I should never have lied to Josh.

That's the part I feel worst about.  Although, frankly, I still can't find a reasonable alternative.

I had to lie.

It was a regrettable but necessary action.

Still, it mars things.  It cheapens the memory.  I'll probably go to my grave thinking that my time with Josh -- I mean, my time working on the Bartlet campaign -- was the high point of my life.  And I've cheapened that memory with the lie I told at the end.

I can't believe he bought it.  It wasn't a very plausible story.  CJ didn't believe me, I could see that, even though she didn't call me on it.

I wonder why she didn't call me on it.

But, really, the idea that I would go back to Alan -- or as I will forever think of him, Dr. Free Ride -- is so absurd.  Do I have the word "sucker" tattooed on my forehead?  Do I look that stupid?

How could Josh believe I would do something that ridiculous?

Does he honestly think so little of me?

Hell, let's face facts:  He probably doesn't think of me at all. I've been gone three weeks.  He's probably forgotten all about Donnatella Moss by now.

"Are you going to sit around and wallow in self-pity all day, or are you going shopping with me?"

I pretend to think that over for a minute.  After all, what's the point of returning to the bosom of your family if you can't torment your older sister?

"Wallowing sounds preferable, Frances."

"Mom," Frances yells, "make Donna behave."

"Frances, you're in your thirties, you have three children of your own," I point out.  "Why do you revert to this bickering every time you come home?"

"Why do you?" she replies.

Fair point.

As Josh would say.

"Please tell me you're not going to start crying again," Frances says.

"Look, I can't help it.  I'm depressed."

"Well, of course you're depressed.  Alan was a great catch -- a doctor, no less."

"Yeah, but what were his verbal SATs like?"

"What?"

"It's just -- Never mind."

"You've been talking strangely ever since you got back from your little political adventure," Frances tells me.

"Strangely?"

"All these little expressions you use.  I swear, Donna, if I never hear you refer to the thing again, it will be too soon."

"Thanks for the heads up."

"Donna!"

"I'm just saying."

"You're annoying me, Donna.  Even more than usual."

"Would you go to your precious mall and leave me alone?"

"I came all the way out here to cheer you up," Frances says.  "You should be grateful."

"You came all the way out here to get away from Steve and the kids.  Also to score brownie points with Mom and Dad.  It has very little to do with me."

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Moss Family Dynamics at work.  The family that took the fun out of dysfunctional.

That is, of course, untrue.  They are, for the most part, a perfectly happy trio.  Dad works hard all day, comes home to Mom -- who keeps house with a ruthlessness that makes June Cleaver look like a slacker -- and they beam with pride over Frances.  Frances is their idea of the perfect daughter; she succeeded beyond their wildest dreams, providing them with a successful banker for a son-in-law and three perfectly mannered, blonde, alabaster-skinned grandchildren.

The only thing marring their little Norman Rockwell portrait is their baby girl -- Donnatella Viridis, screwup extraordinaire.

Donna, who had a perfectly good doctor as a future husband and let him slip right out of her fingers.

Donna, who reads strange books and spouts all kinds of esoteric trivia.  (Josh would say that's redundant.  Josh would say that trivia is by definition esoteric.)

Donna, who runs away to join the circus -- Well, a political campaign, which my parents would say is much the same thing.

One of the few statements Josh and my parents would agree on.

I really need to stop thinking about Josh.  This isn't healthy, and I don't know why I do it.  I had no trouble moving on when I left Alan.

Not that the two situations are comparable.  I thought I was in love with Alan; I planned to marry him.  Josh was just my boss for a handful of months.

Also, Josh was fun.  Even grumpy first thing in the morning and threatening to fire me over my refusal to bring him coffee, Josh was fun.  Even when he was hyper over Governor Bartlet's inability to grasp the importance of carrying the South, even when he was drunk and bemoaning his latest breakup with Mandy Hampton, Josh was fun.  The way that man could talk--

Well, they were all fun.  I miss every one of them.  I miss Governor and Dr. Bartlet, I miss Lizzie and Annie and Ellie.  I especially miss Zoey, who I swear has a crush on Josh.  I miss Leo and Toby and Sam.  God, I miss CJ.  I learned so much from CJ.  She's the woman I want to be some day.  CJ is fabulous.  She's intelligent and confident, and she would never let her life revolve around some man, no matter how much fun he might happen to be.

She certainly wouldn't sit around her parents' house and mope because she made a perfectly logical, rational decision.

So, okay then, the Donnatella Moss Pity Party is over.  I left.  I made a rational decision (including my decision to lie to Josh), and I left.  Time to move on.

"Okay," I tell Frances.  "I'll go to the mall with you.  But I draw the line at spending two hours in Williams-Sonoma."

***

"Williams-Sonoma?"

"Yes, Josh."

I stare at CJ in disbelief.  "She's at Williams-Sonoma?"

"What did I just say?" CJ asks, irritation creeping into her voice.

"That my assistant is at Williams-Sonoma.  I'm just--"  I shrug.  "Williams-Sonoma?"

"Yes, Josh.  And I've got to say, with the way you've been treating that poor woman, you're lucky she only took a shopping break and didn't walk out entirely."  As soon as the words leave her mouth, CJ looks stricken.

"Like Donna," I say.  Donna walked out entirely.  But that does not warrant a discussion; I'm not sure why I brought it up.  "And I have not been mean to Tamika."

CJ raises an eyebrow.  "You called her Tami for like a week and a half."

"It was a nickname."  I shrug.  "Donna never minded when I called her Donnatella."  Why do I keep bringing that up?  I purposefully change the subject before CJ can ask me the same question.  "I call you Claudia Jean."

"And every time you do, you step closer to a violent death," she answers.  "Besides, Donnatella is her actual name.  Tamika's name is not Tami."

"Fine."  I turn back to the disorganized pile of crap on my desk.  "I don't have time for this right now.  When's Tami coming back?"

"Tamika," CJ glares at me, "said that she'd be back before your meeting with Governor Hansberry."

I give her a blank look.  "Governor Hansberry?"

"The governor of New Hampshire, you idiot," CJ yells.  "What is wrong with you?"

"Nothing."

CJ steps closer and lowers her voice.  "If this is about Donna--"

"It's not," I say, one hand held up to stay her words.

"Josh, you've been a mess for three weeks.  Coincidentally, Donna's been gone for -- how long?  Oh, right:  Three weeks!"

"CJ," I sigh.  "I'm not in the mood for this."

"You're moping," she points out.  "You're not a very fun person to work with when you're moping.  Or to work for, as Tamika can attest.  Yet you expect me to let you keep wallowing?"

"And besides," I continue, ignoring her points completely.  "I broke up with Mandy three and a half weeks ago; how do you know I'm not wallowing over that?"

"Mandy broke up with you," CJ argues.  "And you were walking around here grinning like an idiot during the four days in between the breakup and Donna's departure.  At which point, you commenced wallowing."

"Commenced wallowing?" I repeat.  "I'm not sure you should be the public face of this campaign if that's the kind of--"

"Josh, Donna's gone."

I glance away from her.  "I know."

"You've got to pull it together," she says quietly.

"This isn't about Donna," I insist wearily.  "I just forgot the meeting."

CJ watches me critically, then shrugs.  "Don't screw up, Josh."

I roll my eyes.  "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

***

Shopping with Frances is hell.  Even when I suggest we split up so she can look at housewares while I hit Barnes and Noble, she ignores my suggestion.

"I'm cheering you up, Donna.  That's the point of this excursion."

"So we're going to all your favorite places?"

"Hey," Frances says, "I might as well get something out of this experience."

Judging by the number of purchases she's made today, Frances has gotten quite a lot out of this experience.

"Can we at least stop and get something to eat?  Or coffee?"

I wonder if his new assistant brings him coffee.

Not that it matters.  It would just be interesting to know.

There's a nice little cafe in the mall, so we go there.  Frances talks about the kids while I try to listen.  It's hard to concentrate because there's a TV by the bar, and it's tuned to CNN.

"--and her dance instructor says--"

"I saw Toby!"

"Who?"

"Toby.  On the TV."

"Who the hell is Toby?"

"Toby Ziegler.  From the campaign.  They're doing a piece on--"

"Donna, if you're trying to impress me because you met people who are on some news show--"

"No, Frances, I'm pointing out that -- Josh!"

I jump out of my chair and run over to the TV; Frances follows me reluctantly.  There he is on CNN.  He looks terrible.  The sound's turned down, so I can't hear what he's saying.  But he's wearing that white shirt I specifically told him never to wear on television, looking tired and run down and--

"Does that man ever comb his hair?" Frances asks.

"Would you be quiet?"

"Why?  You can't hear him anyway.  And this is the second time I've seen him on TV, and someone should tell him to do something about that hair."

"Frances!"

"I'm serious.  The guy has to be making some serious money--"

"Not really."

My sister gives me one of her "you're so naive" looks.  "Well," she says, "I'm sure he'd tell you that he doesn't make much."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"He wouldn't want you thinking he could afford to pay you a decent salary, would he?  So he lied about his own paycheck."

"Josh is an honest man."

Frances snorts, which I must say is a singularly unattractive sound.  "He's a politician, Donna."

"Josh," I repeat, "is an honest man.  A decent man."

"If you say so."  CNN has finished its story about the Bartlet campaign and has moved on to the sports scores, so Frances and I wander back to our table.

"So," my sister asks, with her characteristic tact, "when are you going to stop being an ass and call Alan?"

***

"So," says a familiar voice, "were you ever going to call me, or are you still being an ass?"

I look up tiredly to find Mandy Hampton standing in my office doorway, arms crossed and mouth pursed.  I don't have the energy for that.  "I'm still being an ass," I say.  Maybe she'll leave.

"Well, that's hardly surprising," she says, making herself comfortable by leaning against the doorway.  In other words, we're going to be here arguing for a while.

I continue scrawling notes in the margins of the brief Tamika typed for me.  "I thought you were in Denver."

"That was last week."

"Okay."  Tamika doesn't seem to grasp the difference between there, they're and their.  It's alarming; she's in her thirties.

"I'm back now," Mandy says.  Rather unnecessarily, if you ask me, since no one within earshot of her shrill voice could be under the misapprehension that she was anywhere else.

"So I gathered."

"Are you going to talk to me or what?"

"Or what," I say.

"Look at me, dammit."

I toss my pen down and lean back in my chair, doing the cocky politician thing that I know she hates.  "Mandy, is there a point to this, or--"

"You called me a twit," she says, eyebrows raised.  "In front of people."

"First, I didn't call you a twit--"

"Josh--"

"I said you were being a twit.  And for the record, you called me a jackass."

