're interesting people." That much was true; the story meetings and table readings were charged with humor and enthusiasm. Sometimes she would argue for realism and lose it in favor of drama, but when she was overruled, sometimes it was a relief. And if everyone was a little too smug about their own cleverness, that was the most realistic touch of all.
"I have to say, everyone was pretty thrown when you left before the curtain call."
"Well, you know, it wasn't like there was much left for me to do. And I wanted to get settled out here for New Year's."
"Even so."
"Most places don't measure time by elections," she mused. "I'd almost forgotten that."
"Yeah." Abbey sounded concerned and a little impatient. "C.J., how are you doing?"
"I told you, it's good. It's just, my head hurts."
"Josh told Leo that he's been worried about you. And frankly, that makes me worry too. You've been, at least, a fellow soldier." She chuckled wryly. "I have three daughters, and the mindset sticks with you. We don't hear from you, and we only hear a little about you. Which is all by way of saying, cut the crap and tell me how you are."
"Abbey, really, it's not like I live in South Central. I'm not in a red vinyl miniskirt out on Sunset."
But it all seemed kind of dissipated, when she tried to picture herself from the outside. There was this not-young (middle aged, she forced herself to admit) woman with a job that required minimal mental exertion, a too-young stoner sex partner and a cellar full of wine. She had been on the Senior Staff, and it sounded like Los Angeles was debauching her. Or maybe the other world had been the pretense, and this was who she'd always been.
"C.J.--"
There was a scuffle on the phone line. She closed her eyes briefly against the pounding in her head, and waited for Abbey to speak again. But it wasn't Abbey who spoke.
"C.J."
She gulped. "Yes, sir."
His voice was stern, gentle, paternal. "You know, I am so sick and tired of being called 'sir' by my friends. I could never get called 'sir' again and I'd be happy."
"I'm sorry," she said, and then couldn't help herself, "sir."
"You know what you are, C.J.?"
"I honestly have no idea."
"'The tireless war-god's child, the mailed maid, like to the blessed gods,'" he said.
She raised herself up on her elbows. "I am?"
"Smyrnaeus Quintus," he told her proudly. "Some people with plebeian tastes don't appreciate it."
"Well, I certainly don't understand them."
"Claudia," he said, lowering his voice. "What are you doing?"
He spoke quietly, but it resonated, and it made her wince. She sat up straight in the middle of her bed and looked at the pale gold streak of light between the curtains. Without intending to, she held her breath, and she could hear Jeff stirring downstairs. She could hear the house settling as houses did when they weren't far from fault lines, and she could hear her cat bumping for the millionth time into the unfamiliar walls.
Her throat closed up so much she could barely speak. "I don't know."
"I don't like it when people lie to my wife," he said, not unkindly.
"I know."
"You sound pretty miserable there."
"I'm not," she protested weakly. "I mean, I'm not completely. There are things about this place that are great."
"There are things about Peoria that are great. I don't see you packing your bags."
She studied her hands in the dim light. "No."
"C.J., transitions are difficult and ugly and no one handles them with as much grace as the speeches and handshakes make it seem. But they have to be made, and like most important things in the world, they require far more than a day of your time."
Her vision blurred, but she wasn't sure if it was tears or the headache. "There's a chance," she said, her voice faltering. "There's a chance I've done some very stupid things."
"I'd say there's more than a chance." His tone changed somehow, lighter but still firm. "For a long time you've been working hard at being brilliant. You're entitled to get the stupid things out of your system, but that's all you're entitled to, young lady. And Abbey may yet kick your ass for lying to her."
Everything still hurt, and the room was still too bright, but she had to smile. "Yes, sir."
"For the love of God, stop that. I'll let you go. But if you don't call back, Abbey won't be the only one gunning for you, is that clear?"
"Crystal." She swallowed the 'sir', but he noticed it and laughed.
"Maybe you should think about whether you want to pack your bags," he said. "And I'm not talking about Peoria."
"I'm thinking about it," she promised. She wouldn't have said it a day or an hour before, but it would have been true then too.
"Good girl," he said, and hung up.
C.J. lay still by herself in the dark for a little while. Eventually she wiped her face off on the corner of her sheet and took her empty glass down to the kitchen. She was still very thirsty.
* * *
Wednesday, April 25th: Day Ninety-Six
"I've been looking up statistics," Donna said, draping her jacket over the back of a chair. "And we are definitely not normal."
C.J. looked at her curiously as they sat down at the table. "You had to look up statistics for that?"
"Sixty percent of former White House staffers move on to non-political jobs."
"Really? Sixty percent?"
"I made that up. I couldn't find numbers." Donna unfolded her napkin. "But it's got to be a lot more than the ones that stay, right?"
"I guess so. Otherwise the place would be overrun. Like the deer population. They'd have to pick us off one by one by sending in radical Republicans and heavily armed teenagers." C.J. paused and covered her mouth with her hand. "That was so completely not funny."
"But here we are," Donna murmured. "Josh and Sam and you and me."
"That's not so very many," C.J. observed, accepting a menu from the busboy. "I mean, Leo's retired--"
"He's still armchair quarterbacking. C-Span on television and Josh on the phone."
"Well, at least he's good at it."
"The greatest. And Margaret will basically work for him forever, no matter where it takes her."
"Yeah." C.J. began to tick people off on her fingers. "And Carol's at CBS, and Ginger's editing at Avon, and Bonnie's getting married in a couple months."
"Ainsley's writing a book."
"Really?"
"She couldn't get a job." Donna tried not to smirk. "Republicans won't hire her; Democrats certainly won't hire her. So she huffed off to a publisher and got a six-figure advance."
C.J. whistled. "Well, if she writes the way she talks, that'll be cheaper than paying her by the word."
"She's not a bad person, but--"
"--But I can't say I miss hearing her voice," C.J. finished for her.
"Exactly." Donna flipped through her menu. "Oh, wow, tortellini."
"I'm having a Caesar salad."
"That's all?"
"I was..." C.J. tucked her hair behind her ear. "I ate too much in California. And drank too much. And... and everything, too much."
"Why?"
"All kinds of reasons," she said cryptically. "It's California."
"Then I'm glad you're back," Donna said warmly. "And you can have some of my tortellini if you're still hungry after that salad."
"I may not stay," C.J. said cautiously. "I mean, I don't know that I want to be here now. It's just that I left too fast. And it's not like anything here is ever that long-term."
"Right, because Los Angeles is the capital of permanence? Sam says the same thing as you, you know."
"And?"
"...And I'm glad you're back, that's all." Donna set her menu down. "So there's a thing I'm going to ask, and you're going to yell at me."
She took a deep breath. "No, I haven't been talking to Toby."
"How did you know?"
"I knew," C.J. said simply. "And it's none of your business."
"I just don't understand why, why you wouldn't--"
"Because it's--" She looked at the tablecloth, idly realigning her silverware. "It's just been easier this way, is all."
"What has?" Josh asked, making them both jump a little as he sidled up to the table.
"Nothing," C.J. said quickly.
"Keeping secrets isn't nice," Josh scolded.
"You caught me." C.J. rocked her chair back. "I'm really a man. All this time I've been a drag queen. Does that explain everything?"
"Well, the height. And the heels. And -- I'm going to stop now before you kill me with a butter knife."
"You're a wise man," C.J. said, letting her shoulders slump.
"Did you know that two-thirds of former White House employees get out of politics when their term in office ends?" Donna asked Josh.
"Does that make me weird?"
Donna nodded at Josh and glanced at C.J. "Welcome to the freak show."
* * *
"They don't even have jobs," Toby said, and slammed his newspaper down on the coffee table with one hand. "I mean, Sam's corrupting the American youth or whatever the hell he calls it at Georgetown. And--"
"C.J. will have a job," Andi said quietly on the phone.