"You are a jackass," she answers sharply.  "Even more so when you're insulting your girlfriend in front of people."

"You weren't my girlfriend when--"

"Josh, quit it.  You've been impossible for the last three weeks."  Mandy pushes away from the doorjamb and settles into the guest chair.  "It's obvious that our breakup has been hard on you--"

"But not on you, I suppose," I comment sarcastically.  God, she can work my nerves.

Mandy shrugs.  "Yes, on me too, Josh.  But we've got to be able to work together."

"Fine," I say.

"Fine?" she repeats dubiously.

"Yes."  I nod with a patently false smile in place.  "Fine."

"So you'll be nice?"

"To you?"

"Josh," she warns.

"Yes, Mandy, I'll be nice.  I'll refrain from calling you a twit, even."

She stares at me.  "No, you won't."

I grin.  "Probably not."

"Josh--"

"Mandy, we broke up almost a month ago.  We were fighting for long before that. I don't think we're going to get along anytime soon."

"So you have no intention of even trying to make nice," she surmises angrily.

"Not really," I admit.

"Fine," she says, rising.  At the door, she turns back.  "Jackass."

***

"I have no intention of calling Alan," I tell Frances.

"Oh, come on, Donna.  It's obvious why you came back."

Yes, I suppose it is, with me doing stupid things like running to the TV to look at Josh.  But honestly, it's force of habit now.  He likes -- he liked me to watch and give him my opinion about how well he did whenever he had to appear on camera.  It was part of the job.

And it's the job that I miss.  As it turned out, I really was good at that job.

Too good.

"You want Alan back," Frances says.

Did I hear that correctly?

"I what?"

"You found out you couldn't make it without him, and so you came back," Frances explains.  "Only now you're too ashamed or scared or whatever to call him."

"That's what you think?"  Really, sometimes I cannot believe this woman is my sister.  Josh can't either.

Not that Josh has ever met Frances; but if you spend enough time on a campaign bus with someone, you get to know him pretty well.  Josh and I have exchanged life stories, and he cannot believe my family.  "You were switched at birth," he told me.  "It's the only explanation.  Somewhere there is a perfectly respectable Democratic family wondering how they got stuck with some dour Republican for a daughter."

"Obviously that's what's going on," Frances says.  Her voice snaps me out of my nostalgia -- Who ever thought I'd miss all night rides on a campaign bus? -- and I try to focus on her bizarre "Donna's not over Alan" theory.  "Nobody blames you," she tells me.  "You were upset, and you did something impulsive.  That's just you being you.  But you realized your mistake, and you came back.  Alan will forgive you."

"Forgive me?"  Heads turn in our direction; my shouting there was positively Lymanesque.

"Donna, keep your voice down."

"He'll forgive me?  I drop out of college, go to work, pay his way through med school for three years, and he'll forgive me for finally having the sense to walk away?  Well, aren't I the lucky one!"

"So you guys had some problems.  I'm sure you can work them out."

"Don't start."

"You should listen to me.  I'm happily married, and you're--"

"Screwing up again?"

"Frankly, yes.  Relationships are never easy.  You run into rough patches like this.  But Alan is exactly the sort of person you need, and you should do your best to make it work."

"Haven't we had this conversation before?"

"Yes, and if you'd listened to me then, you wouldn't have had to run away to -- wherever it was you ran away to."

"New Hampshire.  And it wasn't running away."

"If you say so.  Alan is a nice, steady, dependable man. "

"He's really not."

"He's going to be a very successful doctor.  He can offer you stability, security.  God knows you'd never manage that on your own."

"Thank you so much for the vote of confidence."

"You know it's true.  You get these weird ideas, and you do these strange things."

"Trying to help a decent man get elected president.  Whatever was I thinking?"

"You know what I mean.  You need someone down to earth, like Alan."

"I so don't."

"Then what kind of man are you going to end up with?"

Okay, that was scary.  She said that, and this mental image of Josh popped into my head and -- Well, that is just absurd.  Completely ludicrous.  Even if the thing with Mandy is truly over this time, that's too ridiculous.

Josh.  Josh and me.

Laughable idea.

He probably hasn't thought about me once since I left.

***

God, I wish Donna were here.

Wait -- where'd that come from?  I'm supposed to be mourning the death of my relationship with Mandy.  The latest death, anyway; we keep attempting to resurrect it, but no luck so far.

So it stands to reason that I should be thinking about Mandy.

I should certainly not be obsessing over some flighty college dropout who worked for me for a couple months, then hightailed it back to her freeloading ex-boyfriend the first chance she got.

The thing is, Donna's not really flighty.  She seems like it, but the woman has the organizational skills of... a really organized person.  God, I can't even construct a sentence when she's not here to pick it apart.

Not that it matters at this point.  Donna's gone.  She's back living with that son of a bitch, and she's supposedly very happy. Fine.  There's no need for me to even think about her.  So I won't.

I will, instead, concentrate on this meeting with Governor Hansberry in which I'm supposed to ask for... something.

"Tami," I bellow.  "What am I doing?"

Tamika, a stout black woman with a pretty impressive background in New Hampshire politics, appears at the doorway.  "Is that a rhetorical question?" she asks sarcastically.

"No," I answer.  "I mean the thing with Hansberry."

"Governor Hansberry," she corrects.  "And could you possibly refrain from replacing every noun you come across in a sentence with the thing?  It would make conversations with you considerably easier."

"Yeah," I wave off her opinion.  "What am I asking her for?"

"The governor?" Tamika raises an eyebrow.  "I was under the impression that the Bartlet for America campaign wants to ensure that we have the support of Governor Hansberry."

"Right," I nod impatiently.  "But Glenda Hansberry is a moderate Republican woman -- which, by the way, is just too contradictory for words."  I pause here, but Tamika doesn't so much as twitch in appreciation of my witticism.  Donna would have sparred right back.  "Anyway," I continue, my tone dour, "she's going to want something in return for publicly supporting Bartlet.  Do we have it yet?"

"I'm going to assume it is what she'll want in return," says Tamika.  Who, if I can just interject, is awfully haughty about grammar for someone who has trouble with homonyms.

"Yes," I say impatiently.  "Do we know what Governor Hansberry wants?"

Tamika smiles at me.  "No."

I stare at her.  "What?"

"I said no."

"No, we don't know what she wants; or, no, you won't tell me?"

"Josh," Tamika is yelling suddenly, "your attitude is creeping ever closer to intolerable.  I am not here to be alternately harassed, belittled and ignored.  I am your assistant, and even with as little as they're paying me to take on that monumental task, I would never be so unprofessional as to withhold information from you to make a point about your behavior.  Which is atrocious."

It takes me a moment to come up with a response.  "Fine."  I didn't say it was a good response.

"You need to leave," Tamika says brusquely.  "Your meeting is in forty-five minutes."

"At the Statehouse?"

"Yes."

"In Concord?"

"Yes."

I give her a conciliatory grin.  "Which way is Concord?"

Instead of taking this perfect opportunity to crack jokes at my expense, Tamika merely flips open a folder she's holding, extracts a map and tosses it at me.  "North," she answers.

God, I miss Donna.

***

"Who even says I need a man?" I ask Frances.

She looks at me as if I have sprouted a third eye.

"Marriage is a good thing," she says.

"I never said it wasn't. I merely said that I don't necessarily need a man to be happy."

"Happiness is not the point of marriage."

"Well, that's a depressing idea."

"It's true.  The point of marriage is security, which is something you, of all people, desperately need."

"Here we go again."

"Oh, you've always gone on and on with your politics and your feminist books, but you don't know the first thing about the real world.  It's difficult for a woman to survive in this culture, Donna."

"Gee, I wonder how I missed out learning that from politics and feminism."

"The only way to be safe is to find a decent man to take care of you."

"It worries me that we're related; it really does."

"Oh, like you don't believe that too underneath all your liberal ideas."

"I don't."

"You dropped out of college to put Alan through med school," she points out.

Okay, that's one point in her favor.

"So how did we end up with such screwy ideas?" I ask.  "Is there some ingredient in Mom's fudge that takes away the capacity for independent thinking?"

"See, you always have to put Mom and Dad down like that, and it's so unfair.  They idolize you."

"Since when?"

"Since always.  You're their precious baby girl.  The sun rises and sets on Donnatella."

"Don't call me that."

"It's your name," Frances says.  She looks at me as though she thinks I have lost my one remaining brain cell.

"And your name is Francesca Caprice, but do I--"

"Yes.  You do.  Sometimes."

"Well, I'll stop it if you never call me -- if you promise only to call me Donna from now on."

"I enjoyed being an only child.  Those were the happiest six years of my life."

"I envy you.  I've always wanted to be an only child."

"Donna, seriously, Mom and Dad worry about you.  They want you to find a nice man to take care of you--"

"I can take care of myself.  Hell, I can take care of Josh Lyman; and let me tell you, that is not an easy job."

"No, you can't take care of yourself.  And you can't do ridiculous things like run around the country with a bunch of politicians."

"Frances, for the love of God, it's the Democratic party.  You make it sound like I joined a cult."

"How much money do you have in the bank?"

"At the moment?"

"Yes."

"About $75.  But I had to pay for the plane ticket home, and I've still got a paycheck coming.  CJ said she'd make sure Josh remembered to forward it."

"And where were you living for the last four months?"

"We were campaigning.  We moved around."

"In other words, you were homeless."

"Homeless?  I wasn't exactly out on the streets."

"And once the campaign ended, what would you have done?"

"I don't know.  I suppose there would have been some job for me after the campaign.  I never thought about it that much."

Because I didn't want to think about it.  Too depressing to think about life after the campaign.  But why mention that to Frances?

"See?  You're hopeless.  You need somebody like Alan, who can take of you."

"And again I point out that I can take care of myself, and Alan is a bastard."

"Just call him, Donna.  You'll be better off."

***

"Talk to her, Josh," CJ implores.  "You'll be better off."

I shake my head stubbornly.  "No.  If she doesn't want to talk to me, that's fine."

CJ rolls her eyes.  "She's your assistant."

"Temporary assistant," I correct.

After I left for my meeting with Hansberry -- which went fine, by the way; her demands are reasonable enough -- Tamika apparently told Leo to reassign her or she'd leave the campaign entirely.  He was able to talk her down from quitting by promising her that she'd only have to stay with me another week.

I don't see that I'm such a horrible boss; Donna never complained.  Well, okay, she complained a lot, but that was part of our, you know, patter.  Banter, Mandy calls it in this disgusted tone of voice.  Mandy never did take to Donna, come to think of it.  And Donna always got this purposefully blank look on her face when I brought up Mandy; I guess the dislike was mutual.