If he heard her, he did not show it. "It's bullshit. Like you go back to Washington waving your little flag and that somehow cures all ailments. Like the Reflecting Pool is a fountain of youth. And it's not like they were rode out of town on the rails. They left. But I guess that's just some kind of footnote now."
"Toby, if you can't talk about this calmly--"
"It's not like they have that much credibility, for crying out loud. They have no idea what they're doing and, oh, yeah, they don't have jobs."
"They have jobs," Andi reiterated.
Toby leaned back on the couch, glaring into space. "She does not have a job."
"She will when she decides to find one."
"Yeah," he said bitterly. "She's clumsy and capricious and she's been in politics for a hell of a shorter time than most people. I feel sorry for the bastard that hires her."
Andi snapped. "Well, I'd hire her if she'd work for me, you overblown jackass!"
He was silenced for a few seconds, wordless. "I'm a jackass now?"
"You are the jackass, Toby," she said, loudly enough that he moved the phone away from his ear. "You are the champion jackass of the entire Eastern seaboard."
"I think--"
"Shut up. Do you not remember how to be a person anymore? You don't even have a job yourself. Pot, kettle."
"I think it's none of your business," Toby said coldly.
"You called me up in the middle of the afternoon to complain about your friends and it's none of my business?" She laughed harshly. "I guess your big brain got up one morning and went on vacation from your bald head."
He raised his voice. "It doesn't have anything to do with you. And you're not better, somehow, better than me, so--"
"Oh, do you need to turn this into a dick-slinging contest? Because I think we've established conclusively, many times, that mine's bigger."
"I'm going to hang up on you," he said.
"No, you're damn well not. I've listened to you for three months now, which is a lot more than enough. And I'll never not care about you, Toby, but I'm sick and tired of this crap. And I'm not as big an idiot as you, so listen."
He said nothing, held the phone where he could see it but still hear her, and waited.
When she spoke again, the sharpness of her voice had diminished to a determined edge. "Since the inauguration you've been doing your best imitation of someone who never cared about anything. And maybe most people can even be convinced that you didn't, but there are some of us you're not fooling."
"Or maybe I stopped," he said.
"What?"
He brought the receiver up again. "Never mind."
"I don't like you this way," she said, suddenly vulnerable. "And there have been other times when I haven't liked you much, but -- this is bad, Toby, so beneath you. You're going to wind up as some cautionary tale they tell in the wee hours of election nights. And I know C.J. Cregg, and I've seen what you see when you see her."
"That was really regrettable sentence construction," he said.
"That's a cheap debate tactic." Her voice was hard again. "Do something, decide not to do something, that's not my business. You're right. But get up off the mat already, you big baby."
"You know, I thought you got to keep the ultimatums in the divorce settlement, and I got to keep the right to, you know, live."
"Community property," she said wearily. "Look, what you've done so far didn't work. And not for nothing, Toby... she's a good woman and capricious is the last thing she is."
He hung up on her. She did not call back.
In retrospect, he knew the outburst had been a long time coming, legible in the shape of her mouth and the movements of her hands. There were things she would always make him pay for. The anger, directed at no one and at everything, sizzled in his veins and knotted in his hands. But he let the sound of ice cubes cracking in alcohol substitute for putting his fist through a wall or a window.
It had happened very fast. The night passed very slowly.
* * *
In the pocket of the heart, in the rushing of the blood,
In the muscle of my sex, in the mindful, mindless love
I accept the newfound man
And I set the twilight reeling...
- Lou Reed, "Set The Twilight Reeling"
Sunday, April 29th: Day One Hundred
Everything was coming together, C.J. thought, tossing her coat over her elbow so that she could carry her keys and her briefcase in the same hand, while her purse hung over her shoulder. With the other, she clutched the handle of her coffee cup and pulled the door of her new apartment shut behind her. Walking down the hall, she felt graceful. She was poised. She was balanced.
The phone rang, and she was even ready to handle that. C.J. hooked a finger through her key-ring to hang onto it, and tossed the briefcase into her other hand so she could fish the phone out of her purse. She managed to extract it and push the button while it was still ringing, pinning it in place with her shoulder. "Hello?"