Wonder why that is.

Anyway, it looks like I've gone through my fifth assistant in three weeks.  Leo's going to kick my ass pretty soon.  Maybe I can do without an assistant entirely.  I mean, I didn't have one before Donnatella Moss insinuated herself into my office; what makes me think I need one now?

I look up at CJ, who's still giving me that vaguely disapproving look, and say, "You know what?  I don't think I need an assistant."

And that's when CJ starts laughing.  Not chuckling or giggling, but full-out laughing.  In fact, she drops into the guest chair when her ridiculous mirth steals all of her energy, rendering her unable to remain upright.

I just glare at her.

"Joshua," she says, her tone high and breathy from laughter, "you can't honestly think you'd last a week without an assistant."

"I've lasted three weeks," I answer darkly.

CJ immediately sobers.  "Josh, I know you miss Donna, but--"

"I don't miss her," I lie.  "I miss her freakish organizational abilities."

CJ nods.  "Okay, Josh.  But I'm saying, she's gone."

"You know, you are just the bringer of sunshine on this issue, CJ."

She smirks at me.  "The bringer of sunshine?"

"Shut up."

CJ unfolds herself from the chair and gestures at the door.  "Come on."

"I'm not speaking to you," I tell her imperiously.

"Whatever, Josh," she laughs.  "Aren't you hungry?"

"What time is it?"

"Almost nine."

I tilt my head to the side, weighing my options.  "Any chance Tamika will agree to order me food in?"

"Not even a small one," CJ answers.

"Where are you going?"

"Sam and I were planning on the Ginger Man," she says, referring to a restored house-turned-restaurant that serves good food and decent beer.

"No Toby?" I ask.

"Toby's with the governor in Salem tonight," she answers.  "Sam's done the West Virginia speech, and he's ready for a break."

I roll my eyes.  "So he's going to be doing that hyper, righteous indignation thing?"

"Probably."

I give a big sigh.  "Fine, but I'm still not speaking to you."

"I'm sure Sam will do enough talking for the both of us, mi amor."

***

My father won't speak to me.

Not that this is an unusual turn of events.  My father's communication skills are minimal at best.  As long as I can remember, he's come home from work, asked when dinner would be and promptly disappeared into the garage to work on something or the other until Mom sent Frances or me out to get him.  My attempts to draw him into conversation over the years have usually met with some variation on "Don't you know how to be quiet?"

And Frances thinks I'm the favorite.  If she weren't, well, Frances, I'd wonder whether she's been smoking crack.

I wonder if I'd get a reaction from my father if I asked that question at the dinner table.

When I first got home from the campaign, I tried to make conversation with my father.  I mean, I've carried on a few interesting conversations with Governor Bartlet -- the Democratic nominee for president and a Nobel Prize winner.  That was easy.  Governor Bartlet's interested in all kinds of fascinating subjects, and he actually enjoys listening to other people's ideas.  After that, you'd think my father would be a piece of cake.

You'd be wrong.

Dad has no interest in my opinion on school prayer, the colorization of classic films, whether Shakespeare authored all the plays attributed to him, or the ramifications of casino betting on Native American reservations.  Last night, just to see how far I could push him, I brought up the subject of female genital mutilation.  I don't think he had any idea what I was talking about.

I suddenly felt a great deal of pity for my mother, you know?

But I came to a conclusion, an epiphany even.  Josh would appreciate this theory of mine; I wish he were here -- or I was there -- so I could tell him.  Anyway, I have figured out why I tend to babble. I developed the habit right here at this kitchen table, trying to get my father to pay attention to me.  And the esoteric bits of trivia?  If I learn enough stuff and spout it back, sooner or later my parents will show some interest in a subject that matters to me.

Some people spend years in therapy figuring this stuff out.  Me, I just have to spend three weeks at home.

Tonight, however, my father finally speaks.  "Do you have a plan, Donna?" he asks.

My father is big on making plans.  Another epiphany: I now understand why, underneath the babbling, I'm actually an organized, practical person who is given to making lists.

Well, aren't I just full of self-analysis tonight?

"No, I don't have a plan, Dad.  I'll go back to school next semester, I suppose.  I haven't given it much thought."

"School?" my father says.  "I'm not paying for any more school."

"Did I ask you to?"  Yes, I know.  I'm a joy to be around these days.

"I'm not a rich man, Donna.  I can't afford--"

"I'm not asking you to," I repeat.  "I think I already proved I can earn enough money to pay someone's tuition."

"You had a good future with Alan," my father starts.  "You should never have--"

"Well, Dad, I did, so let's move on."

"This is what I said would happen," Dad tells Mom.

"Don't start," she replies.  "Donna will get on her soapbox, and you'll both say things you'll regret."

My soapbox?  What on earth is Mom going on about now?

Frances is shooting me the "apologize to Dad and change the subject" look.

Right.  That soapbox.

This is about Josh.  Well, Josh and Toby.  Look, my father is -- my father is not a bad person.  My father is a decent, hard-working man who does his best to take care of his family.  He's not the sort of person who would, you know, join a hate group.  He'd be horrified, I'm sure, if he saw some of the mail Josh gets from the lunatic Right.  But my father -- my father simply hasn't seen as much of the world as I have.  He's never had close contact with anyone whose background was radically different from his, you know?  He doesn't even know he's prejudiced.  He really doesn't mean to be.  He just says things sometimes -- little things; I doubt he even knows they're offensive.  And as long as I can remember, if anyone tried to point that out to him, he simply wouldn't listen.  He has this blind spot, and he's not going to change.  No matter what I do or say, he's not going to change.

I could never bring Josh into this house.  It would be a complete disaster.

Why does that thought hurt so much?  I mean, it's not as though my ex-boss would ever need to meet my parents.

Still, I have to excuse myself from the table before everyone sees me cry.

***

I am going to have to excuse myself from the table if Sam doesn't shut up soon.

"Both parties," Sam says, ignoring the plate of food cooling in front of him.  "Most of these huge conglomerates gave money to both parties."

"Yes," CJ answers around a mouthful of chicken Caesar salad.

"Can you believe that?" Sam presses, turning his Righteous Indignation face toward me.

"Yes," I shrug.  "It's called insurance money.  No matter which party wins, they've got an in."

"It's not fair," Sam states.  "If we're supposed to believe that soft money is freedom of speech, shouldn't that mean that the 'speech' is used to support something the company or corporation believes in?"

"It should," CJ nods.  "They can't possibly support both the Democratic and Republican platforms."

"Well," I note with some measure of sadness, "the platforms of the Democrats and Republicans have been sliding ever closer to the middle.  Jim Hightower calls 'New Democrats' Republicans who wear plaid flannel shirts while campaigning.  He's got a point."

"Governor Bartlet isn't like that," Sam counters.  "He's a liberal Democrat.  He believes in things."

"Republicans believe in things too," CJ points out.  "They just believe in the wrong things."

"Olasky believes in money," Sam mutters.  "Did you know he lets his Wall Street advisors vet his speeches?"

"He does?" I ask.  "I'm sure The People would be interested to know that the Republican presidential nominee is a slave to Wall Street."

CJ shakes her head.  "Governor Bartlet accepted a lot of money from Fortune 500 companies; the Republicans can hit back."

"They should have to wear signs," Sam says, his eyes lighting up.  "You know -- like NASCAR drivers?"

CJ gives him a look.  "You think Senators should wear flight suits with patches from the corporations that contributed to their campaigns?"

"Sure," he nods.  "Why not?  At least we'd know who owns which Congressmen."

"Congressperson," CJ corrects automatically.

I roll my eyes. "It costs millions of dollars to run for president, and then people are surprised when politicians screw the little guy over in favor of those who contributed vast sums of money -- Big Business, in other words."

CJ stares at me.  "You are just the king of positivity tonight, Josh."

"He's depressed," Sam volunteers.  "And not about the dismal state of campaign finance in this great land."

"Sam," I warn, polishing off my well-done-plus hamburger.

Sam ignores me, telling CJ, "I was explaining this to him earlier -- you know, that Olasky has a Wall Street triumvirate trying to teach him invaluable stuff like how billionaires need tax loopholes and how big business needs are more important than Americans being guaranteed a minimum wage that allows them to live above the poverty line -- and he was just sitting there.  Moping."

"Sam," I sigh.  "CJ doesn't care--"

"Over what, Sam?" CJ asks with an amused glance at me.

"Mandy," Sam answers promptly.  "He's still upset about the breakup."

CJ gives him a skeptical look.  "He is?"

"Yes.  He's been moping for three weeks."

"Maybe he's just been upset because his office has been in shambles for the past three weeks.  You know, since Donna left."

Sam narrows his eyes.  "That was three weeks ago?"

"Yes," CJ answers.

"CJ," I groan.  "Don't put any ridiculous ideas in his head.  Sam is entirely too impressionable."

"Donna," Sam muses.  "You two always did have, you know, some sort of undercurrent."

"Sam, CJ is messing with you.  There is no undercurrent.  Donna Moss is happily in the arms of her asshole ex-boyfriend in East Nowhere, Wisconsin.  And I am not moping."

CJ raises her eyebrows. "Yeah," she says.  "You sound like someone who's absolutely not moping."

I raise an arm and search for our waiter.  I need a drink.

***

My bedroom hasn't changed since I left for college five years ago.  I think my mother keeps our bedrooms the way they were when Frances and I were children as some sort of mini-shrines to our childhood.  This room is all frilly and pink and, now that I think about it, the darn thing never suited me.  Not then and certainly not now.  Maybe it's a shrine to what my mother wanted my childhood to be; after all, she did all the decorating.  I was never allowed to put up the posters I wanted of whatever pop star I had a crush on at the moment; Mom was afraid I'd ruin the paint.  And she picked out the bedspread and the accessories because, she said, a child's judgment can't be trusted on these things.

I blame the room for the fact that I'm having trouble sleeping.  I mean, the walls are Pepto-Bismol pink.  It's not conducive to rest.  And I have nothing to read.  I should have insisted that Frances let me stop at Barnes and Noble.

In fact, it's not that late.  I could drive down there and pick something up before they close.  Just because Mom and Dad go to bed at a ridiculously early hour doesn't mean that I have to.

I feel like a teenager sneaking out past curfew, right down to taking Mom's car keys from her purse.