"Hello."
For a moment it sounded like, she thought, but of course it wasn't. "I'm sorry; who is this?" she said automatically.
The caller seemed odd, disoriented, stung by the question. "Toby."
Of course it was. She lost her grip. The briefcase thudded to the carpet; her coat swished down over it. The coffee cup bounced twice before rolling away, the lid flying off and the hot liquid splattering her ankle. She bit her lip hard to stifle a yelp. "Toby Ziegler?"
He still sounded baffled. "How many Tobys do you know?"
"Many," she said firmly. "Many, many, many. Ow."
"What are you doing?"
"I have a job interview," she explained, frowning down at the rubble around her feet. "I have virtually all my important personal belongings with me. I'm like a snail."
"How's your new place?" he asked.
"Three blocks over from my old building. Same architect. Practically the same apartment."
"Feels like home?"
"Jesus, Toby." And she started to ask, half sarcastic, who was dead or getting sued, because she couldn't imagine why else she'd be hearing his voice. But something stopped her, even if it was only his breathing and the static of the phone. "How's New York?"
"It's still very tall," he said. "There are lots of pigeons and, shit, food and homeless people. It's the same place. And it's the place."
"The place?"
"That I like the best."
"Right." She wondered why it seemed so difficult to make conversation with someone she'd spent years with, had made a living talking to. She leaned back against the wall, unconsciously tightening her hand around the phone. "I keep thinking I feel that way about Los Angeles. And I don't. It's not my New York, I mean. Um. It's been a long time."
"In proportion to what?"
"In proportion to every day."
"I suppose."
"You called me," she said, wonderingly.
His voice stayed casual. "Thought I'd see how you were."
She wanted to giggle. She didn't. "I'm still very tall."
"Ah. Is that everything?"
"I'm interviewing at NARAL in--" she checked her watch -- "Ten minutes. So I'll be late."
"NARAL, hmm?"
"I'm making up for some of the damage I did to the sisterhood." She hesitated nervously. "How's your savings account holding up?"
"I can let you go," he said abruptly. "I mean, if you're in a hurry."
"No. No. Hey. Ainsley Hayes is writing a book, Donna says."
"God help her copy editor," he said wryly.
Talking about other people was easier than talking about herself, so she went on. "You ought to send Zoey something for her first court thing. And you probably got an invite to Bonnie's wedding in the mail, I don't know if you're going..." For the first time, she listened past his voice and heard strange noises in the background of his end of the phone line. "Are you outside?"
"I'm outside," he said, in a strange undertone, as if it was some kind of declaration, in a voice other men had used to tell her she was beautiful.
She was shaken and she spoke too fast, almost babbling. "That's strange. I know you don't like being outside. Or maybe it's different in New York. Maybe you just don't like trees, although I really don't understand how anyone can not like trees."
"C.J.--"
"I mean, they're trees, Toby!" she said, unsettled, speaking with exaggerated disbelief. "If you have issues with squirrels, that's different, because they've got the whole rodent paw thing going on."
"Be quiet."
"But then again there's that whole Norse myth. And I thought that was the kind of thing you'd like, the squirrel of chaos living in the tree that holds the world that, I don't know, throws acorns at people. I took it in college. And I don't know why you called, but--"
"For fuck's sake, C.J., could you stop talking for ten seconds?"
She stopped.
"I'm outside," he said, held his breath and let it out. "I'm waiting for a goddamn cab."
"Are you having trouble? I mean, you're not Danny Glover."
Toby kept talking like she hadn't interrupted. "I'd take the subway, but I'm carrying a quarter of what I own. I'm going to the airport."
She knew, then, but she made him say it. "And?"
"And I'm taking the shuttle down."
"You are."
"Yes."
C.J. slid slowly down the wall until she was sitting Indian-style on the floor. "You are. You're coming down."
"I'm waiting for a cab. And you're talking about -- what are you talking about?"