The drive to the bookstore is uneventful.  I get there with an hour to spare and pick up the New York Times and the Washington Post immediately.  Then I decide to get the Boston Globe too, because that's Katie's paper and she was always especially nice to me.  I pick up an Amelia Peabody that I haven't read yet and what looks like a fascinating study of women in medieval Europe.  I can almost hear Josh making one of his disparaging remarks about the weird books I like to read.  It's strange; my family says the same kind of things about my reading habits, but it sounds different coming from them.  From Frances and my parents, the tone is "Why are you wasting your time on that stuff?"  From Josh, it was -- Well, I'm not sure this is the right word, but it was almost affectionate.

I might as well admit it.  I miss Josh.

I miss them all.  But I miss Josh most.

I wonder how long I'm going to keep missing him.  It's probably just because I'm not doing anything constructive with my time.  If I had a new job or if I were back in school, I'd be too busy to miss him.  I'd stop thinking about--

He really was the most extraordinary man.  I was lucky to get to spend that time working with him, even if -- Well, I made the right decision.  Absolutely.  I did the only thing I could do.

I'm very proud of myself, walking away like that.  Look how long I suffered through the thing with Alan.  Three years of my life.  I knew within six months that I'd made a mistake.  Hell, I knew going into it that I was making a mistake, but I held on.  I was determined to make it work -- completely determined to prove to myself that I could be what Alan and Frances and my parents thought I should be.

You don't see me making the same mistake twice, do you?  I have grown up; I really have.

I spent three years of my life with Alan.  Three years that I will never get back.  I did everything for that man.  I completely put my own life on hold, and I took care of him.  A selfish, demanding, older man.

You can see that I'm not going to fall into that trap again, right?

Not that it's the same thing.  I mean, for one thing, I thought I was in love with Alan.  I would certainly never make that mistake where Josh is concerned.  I'm not even attracted to Josh that way.  He's not my type at all.

Although he does have amazing eyes.  And I could develop a serious fixation when it comes to that man's arms.

And I don't care what Frances says, I like his hair.

But when I say I'm avoiding making the same mistake, I'm not talking about getting involved with Josh sexually.  That's simply not an issue.

He's with Mandy Hampton, you know.  They keep breaking up, and he keeps going back.  I have no idea what he sees in her.

No, what I mean is that I saw myself doing the same kind of thing I did with Alan:  I let my life revolve around this man.  So this time it was a job and not a sexual relationship; I guess that's progress, but still.  There I was, arranging Josh's schedule, doing Josh's research, telling Josh what to wear and when to eat and what to do.  It was all very exciting, what with the campaign and all, but then one day the parallel hit me and, well, I guess I panicked.

So I decided to leave.  It made sense; I had to get out of there before Josh Lyman absolutely consumed my life, you know?

As for the lie, well, what else could I do?  What was I supposed to say?  "Thanks for the job, Josh; but as it turns out, I'm too damn good at this.  It's too easy for me to take care of you and let my whole world revolve around this relationship, and it's too much like something I've been through before"?  I couldn't say that.  I couldn't give him that as an excuse for leaving.  So I went with "I'm going back to Dr. Free Ride" instead.  It's not like Josh would care why I left.  I was his assistant; our relationship was friendly, but you couldn't really call it intimate.

I was lucky though.  I got to do this extraordinary thing, working on the campaign.  And for the first time in my life, I felt like I belonged somewhere.  I felt like I was with people who understood me and cared about me for who I was, not in spite of my being the flaky relative they're required to love even though they don't much like her.  I'll always miss CJ and Sam and Toby and Leo and the Bartlets.

I'll always miss Josh.

I wish...

God, I hate driving at night.

***

God, I hate being relegated to the backseat.

CJ is driving, Sam is chattering away about the ocean -- which, by the way, is nowhere near us right now -- and I'm lolling around in the backseat, half-drunk.

I wish I were all the way drunk (CJ stopped me after my second beer), but I'll take what I can get.  I'm leaning my head back, staring up at the stars through the back window.

It's pretty out here.

I'm a city boy all the way, but sometimes when I'm in the middle of nowhere -- and if Manchester, New Hampshire, isn't quite the middle of nowhere, it's certainly in the same zip code -- I'm just blown away by the outdoors.

I could be an outdoorsman.

Well, if I had CNN and front porch delivery of the Washington Post, maybe.

So maybe I'm not such an outdoorsman.

But I do love looking at the stars, even if they're a little blurry from the beer.  I wonder if Donna can see the stars.  I mean, from what little I recall of Wisconsin, it's pretty close to the middle of nowhere too.  Maybe we can meet there.

The middle of nowhere, I mean.

Not that I miss her or anything.  It would be ridiculous to waste the emotional energy on missing someone who was in my life only tangentially for a few months.  Okay, maybe not tangentially, but she certainly wasn't as important to me as, say, Mandy.

Donna was only an assistant; it's irrational to miss her.  So I don't.  I won't . I will not worry about her and her stupid jackass of an ex-boyfriend, or her lack of a car, or her crazy-ass Republican clan of Wisconsinians. Wisconsinites?

Wisconsin -- Oh, who the hell lives in Wisconsin anyway?

I think I'm a bit drunker than I originally suspected.  I feel vaguely nauseous, actually.  "CJ," I mumble.

"Yeah?" CJ answers, turning down the radio and glancing back at me.  "Don't you dare puke in my car, Joshua.  I am not your fraternity brother; I will kick your ass."

"I'm not sick," I argue, raising my head to blink at her stupidly.  "What do you call people who live in Wisconsin?"

"What?" CJ asks.

"Wisconinians?" I say.  Or attempt to say. I might possibly have added a syllable or two there at the end.

CJ and Sam exchange a look, then Sam turns halfway in his seat.  "Josh, Donna is living in Wisconsin now."

"She should've taken her car," I mutter.  "To get to nowhere."

"What?"

"Nothing."

"You're moping," Sam surmises, giving me a sympathetic look.  "It's understandable.  There really was some sort of..."  He pauses, one hand waving around in the air absently.  "...undercurrent between you two."

"Who two?" I ask, brow furrowed.

"You and Donna," he answers promptly.

"Sam," CJ warns.

"What?"

"Do you really think this is appropriate?  He's drunk."

"Am not," I protest.  "And I don't like Donna like that.  I like Mandy like that."

"No, you don't," CJ argues.  "You used to, but then she started treating you like shit, and you two fought all the time, and now you're just...  Well, I was going to say friends, but it doesn't seem applicable."

"I like Mandy," I repeat stubbornly.

"You really don't," CJ answers.  "I like Mandy.  I mean, she's smart and sassy and knows her stuff.  But I don't like how she treats you, Josh."

"She treats me fine," I say, slouching further down in the seat so I can see the night sky.  "She takes care of me."

"Mandy?" Sam asks, his tone incredulous.

"Donna takes care of me."  My eyes are drifting shut, but I wanna look at the stars.

"Josh?" Sam says, but he sounds really far away.

"Gotta get to nowhere," I mumble, losing the fight against unconsciousness.

***

"...not nearly as serious as it could have been."

What's not serious?  It's not the polls, is it?  'Cause we were up three points last week, and everyone said...

No, wait a minute.  I'm not working there anymore.  I'm home.

I'm in bed.

Right.  I went to bed, but I couldn't sleep.

I was going to go to the bookstore.

I must have fallen asleep instead.

Except that Frances and Mom are here.  Well, that's strange.

"What's going on?"

"Donna, thank God!"

"Mom?  What's--"

"We'll just need to keep her under observation overnight."

Okay, let me try getting their attention again.  "Would somebody tell me what's going on?"

"Donna," Frances says, "don't you remember the accident?"

"I was in an accident?  Did anybody tell--"  Stupid question.  Why would anybody even think to tell him?  Why would he care?

My mother and Frances exchange these looks.  "I told you it was the right thing to do," Frances says.

"What was the right thing to do?" I ask.

"I called him," Frances says.

I try sitting up, which just makes my head hurt.  "You called him?  And you got through?  You shouldn't have been able to get through.  What kind of idiot did he hire who would let you through when he's supposed to be focusing?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" Frances asks.  "Why would I have trouble getting through to Alan?"

"Alan?"  Screaming definitely makes my head hurt.  I should remember to stop doing that.  "Why in the hell would you call that son of a bitch?"

"Donnatella," my mother says, "watch your language."

"I called Alan because I know that secretly you want me to," Frances says with her most annoying smug smile.  "I saved you the trouble of having to make the call yourself.  This was the perfect excuse.  You should thank me."

"Don't hold your breath," I tell her.  "And don't let him in.  I have no interest in seeing him again.  Unless, you know, he's arriving to return all the money he took from me over the last three years."

"You say that now," Frances tells me, "but wait until he gets here."

My mother nods, as though Frances has said something profound.

Josh was right about the switched-at-birth thing.  It's the only explanation.

***

CJ and Sam make sure I get back to my room at the Marriott in Manchester, even though I'm a bit drunk from the two beers I had at the restaurant.  But for some reason, when I lay down in my stark, unfriendly room, I can't sleep.

When Donna was here, I would stay at campaign headquarters until I was about to drop from exhaustion, and she would bring me back here and talk to me for a while before heading to her tiny hole of a room at the EconoLodge a block down the street.

I told her every night to take CJ up on her offer to share a room here, but Donna was insistent about having her own space.  I worried about her, not just because the EconoLodge probably had roaches and other nasty things . I worried about her walking that block in the middle of the night, so I started loaning her my car.

Well, it was her car.  You see, when Donna said she'd sell her car for, you know, food money, I offered to buy it.  It was a stupid impulse, but I did it anyway.  I figured I could buy the damn thing for some exorbitant price and just, you know, keep it as my New Hampshire car.  It will probably cost less in the end than renting a car while we're here in between campaign trips.

Plus, I figured I could sell it back to her for a small sum when she was finally on salary.  I've been paying her, of course, but she's not technically on salary yet.  I just, you know, pay her myself.

Paid her myself.  'Cause she's gone now, and I've got this stupid car that I can't stand to drive because it reminds me of her.  It's a 1987 Toyota Tercel, and there's this bumper sticker on the back window that says Girls Kick Ass.  It's a very Donnatella car.

I need another drink.  I am getting entirely too maudlin.

Plus, I usually pass out after three drinks.

And so I head down to the small bar just off the lobby.  It's nearly empty, and the bartender gets me a Sam Adams quickly.  He's not a talkative bartender, though.  This is unfortunate because I didn't think to bring a book with me, and I've got nothing to do besides drink my beer and brood.

I am so angry at Donna.  Why would she go back to that asshole?  She's an amazing, beautiful, brilliant woman who deserves so much better than some pre-med jerkoff who wants her to support his ass until he can do better.

Not that he could do better than Donnatella Moss.  I mean, she's super-intelligent, gorgeous and incredibly witty.  Any man would be lucky to have her look twice at him, never mind actually date him.