"I really can't tell you," she admitted dizzily. "What about--"
Toby didn't wait for her to finish. "The hell with it."
"You're coming down," she repeated, amazed that she felt relieved. "And I've been really horrible, Toby, I--"
"Don't," he said rapidly. "Don't make any sweeping statements. I don't know how long, or anything, yet."
"Ratatosk!" she burst out, opening her eyes wide.
"Uh..."
"The squirrel," she explained, distantly wondering if her neighbors were eavesdropping, were calling mental health care workers. "In the world tree, with the acorns and the chaos and such."
"I don't like squirrels," he said, and she was certain he was trying hard not to smile.
"I know." She was laughing. Crying. Laughing. "I've missed you."
"You're still very tall?"
"Most definitely," she told him.
It was as if that settled everything. "Okay."
"Toby--"
"Don't."
"I was just going to say, call me. Call me again. So I know when to pick you up."
"Yes," he said, but not goodbye, and hung up. She held the little phone with both hands until she was sure she was steady enough to stand up, then began to gather up the rubble around her. The coat went around her shoulders; her wrist slipped awkwardly through the briefcase handle so she could balance it. She left the coffee cup, mentally bracing herself for her landlord's complaints, and held onto the phone, knowing she had explanations to make, apologies to give, and wrongs to right.
* * *
"They're not twist-tops," Josh said, passing a can opener to Sam as he sat down on the couch.
Sam stopped straining at the bottle's cap. "Thanks for the update."
"I try." He reached for the remote. "Anything good on TV?"
"ESPN's showing rugby."
"Anything good on TV?"
"No." Sam took a swig of his beer. "We should go out on the town. We should find C.J. and see what she's doing, at least."
"We should," Josh agreed, stretching, "But that would mean making effort and putting on shoes and stuff."
"So, rugby?"
"Rugby or Nascar." Josh grimaced. "Help us, we are in hell."
"I like Nascar," Sam said.
Josh blinked at him. "You need some serious help."
"You've been saying that and saying that."
"Not sinking in?"
"Not as much as some things."
Josh chuckled and cuffed him affectionately on the upper arm. "So when are you going to get a haircut and get a real job?"
His eyes narrowed. "I like my job, Josh."
"Really it's the hair that's indefensible." Josh propped his feet up on the coffee table. "No, really. I mean, it's good that you're enjoying the teaching and everything, but you're a writer."
"I'm still writing while I'm doing this," Sam said. "I'll be writing until someone blows me up."
"I could use you. And you know you'd be happier working with me."
"How's it pay?"
Josh raised his eyebrows. "I didn't say I was going to pay you. Speaking of which, what do you plan to do with your tax refund?"
"I'm getting one, huh?"
"Looks that way."
"I'll give it to charity," Sam decided.
"Me too."
"Oh?" Sam cocked his head. "What were you going to do with it before I just said that?"
Josh kept a straight face. "Get digital cable."
"I don't need the money," Sam said. "I'm just not sure I'm with you yet. I maybe need a change. I don't know."
"Maybe you're not ready now, but you're going to be later. Maybe by the time we're looking hard at the next campaign. I don't know about C.J., or anyone else, but that's when the serious thinking starts, and that's when I'll ask you again." Josh took a long pull on his beer. "And you're my best friend, Sam, I mean, who else?"
Sam looked pensive. "If I'm ready, you'll know first."
"Who else, man? But you can afford to take your time."
He gave a tiny smile. "We earned it."
"We earned the hell out of it," Josh proclaimed, glancing at the TV screen. "Hey, that was a pretty cool crash."
"They're the reason everybody watches." Sam rested his head on the top of the couch. "What time is it?"
Josh glanced at his watch. "Just after midnight."
* * *
Monday, April 30th: Day One Hundred And One
There had been a time when he was a child, a time when he knew that it was spring. It wasn't that the weather changed exactly; there were still heaps of half-frozen, muddy slush everywhere, bitterly cold rain spitting down from the sky. But the clouds were a different color somehow, a cleaner white, and for some reason as soon as he stepped outside, his fingers ached to pick up a baseball, cradle it, let it go. And that was how it felt when he looked at her.
There had been a time when she was an adolescent, gawky and twisted up inside with self-doubt, sure she was irrevocably hideous. And one day she'd been walking through town and a stranger, a boy her age she never saw again, smiled at her. It splashed her, shone on her, this commonplace approval. It was a ray of light into teenage murkiness, and it was the first time she ever thought of herself as a woman. And that was how it felt when he touched her.
C.J. woke up before Toby, but didn't move, remaining curled up at his side, her head pillowed on her arms. She watched his eyelids flutter, his face for once unguarded, and then he was awake too. He regarded her with a strange mixture of suspicion and amusement and astonishment.
"You know, when we're in bed," he said, "you don't seem so tall."
"Really?" She yawned and stretched as much as she could, her body bare and long and close to his. "How about now?"
"Even now." He touched her shoulder and closed his eyes against the sunlight filtering in. "What time is it?"
C.J. craned her neck to see the clock on the nightstand. "Almost seven."
"Too damn early."
"This used to be late," she reflected. "We would've been late to work by now. We didn't have that hard of a time getting up, then."
"Nothing is like it was, then," he muttered.
"It isn't, but it is." She rolled onto her back, crossing her arms across her chest. "You came back."
"I don't know how long," he cautioned her.
"That's what Sam and I said too," she reminded him.
"You turned me into a girl."
She made a face. "What?"
"On your little thing," he said with mild distaste. "The one woman got all my lines. I know myself when I hear it."
"You watched!"
"You turned me into a girl!"
C.J. laughed loudly for several seconds. "But she played you well."
"It wasn't the worst thing I've ever seen," Toby said grudgingly. He sat up and surveyed the bedroom. "This really is just like your old place."
"At least the cat doesn't get lost." She turned her head to watch his profile. "It really has been a very long time."
"It has and it hasn't."
She cleared her throat. "I never would have been here. I never would have worked for Josiah Bartlet if it wasn't for the fact that you came and got me."
He shook his head. "It was Leo."
"Sure, it was. But really, it was you." C.J. lifted her head and rested her cheek in her hand. "You've had some fairly lousy days in New York, I believe."
He did not look at her. "Yes."
"This, then, here, has never been easy and sometimes awful, but..." She trailed off. "I ran away in December."
"Yeah, you did."
"I didn't want to do the thing where everyone hugs and shit. It was easier to just turn it off and be something else."
"You don't have to explain yourself to me," he said, turning his gaze to her.
"Good, because I'm not sure I can." C.J. pressed her eyes shut and then opened them again to look into his. "I said some bad things about you. To this guy, when we were drunk, and I wasn't being myself."
"I was fucking Andi," he said under his breath.
She stopped sounding apologetic. "What the hell are we going to do with ourselves now?"
Toby touched the back of her knee under the thin sheet. "I was hoping you'd know."
"Well, here's what I think. I think we have to call Josh and Sam and have lunch with them, and get the teasing and misery out of the way so we can all move on. And then..."
"Job-hunting?" he suggested, almost playfully.
"House-hunting," she said, beaming. "I didn't even like this apartment when it was my old apartment."
She wasn't sure how it happened or which of them moved, but she was sliding under him, and he was speaking, breathing on her collarbone.
"It will serve," he said.
C.J. tipped her head back, exposing her throat. "God," she murmured, her breath quickening. "Everything's so bizarre right now, and I don't know."
"Neither do I."
She sat up a little, pulling away from him. "I want you to promise me something."
"C.J.," he warned, almost groaning.
"When I'm settled into something, some career, some role, I want to remember what this part was like." She waved a hand in the air. "And what it wasn't."
"You will."
"Will you remind me?"
"I swear it," he said solemnly. They did not move apart again.
* * *
Maybe one day soon, it'll all come out,
How you dream about each other sometimes
With a memory of how you once gave up
But you made it through the troubled times...
- Fountains Of Wayne, "Troubled Times"