I don't think of her like that, of course.  Donna was merely my assistant.  She was damn good at it, organized and efficient and in possession of some strange intuition that told her just how far she should push me.  I did some of my best work on this campaign with her at my side.

I mean, with her helping me.  At my side -- sounds like she's my wife or something.  What a silly notion.

This beer must be strong tonight.

"Josh," says a familiar voice.  "You're drinking because of me?"

I swivel my head to the side and see Mandy grinning up at me.  She slides onto the barstool beside me and motions for the bartender.

"No," I answer finally.

Mandy gives me an indulgent look.  "It's okay, Josh.  I understand."

"You do?" I ask.

She waits for the bartender to retreat after delivering her drink.  Then she turns to me.  "Yes.  I do."

She seems awfully unperturbed about this; I thought she hated Donna.  "What do you understand?" I ask.

"You miss me," she says, taking a sip of her midori sour.  "I miss you too."

I think my eyes just got very wide.  "You do?"

"Of course I do, Josh," she answers, leaning in closer.  "We're good together.  I care about you."

"You do?" I repeat.  Because, really, sometimes you'd think she couldn't care less about me.  I can smell her perfume; I gave it to her for her birthday.

"I do," she says, her hand landing on my thigh.

I know where this is going.  This is probably a really bad idea.  "I miss you too," I say, but I'm talking to someone else.  Someone who's in East Nowhere, Wisconsin with Dr. Free Ride.

I shouldn't care about that.  I shouldn't care about Donna Moss, who left me in the lurch.  She obviously doesn't care about me, right?

Besides, this thing with Mandy... Sometimes it's easier not to fight her.

And so I drain the rest of my beer, get off my bar stool somewhat unsteadily, and follow Mandy to her room.

***

So here's what happened: I was hit by a drunk driver who ran a red light.  I have kind of a vague memory of it, but I'm finding it difficult to focus on that, what with Dr. Free Ride's impending arrival and all.  Also, I have a mild concussion, which is why I'm under observation for the night.  That's fun.  Nurses keep wandering in every hour to make sure I'm conscious, so I couldn't sleep if I wanted to.

I want to.  Badly.

Also, my mother's car -- major damage.  My father is apparently having a long talk with an insurance adjuster.  Life just keeps getting better and better.  Since the wreck was totally not my fault, my parents aren't out any money; but it's another chapter in that Moss family chronicle, The Many Screwups of Donnatella.  I'm hearing a lot about the stupidity of going out in the middle of the night to buy books and newspapers.

By the way, my mother has confiscated said books and newspapers and refuses to let me have them until I'm out of the hospital.  She says it's not a good idea to be reading when I have a concussion, which is just ridiculous.  This is her idea of punishment.  The wreck didn't kill me, so she'll bore me to death instead.

I'm sore.  I mean physically, I ache.  I have what are going to be some impressive bruises on my arms.  Possibly a black eye.  Frances, who I think is way too excited about this, has wandered off to call her husband and spread the news.

"Alan should have been here two hours ago," Mom says.  "I wonder what the holdup is."

"Maybe he realized that I hate his guts, and he decided not to come," I suggest.  Probably not.  I don't seem particularly lucky tonight.

"He'd make a good husband, Donna," Mom says.

"No, he wouldn't."

"You invested a lot of time in that relationship," she says.

"Also money.  I don't think I'll be getting either of those back."

"You need someone to take care of you."

"Mom, I've had this conversation already today with Frances."

"I worry about you, sweetie.  I just want someone to take care of you."

"I was doing a pretty good job taking care of myself.  Until I came back here."

"Honestly, Donna, I have never understood you.  I've never had the slightest idea how your mind works."  She sighs.  "There are times when I wonder if I brought the right child home from the hospital."

"That's what Josh says," I say.

"Who?"

"Josh Lyman.  My boss.  Ex-boss.  Remember?  I told you about him."

"The arrogant bastard?"

"That would be him, yes."

"You've said things to him about your family?  And he thinks -- what? -- we're not good enough for you?"

"I wouldn't put it that way, Mom.  It's just -- we do a lot of traveling; there's lots of time to talk.  And you guys -- you've said yourself -- all my life you've said that I'm not like you and Dad and Frances.  I don't want the same things; I don't believe half the things you believe.  If anything, Josh was agreeing with you."

"You think a lot of those people from the campaign, don't you?  You talk about them -- You like them more than you do your own family."

"Mom, I'm sorry, but -- Yes, I do."

"Especially your boss."

"Josh is -- You might actually like him if you ever met him."

"I doubt it."

"He's a good person, Mom.  And he's smart.   Okay, he's -- he does have this tremendous ego, but he has every right to it.  He's amazing at what he does.  Governor Bartlet would never have won the nomination without Josh.  And, well, yes, he is arrogant sometimes, but he's also very sweet in his own way.  Sometimes.  And talking to him is just -- I like talking to him."

"Talking?"

"Yes, it's -- We have interesting conversations."

"Donna, you can't possibly think you have any kind of future with a man like that."

"What future?  He's my boss.  He was my boss.  That's all."

"I don't want to see you get hurt."

"Mom, I am not interested in Joshua Lyman like that."

"Nothing good could possibly come of it."

"The idea is completely ridiculous."

My mother gives me this sad look.  "I've tried your whole life to teach you, and I've never had the least amount of success.  You'll do whatever it is you want, but sometimes I feel like we'll lose you no matter what we do."

Ladies and gentlemen, my mother plays the guilt card.  Again.  Works every time.

"Mom, I'm sorry.  About the car and everything."

"You're all right, Donnatella.  That's what matters."

"You know, Mom, Frances said the weirdest thing today.  She said that you and Dad -- She said that I've always been your favorite."

"Favorite is not the word I would use," my mother says softly, "but Francesca has a point."

I am honestly too amazed to speak.

"Taking care of Frances was always easy," Mom says.  "I've always known exactly what she needed.  But you -- Your father and I have always had to put more effort into raising you.  You're such a mystery to us, Donna.  We don't pretend to understand half of what goes on in your head.  But you're our little free spirit, and we love you anyway."

Well, I have absolutely no idea what to say to that.  No idea whatsoever.  So it's probably just as well that Alan chooses this moment to arrive.

Someone just kill me now.

***

Someone just kill me now.

I awake, groggy and breathing hard from a nightmare to find myself in bed with Mandy.

This just can't be good.

Mandy is, as I've come to realize over the year or so we've been doing this on-again, off-again thing, a very heavy sleeper.  Especially when she's had a couple of drinks.  I think I've only managed to wake her with my nightmares once in the entire time we've been together.

Not that my nightmares are constant or anything.  I'd call them occasional.  Maybe once a month.

But they've become more frequent since my father died.

I dream of fire, never of Joanie directly.  I don't see anything particularly horrible, just flames.  And I feel the heat; hear the wood popping and snapping.  And smell the acrid smoke, so thick I can almost taste it.

This shouldn't be nightmare material, but it is.  The combination of sights and sounds and smells reduces me to a trembling nine-year-old in blue and white striped pajamas on the front lawn.  And I wake up crying, like I did that night.

Mandy told me once to wake her if I had a nightmare, but this isn't...  It's not something I feel comfortable sharing with her.  I'm a private person in some ways, and explaining my guilt complex to my sometimes-girlfriend is definitely not something I'm interested in.

So I slide out of bed and retreat to the bathroom, slipping my boxers on as I go.  The bright light is painful for a few moments, and I end up squinting at my partially-drunk self in the mirror.

I don't know what the hell I'm doing here.

I do care about Mandy, but we can't seem to make it work.  Isn't there such a thing as beating a dead horse?  I mean, shouldn't we call it a damn good try and walk away?

My mom always said love isn't enough to hold a relationship together.

I splash some warm water on my face and use Mandy's toothbrush to brush my teeth.  When I feel a bit more alive, I take a deep breath and face the door.  If I'm going to end this, I'd best do it now.

And so I flip off the light and blink a few times blind in the sudden darkness.  Then I open the door.

"Josh," Mandy says, her tone irritated.  "Get back here."

***

"Kid," Alan announces as he breezes into my hospital room, "you look like hell."

Mom beams at this romantic opener and disappears, presumably to give us time to reconcile.

I'm missing the campaign right now, not because of Josh, but because of the presence of all those Secret Service agents.  I'm indulging in this fantasy where they're training their guns on Dr. Free Ride here, announcing, "Return the nice lady's money now!"

It's a happy image.

"So your sister said you were in a car crash."

"Yes, I was.  And I have a headache.  Feel free to leave."

Instead of leaving, he leans over the bed and kisses me.  On the lips.  This leads to a number of revelations:  1. The man never could kiss.  2. He never could take a hint either.  3. His breath smells distinctly of alcohol.

"You've been drinking," I point out.  How's that for romantic?  He's called to the bedside of an ex-girlfriend who was just hit by a drunk driver, and he stops off for a couple of beers.

How ever did I let this prince among men slip through my fingers?

"It was on the way," he shrugs.

"Please tell me you didn't drive."  Even Josh, under the influence of his delicate system, would never do anything that stupid.

"Are you crazy?  A DWI arrest could ruin my medical career.  I took a cab.  Your father's paying for it."

Of course he is.

Switched at birth, Josh.  You were right.

"Well, I appreciate the effort you took to get here, Alan, but it was unnecessary.  And I'd really like my rest, so--"

Instead of honoring my request, Dr. Free Ride -- it makes me happy to call him that, even if it isn't to his face -- pulls up a chair and makes himself at home.  "Come on, kid.  We can talk about old times.  It'll be fun."

"It really won't.  Go away."

Now here's something I realized over the course of three bitter years -- this habit Alan has of calling me "kid"?  I tried to tell myself that it was sweet and romantic; it was Bogart and Bergman in Casablanca.  And then, slowly, the truth occurred to me.

The bastard has trouble remembering my name.

Honestly, if he hadn't needed to learn how to forge my signature on the occasional check, I doubt he would have bothered to learn my name in the first place.

Bastard.

I never want a man who is given to bestowing cutesy nicknames again.  Give me a man who can say my name with real feeling.  Give me a man who can turn the word "Donnatella" into a verbal caress.

"Come on--"  He hesitates.

"Donna," I supply.

"Come on, Donna.  Tell me what you've been up to.  Your sister said you just got back into town.  Where have you been?"

"Lots of places.  New Hampshire, mostly."

"So you got a job where you travel?"

"You could say that."  I want him gone.  I don't want to talk to this bastard ever again.  Why won't he leave?

"You must miss your family."

I blame the head injury, but the word "family" suddenly triggers images of CJ and Sam and Toby and, well, Josh.  Strange thought.

"Yes, I miss them."

"So you're back here to stay?"

"Probably not."  I can't go back to the campaign; Josh will have replaced me by now.  Still, if I've learned one thing, it's that I don't belong here.  It's not that my parents and Frances are bad people; despite all their flaws, they do their best.  They care about me in their way, just like I care about them, even if I don't begin to understand them any more than they understand me.  But, hey, I proved I could survive on my own before; I can do it again.  I'll take the ability to plan that seems to be the only thing I inherited from my father and figure out what to do next.  And I can apply the ruthless organizational skills my mother channels into housekeeping and use them to get my life back in order.

This will work.  I'll find a way to make this work.

You know, once my head stops hurting and Dr. Free Ride gets out of my life once and for all.

"I wouldn't mind it if you stuck around," Alan says.

"What?"

"We could give it a second chance, kid.  We had some good times, didn't we?"

"No, Alan, we never did.  Not once."

"You're upset; I understand.  You want hearts and flowers and all that girly stuff."

"That's not what I want at all, you jerk."  Again, I blame the head injury.  All this stuff that's been festering inside me for three years seems to have chosen this moment to come to the surface.  "I want back all the money you took from me; I want back those three miserable years.  I want somebody who will respect me and not talk down to me.  I want somebody who knows that my name isn't 'kid.'  I want somebody who cares about something bigger than his damn medical career.  I want somebody who can bring the banter, dammit!"

I want Josh.

Oh, hell.  Where did that thought come from?

It's the head injury, I tell you.

Ridiculous idea.

Alan looks dumbfounded.  I'm entirely too happy about that.

"What is this about, Alan?" I ask.  "What are you doing here?"

"Your sister--"

"Oh, give it a rest.  You don't care that I was in an accident.  You didn't come down here out of some sudden sense of affection or responsibility.  The only thing you care about is your own self-interest."  And I get it, in one of those blinding flashes of insight that you can expect maybe three or four times in your life.  I seem to be using all mine up tonight, but it's worth it.  "She kicked you out, didn't she?"

"Who?"

"Whoever you found to replace me.  She was a lot smarter than I'll ever be, and she kicked your ass to the curb after a couple of months."

I'll take the stunned look on his face for a yes.

"So," I continue, "when Frances called, you thought it was a stroke of good fortune.  You needed someone to mooch off again, and here I am.  That's why you wandered over here, stopping off at a bar.  'Cause, after all, why hurry?  I've always been such a soft touch; there was no need to get here right away."

"You're all wrong.  Look, I know you're angry--"

"I'm really not.  That's the weird part.  I'm just -- Go find somebody else to sponge off, Alan.  I've got better things to do with the rest of my life."

"Donna--"

Oh, sure.  Now he remembers.

"Goodbye, Alan.  At least it was educational."

He finally gets the message and leaves.

I feel better than I have in weeks, headache and bruises not withstanding.

CJ would be so proud of me.

Dr. Bartlet too, I bet.

And Josh.  If Josh knew about this, I bet he'd be applauding.

I'd love to tell Josh about this.

***

I am never telling Donna about this.

Wait -- where the hell did that come from?  Donna couldn't care less about my pathetic love life; besides which, it's not like I'll ever see her again.

"Josh?" Mandy prompts.  "Are you coming to bed?"

I bite back the first response that springs to mind and hold my ground.  "We need to talk, Mandy."

She sits up, pulling the comforter up around her body.  And she's glaring at me.  "I knew it. I told myself that you couldn't possibly be that big a jerk, but there was this little voice inside my head that told me you are.  I knew it."

I shake my head, baffled.  "You knew what?"

"This was just about sex, wasn't it Josh?" she asks.  She really sounds hurt.  "You just wanted to get laid, so you figured you'd fuck me one last time."

"Mandy," I say, taking a couple steps toward her.  "That's not true."

"Yes, it is," she says quietly.  "You should probably go."

I sit down beside her and take her hand.  "Mandy, really, this wasn't just -- I care about you.  You know that."

Mandy looks up at me, her eyes sparkling with tears.  "Sell that somewhere else," she says miserably.  "I don't believe you anymore."

"I do," I insist.  It's true; I do care about her.  I never managed to fall in love with her, I but certainly do care for her.  "I care about you, Madeleine."

"Don't do that," she says.  "Don't call me that.  You don't deserve to call me that anymore."

"Mandy, I don't know what you want from me."  I pull away from her and stand, pacing.  "I'm still half-drunk, I wake up in bed with my ex-girlfriend, and now you're accusing me of something I didn't do!"

"Maybe not consciously," she says.  "Get me my shirt."

I stare at her.  "What?"

"My shirt," she repeats, pointing to the garment crumpled on the floor.  I grab it and hand it to her, watching silently as she wriggles into it.  Then she tosses the covers back and stands, heading for her suitcase to find a pair of underwear and my old boxers that she likes to wear to bed.

"Mandy?" I ask quietly.  "What's going on here?"

"The same thing that's been going on for months," she answers.  And for once, there's no edge, no angle, none of that signature Mandy playacting.  She sounds exhausted. "I really thought it would be different after--"  She stops, a rueful grin on her lips.

I have no idea where she's coming from, but she's hurting.  I've managed to hurt her.  I should be caring and sensitive and gentle with her.

"What the hell are you talking about?" I demand.  I've never been good at gentle.

"This isn't working," she answers cryptically.  "Us.  We're not working."

"I realize that," I say.

"But you don't know why."  Mandy heads to the window and pulls the shade back, staring out over the half-empty parking lot.

"I don't know why we're not working?" I repeat, honestly confused.

"Exactly," she nods.  "But I do know."

"You do?" I ask.  This is certainly news to me.  "Why?"

She laughs, a cold, bitter sound.  "This is just pathetic."

"Mandy, please, tell me what's going on here."

Mandy turns, her arms crossed protectively over her chest.  "I think you're the only one who doesn't get it, you know," she says, some of that trademark brass back in her tone.

"That wouldn't be a unique situation," I remark with my usual sarcasm.  "Will you just please--"

"You don't love me," she says, her eyes begging me to tell her she's wrong.

But I can't.  Because it's true.  And so I stand there, staring at her and trying to come up with something to say.

Mandy straightens her shoulders.  "Not that it matters," she says in this brittle tone.  "Because I don't love you either.  We just never managed to take that step."

"Mandy--"

"Don't lie to me, Josh," she says.  "Just..."  She shakes her head.

"Mandy, I won't lie and tell you something just because you want to hear it."  I shrug.  "I'm sorry.  I do care about you."

She takes a couple of steps forward.  "Do you?"

"Yes," I answer honestly.  But I can tell from the way she's looking at me that we're talking about two different things.  I can't bear to hurt her more.

When Mandy reaches for me, I wrap my arms around her.  Even as I'm kissing her, I wonder why this doesn't feel right.

***

To my mother's credit, she doesn't let Frances hassle me about Alan on the drive home.  My father isn't speaking to me at all, although I'm not sure whether that's about Alan or about my wrecking the car.

Whatever.  As long as they let me sleep, I don't care.

I must sleep for twelve hours or so.  When I wake up, the first thing I notice is that someone -- Mom, no doubt -- has left two pieces of mail on my nightstand.

Two pieces of mail from New Hampshire.

The first is a business-sized envelope in CJ's neat handwriting.  That last paycheck, I'm guessing.

The second is a manila envelope.  It's from--

And he complains about my handwriting.  His is even worse.  But I've had months of experience deciphering it, and I have no trouble recognizing who it's from.  I run my fingers over the scrawl that is meant to read Donnatella.  I wonder if this technically qualifies as the last time he'll ever call me that.

I hesitate to open either envelope.  Once I open these, it will all be over.  My time with Josh -- with the Bartlet campaign -- will come to an official end here.

I decide to start with CJ's envelope.  As I suspected, it contains my paycheck.  There's a brief note, a few sentences about what everyone has been doing since I left.  I read one sentence over several times:  "Josh continues to alienate new assistants at an alarming rate -- five in the three weeks since you left."

And there's one more thing in the envelope from CJ: a one-way airplane ticket to New Hampshire.  The date of travel is left open "for whenever you need it," she writes.

It's a lovely gesture, but I can't use it.  No matter how many assistants he's managed to alienate, Josh won't want me to return.  He took this extraordinary chance in hiring me, and I turned my back on him.  He wouldn't hire me again if I begged.

I suppose I could work for CJ or one of the others, but I'd hate it.  I'd hate working that close to Josh and realizing he wants nothing to do with me.

It was an incredibly thoughtful gesture, though.  I'll write CJ a note and return the ticket when I'm feeling stronger.

My hands start shaking when I pick up the manila envelope.  I can't imagine why Josh would be writing to me.

I'm really afraid to open this.

What if he's decided to say all the things he didn't say when I quit?  What if CJ's reminding him about my paycheck made him decide to get in the last word -- to tell me that I'm foolish and ungrateful and that he hates me?

Maybe I'm better off not opening this at all.

But it's Josh.  Even if he's angry at me, it's Josh.  I have to open it.

There is no note.  He hasn't written a word.

Typical.  He sends this and expects me to figure it out for myself.

The scary part is that I do.  I understand the meaning of this gift immediately.

He's returned my campaign I.D. badge.

I.D. badges are official; they're an important part of the security surrounding a presidential campaign.  Don't think you'll even get near Governor Bartlet without one, not even if people know you.  If you quit the staff, you return your I.D. badge.  I returned mine, just the way I was supposed to, three weeks ago.

And Josh has sent it back to me.

Without a note.  He simply assumes I'll know what he means.

Oh, Josh.

Yes.  Of course I'll come back.

***

CJ is watching me with an unreadable statement when Mandy and I arrive, hand in hand.  But I'm quite able to recognize her tone of voice when she says, just before leaving for an event at the Statehouse, "I'll be back in two hours.  Be here."  Note to self:  Find somewhere else to be for the rest of the day.

Mandy kisses me goodbye in full view of everyone -- she's always been rather possessive -- and sweeps out the door.  With CJ and Mandy gone, I head immediately for my office and hope no one told Sam about--

"Well, well, well."

Speak of the devil.  Sam is standing in the doorway grinning at me.  Like a complete lunatic.

I glare at him.  "Go away."

"You don't look very cheerful for someone who spent the night--"

"Don't," I snap, and he looks crestfallen.  "I'm not in the mood."

"Okay," he says.  "But -- you and Mandy?"

"Are back together," I confirm.  I can't quite muster up a fake smile, so I just stare at him, daring him to challenge me.

"You're back together," he repeats.  He sounds a little shocked.  "It wasn't just, you know, a relapse of some kind?"

"No!" I yell, standing up.  "It's not a relapse.  Mandy and I care about each other, and we're going to try to make this work."

"Again?"

"Sam!"

Leo appears just over Sam's shoulder.  "What's the problem?"

Sam whips around.  "No problem," he answers quickly.  He's a terrible liar.

Leo rolls his eyes and looks over at me.  "Josh?"

"There's no problem."

Sam gives me a little wave and brushes past Leo, who lets him go without comment.  "Josh, what was that about?"

"What was what about?"

"You," he answers.  "Yelling at Sam."

"It's really nothing."

"Josh," Leo says in that tone.

I sigh.  "Mandy and I are, you know, back together.  Sam made a comment."

Leo watches me for a moment.  "You don't sound particularly pleased."

"Leo, can we not do this right now?"

"Look," he says, taking another step into the room and lowering his voice a bit.  "What you choose to do in your personal life is none of my business, but when it starts affecting the work, I've got to say something."

"It's not affecting the work," I scoff.  "We're very discreet when we're here--"

"I'm not talking about making out with your girlfriend in the lobby, Josh," Leo says, sounding irritated.  "I'm talking about the attitude and the fights and the moping that the rest of us have to deal with every time you and Mandy have a spat."

"I do not mope."

"Fine, Josh.  Just keep it outside the office.  The last thing we need is the press doing a story on the sordid love affair of the Bartlet campaign."

"It's not a love affair," I mutter.

And Leo gives me one of those piercing looks.  "You might want to consider that," he says.

"Leo--"

He backs up, hands raised in a placating gesture.  "Do what you want, Josh.  Just keep it out of the office."

"Fine," I answer.

***

When I leave the next day, my father is still not speaking to me, Frances is doing her twenty-seventh variation on "you're making a terrible mistake," and my mother is breaking into tears every hour.

None of this affects me as much as it probably should.  I am not a dutiful daughter; I am an ungrateful sister.

But I am, dammit, one hell of an assistant.

Of course, by the time I'm rushing between concourses at O'Hare, I am starting to panic.  What if I misunderstood Josh's incredibly cryptic message?  What if he's changed his mind since he mailed my I.D. badge back to me?  What the hell am I going to say when I see him again?

By the time I'm rushing to make my connection at Logan (trust me on this: getting from Madison, Wisconsin, to Manchester, New Hampshire, is not an easy process), I have decided that the wise thing to do is to call CJ and ask her to pick me up.  I have enough time between planes to call her and tell her when I'm due to arrive, so she's waiting for me when I get off the plane.

She looks happier to see me than Frances ever has.

Until I get close enough for her to see my black eye.

"What the hell happened to you?" she asks.

"Oh, that."  Honestly, I was so excited about getting back here that I forgot what a mess my face is.  Thank God I put a sweater on before I boarded the plane.  "I was in a car crash.  You should see my arms; they're even worse."

"Donna!  When did this happen?"

"Day before yesterday."

"And you couldn't, you know, wait a few days before traveling?"

"A few more days with my family?  I don't think so."

CJ gives me one of her too perceptive looks.  "That bad?"

"Worse.  Anyway, I'm just glad to be home."

We stop for lunch, and I tell CJ the whole story -- my parents' disappointment in me, Frances' matchmaking, my reunion with Alan.  She catches me up on the campaign and on everything that's happened since I left.  Almost everything.  There's one name she's avoiding mentioning.

"So," I finally ask, "how's Josh?"

For the first time in the months I've known her, CJ looks uncomfortable.  I take this as a bad sign; she's told Josh I'm coming back, and he's told her he wants nothing more to do with me.  Okay, fine.  I can live with that.  Eventually.

"Josh," CJ says, "is a complete mess.  He's lost without you."

Of course, I can live with that even better.

"There's just one thing," CJ adds.  "The thing with Mandy -- it's on again."

Oh.

Well, that's none of my business.  Doesn't concern me in the least.  He's my boss -- assuming he wants to be my boss again -- and his personal life is not my problem.

I don't care.  Not in the least.

"Is he crazy?" I ask.  "Has he finally lost his mind?"

"Donna--"

"No, CJ, really.  The man claims to have been a Fulbright scholar.  Have you seen any actual evidence of this?  Because I don't believe it.  Someone that smart would not keep going back to Mandy Hampton."

"It's not that I disagree with you, it's just--"

"She makes him miserable.  She expects him to dance attendance on her, and she never gives him any support in return.  He doesn't deserve that, CJ.  Josh is -- Josh is this amazing man, and he should be with a woman who appreciates him and takes care of him, and instead he's wasting his time on Mandy Hampton!"

"For some reason," CJ says with a sigh, "I don't think the thing with Mandy will be lasting much longer."

"Why not?"

"For one thing," CJ says, rather cryptically, "Mandy isn't nearly as clueless as some people around here."

And with that, we head back to campaign headquarters.

***

"We should get back," I say.

Zoey Bartlet just grins at me.  "Can I finish eating first?"

She deviously conned her parents into making me take her with me to a meeting in Andover, Massachusetts.  The meeting was with Stephen Wilson, a senator from Massachusetts, and it was actually a tennis game.  Zoey played on her team in high school, so she finagled her way into being my doubles partner.  It goes without saying that even her considerable skill wasn't enough to counteract my utter ineptness, and the senator and his wife ended up winning handily.

A blow to my ego, of course, but it certainly put a spring in Senator Wilson's step.  (The twenty-four-year-old trophy wife hanging on his arm probably helps too.)  At any rate, Wilson agreed to host a fundraiser for Governor Bartlet in Boston.

And so Zoey and I departed, victorious.  She really is quite a persuasive kid; she somehow convinced me to stop in Salem for lunch.  Which is why I'm fidgeting nervously in a booth at a scary little place called the 99.  Why anyone would name a restaurant that, I'm sure I'll never know.

"Eat faster," I order, impatient to get back to campaign headquarters.

Zoey ignores me.  "I don't like Senator Wilson."

I grin at her.  "Okay."

"I'm serious.  He's creepy."

"He's creepy?" I repeat, amused.

"Yes.  He's, like, three hundred years old and he married someone my age?  That's just gross."

"He's fifty-nine and she's twenty-four," I correct her.  "And that's none of your business."

"She's a trophy wife," Zoey decides, taking a large bite of her sandwich.

"How do you know?" I ask.  "Maybe they're in love."

Zoey swallows and starts laughing.  "Are you kidding?"

"No."

"They're not in love."

"And all your sixteen years--"

"I'm seventeen," she corrects haughtily.  "And I can tell."

"How?"  I am really enjoying this. Zoey is a great kid, and pretty perceptive too.

"You've seen my parents," Zoey answers with a shrug.  "The way they look at each other, the way they talk to each other.  Senator Wilson and that woman are just... It's a political marriage."

"Okay," I say, shaking my head.  "You are entirely too jaded for a teenager."

"I'm not jaded," she argues.  "But it's true.  He talked to her like she was stupid."

I don't bother to argue; the kid's got a point.

Zoey takes a sip of Coke, then says, "My father wouldn't dare to use that tone to my mother."

I nod, grinning.  "But to be fair, I don't know a soul brave enough to use that tone to your mother."

She laughs and tosses a French fry at me.  "You know what I mean.  My parents, they have actual conversations, you know?"

"Yes," I agree.  "They do.  They're really good together."

"Like you and Donna," Zoey offers.

I nearly choke.  "Excuse me?"

"The way you guys, you know, talk all the time."

I blink at her.  "We don't talk all the time,"

"Whatever," Zoey scoffs.  "You two never shut up.  You bickered over every last thing on the campaign bus, and I have it on good authority that you guys would be perfect together."

"Good authority?" I manage.

She grins at me.  "My parents."

I gape at her.  "Your parents said--"

"No," Zoey laughs.  "They didn't say anything about you two.  They're just...  You and Donna are like my parents," she declares.

"Donna's gone," I protest.  "I'm with Mandy."

"Like that'll last," she comments.

"I'm with Mandy," I repeat. Zoey can't possibly think Donna and I are like her parents.  I mean, the Barlets are in love with each other!  Donna is my assistant.  Was my assistant.  Hell, she left me for another man.

"Mandy," Zoey says, punctuating her words with the second half of her sandwich, "is a bitch."

"Zoey!  You shouldn't say things like that."

"I can't have an opinion?" she asks.

"If you can't say something nice--"

"Come sit over here by me," she finishes with a smirk.

"You are just evil," I say, laughing despite myself.

"Yeah, but you know I'm right."

"Mandy is not a bitch.  She's just..." I pause.  "She can be difficult."

Zoey snorts.  "CJ says she guilted you into taking her back."

"What?" I yelp.  "CJ told you that?"

"Not exactly," Zoey answers, her gaze skittering away from mine.  "I overheard her."

"You eavesdropped on a conversation -- Who was she talking to?"

"Herself."

"What?"

Zoey shrugs.  "She was in her office kind of, you know, muttering to herself."

"About me and Mandy?" I ask.

"Well, about you and Donna and Mandy," Zoey answers.  "About how Mandy treats you.  She also said something about how Donna is good for you."

"What?" I squeal.

"CJ worries about you, Josh," Zoey says, meeting my gaze again.  "She thinks that you got back with Mandy because you feel guilty."

I shake my head.  "Why would I feel guilty?"

"Because you're not in love with Mandy," Zoey answers promptly.

She really is damn perceptive.  "Mandy's not in love with me," I point out.  "Why should I feel guilty?"

Zoey grins at me and reaches for her coat.  "You're such a dork sometimes, Josh."

"What's that supposed to mean?" I ask, tossing some money on the table and following her to the door.

"It means you're a dork," she answers with a careless shrug.  "We should get back."

***

This is the homecoming I didn't get in Wisconsin.  People crowd around and hug me and generally make me feel like I've been missed.  Governor and Dr. Bartlet are here with Leo, and Dr. Bartlet examines my bruised arms and my black eye and asks a few dozen questions regarding what the emergency room doctor said about my concussion.  Having decided I'll live, she asks about the wreck and I sheepishly confess about the damage to Mom's car.  Somehow I find myself adding how angry my father is about that.  Governor Bartlet assures me that my father doesn't care about the car as long as I'm all right, which is incredibly sweet of him.  Although all it proves is that Governor Bartlet has never met my father.

Sam and Toby are the next ones to welcome me home.  "You came back!" Sam exclaims happily.

"We can all see that, Sam," Toby points out.

"I meant," Sam says, "that I'm happy Donna's back."

"Then you should say, 'Donna, I'm glad you're back.  We all missed you,'" Toby says.  He looks directly at me when he says this, so I'm thinking this is Toby's oblique way of welcoming me back.

"But--" Sam begins.

"If we're paying you to write, you should be able to say what you mean," Toby starts.

"Put a sock in it, Toby," CJ orders.

"I'm just saying," Sam adds, "that I was right about those undercurrents."

"Sam," CJ says in this warning tone.

"In fact," Sam continues, "undercurrents may be too mild a word."

"Toby, take him away," CJ says.  This look passes between Toby and CJ like there's something they're not sharing with the rest of us.

"Subtext," I hear Sam announce before he's out of my hearing.  "They definitely have subtext."

"Who has subtext?  What's he talking about?" I ask CJ.

"Someday I may tell you," CJ says cryptically.  "But I'm thinking the time is definitely not right yet."

So, despite my misgivings, everyone seems pleased that I'm back.  Except Josh.  Well, it's not that Josh isn't happy to see me; it's just that Josh isn't here.  Where is he?

Good question.

Tamika, who appears to be assistant number five since my departure, can't say for sure.  "I told him he had a meeting, and he left," she says.  "Where he went and what time he'll be back, I have no idea."

I would explain to Tamika that it's her job to know all that, but I recognize her tone of voice all too well.  It's the "he's an ass and he won't listen to me" tone; I've been driven to it on more than one occasion myself.  Besides, I'm about to steal her new job (with any luck), so I shouldn't lecture her as well.

As it turns out, Leo has another job lined up for Tamika already ("It helps to keep something in reserve for anyone who's hired to work too closely with Josh these days," Leo explains), and she's eager to quit.  Leaving me with a surprisingly strong hug and the words "God bless you, sister.  You're a braver woman than I am," she heads for the communication office.  I'm Josh's assistant again.

Provided Josh wants me, of course.

I get to work surveying the damage that has been done in my absence.  Apparently none of the five assistants used the same filing system, so straightening things out there takes a few hours.  Then I sit down at Josh's desk to undo the harm that's been inflicted on his appointment book.  This is even worse:  In addition to the assistants, Josh has been making notes in this himself.

Heaven help us all.

I've been hard at work on this job for an hour or more when I become aware that someone is watching me.  I look up and see Josh standing in the doorway, staring at me.  When our eyes meet, his whole face lights up for an instant.  It's quite the sight, with the dimples and all.  I'm grinning back at him, trying to think of something clever to say, when his expression changes.

To call him angry would be an understatement.

Oh.  Well.  I can work for CJ, I suppose.

"Donnatella," he says, "what the hell happened to you?"

Oh.  Right.  That.

"Do you have any idea how tired I am of answering that question?" I ask.

"Donna, answer me."  He looks furious, and his hands are all balled up into fists.  Well, I knew he wouldn't be pleased about my leaving.

"No, seriously, Josh, have you ever noticed how people keep asking that question when you have some little--"

He unballs one fist.  "That," he says, pointing to my black eye, "is not little."

"You should have seen it yesterday.  At least the swelling's gone down."

"Swelling?"  He's shouting now.  "There was swelling?"

"It's not a big deal, Josh.  I was able to walk away.  Okay, I didn't so much walk as I was carried away on a stretcher, but as a figure of speech--"

"A stretcher?  There was a stretcher?"

"And an ambulance and everything.  They tell me.  I was pretty out of it at that point."

He mutters something under his breath that I don't quite pick up.  I think I heard the word "kill."

"You're starting to sound amazingly like my father," I tell him, "and I really didn't think that was possible."

"I should think that your father--"

"Well, he was more concerned about the car but--"

"What car?"

"My mother's car.  The one I was driving when I wrecked."

"You're telling me this is from a car wreck?"  He has this skeptical tone of voice that I just don't get.  I mean, why would I lie to him about being in a car wreck?

"It wasn't my fault," I protest.

He suddenly sounds absolutely sweet.  "Of course it wasn't," he says.  "You should never think that."

"I was hit by a drunk driver."

"Donna, there's no reason to--"

"And really there was no harm done, except to my mother's car.  And, you know, the black eye and the bruises on my arm--"

"Bruises on your arm?"  He suddenly closes the distance between us, takes my arm and pulls up the sleeve on my sweater to look at my arm, which is an interesting combination of purple, green and orange.  "Donnatella," he says, as though it's causing him physical pain just to look at it.

Well, it is pretty ugly.

"It's just some bruising, Josh, and the concussion was minor."

"Concussion?"  He turns pale.  Big baby.  He's afraid of anything dealing with hospitals.  Needles make him faint.

"Yes.  A very mild one.  They kept me in the hospital overnight for observation.  If it makes you feel any better, Dr. Bartlet asked me all about it, and she says that it sounds like I won't have any problems."

Then suddenly he's pulling me out of my chair and gathering me up into his arms.  He's holding onto me so tightly that I'm truly worried people might jump to the wrong conclusion if they saw us.  But, you know, it feels awfully good, so I don't point this out to him.

"Donnatella Moss," he says, "I swear to God, that's it.  I am not letting you leave here for that freeloading bastard ever again."

"I have no intention of leaving.  Ever again."

"I mean it," he says.  "I swear that I will lock you in the nearest supply closet until election day if I have to."

"I'm not leaving."

"All right then."  He lets go of me, which is for the best.  Although I must say, it was a remarkably pleasant experience.

"So," I say, trying to lighten the mood, "obviously you were falling apart here without me."

"Obviously."  He actually sounds sort of -- I don't know -- like he has a lump in his throat.

"This puts me in an awfully good bargaining position, don't you think?"

"Bargaining position?"

"For the raise you're about to give me."

"Nice try."  He missed me.  I swear to God, he actually missed me!  I can tell this because there are actual tears in his eyes!

Josh missed me!

"I thought it was worth a shot.  As far as I can tell from the mess you have made here, you're supposed to be meeting with CJ right now about something -- health care, I think.  Although it could be about someone with the ludicrous name of Heath Carp."  I shake my head.  "And you complain about my distinctive penmanship."

"CJ can wait," he says.

"She really can't," I tell him.  "And I have too much to do if you expect me to make sense out of this chaos."  I make a shooing motion with my hands.  "Run along.  I'll be here when you get back."

"You'd better be."

"It would never work, Josh," I tell him before he heads off to CJ's office.  "I have the keys to all the supply closets."

***

I'm cycling faster than a manic-depressive on crack.

Donna's back -- elation, relief, and all manner of good things.

Donna's hurt -- anguish, rage, and some very devious revenge plans for Dr. Asshole Rat Bastard Free Ride.

My mom warned me about guys like him.

Wait -- that sounds strange.  What I mean to say is my mother volunteers full time at a domestic violence shelter, so I know more about the signs of abuse than your average bear.  And I'm not quite convinced that Donna got that shiner from an over-enthusiastic air bag.

Hence, the mood swings.  I really can't decide between up and down right now.

CJ, however, seems to be quite satisfied that Donna's back.  She's waiting for me -- somewhat impatiently -- when I finally bounce into her office.  (She caught me on an upswing.)

"Donnatella Moss came back to me," I announce, beaming.

CJ raises an eyebrow.  "Is that what she told you?"

"No, she -- Well, she didn't really tell me much."  My mood is losing altitude.  Swiftly.  "What'd she tell you?" I ask suspiciously.

"Many things."

"CJ!"

"Apparently, she realized after three weeks with her family that she doesn't belong there.  Something about being switched at birth--"  I grin like an idiot, but CJ ignores me. "--and the car accident just, you know," she waves her hand around, "clarified things."

"Car crash," I mutter.  "Likely story.  I'm going to find that bastard and make him hurt in ways he's never even imagined."

"Joshua," CJ sighs.

"What?"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Dr. Free Ride," I spit.  "He hurt her."

CJ looks puzzled.  "Yeah, but that was three years ago.  This time he just kind of irritated her."

"Irritated her?" I yelp, my voice reaching for the stratosphere.  "You call that irritation?  What did he do to her before?"  I'm pacing restlessly, and I honestly wouldn't be surprised if my head exploded.

"Well," CJ answers slowly, "he treated her like a doormat, took her money, and screwed around with someone from his oncology class."

I stop midstride and blink at her.  "What?"

"Josh, what exactly do you think went on here?"

"Donna left me -- left the campaign -- to go back to that free-loading son of a one-legged warthog for no discernible reason.  He hurt her, and now she's back."

CJ is giving me this look I don't really understand.  "Hurt her how?"

I am pacing again, and I can't quite meet her gaze.  "You saw her."  I gesture vaguely at my face.

"Josh."  CJ rounds the desk and puts a hand on my arm.  "She was in a car accident the night before last."

I shrug her off.  "Well, of course she's not going to admit it.  Women in these kinds of situations are often embarrassed; they think people will blame them and look down on them."

"Sweet and stupid should be mutually exclusive traits," CJ mutters.

I ignore her.  "The car crash thing is a plausible story.  I'm just so proud of her for getting out when she did.  Who knows what he would have done--"

CJ grabs my biceps as I hurtle past and forces me to stop.  "He.  Did.  Not.  Hit.  Her."

I stare at CJ for a long moment.  "Are you sure?"  'Cause I'm barely holding it together here, and I really, really, really want her to be right.

CJ rolls her eyes.  "You think I wouldn't have had him arrested already if he had?"

"Oh," I say, distracted by the phone on her desk.  "Good idea. I'll just--"

"Joshua, Dr. Free Ride is an asshole, but he's not a criminal."

"Fine," I grumble.  "I'll sic the IRS on his ass in January."  You know, I meant that as a joke, but the idea does have its appeal.

"Josh, you will not use the federal government as a weapon in your adolescent pissing contest with Donna's ex-boyfriend."

"But--"

"Josh."

"Fine."  I'm so going to do it.

CJ sighs in defeat.  "It was a car accident," she repeats.

"I'll believe that when I see the police report."

CJ takes two quick steps to the phone and brandishes at me.  "Want me to call the Madison police and have them fax it over?"

"Yes."

"Josh, you're impossible."

I grin at her.  "Donna says that too, but she likes me like that."  I'm up again.  Ecstatic might be a good descriptor for my mood.  I may be in need of some lithium.

"I can't imagine why," CJ says flatly.

"Hey," I protest.  "I'm a damn nice guy."

"You yell at her all the time."

"She yells right back."

"You keep her here for eighteen hours at a stretch."

"She's eleven years younger than me; she doesn't even feel it."

"You pay her a pittance."

I glance away.  "I'm not letting her stay at the EconoLodge anymore."

"Joshua," CJ sighs.  "What am I going to do with you?"

"I don't want her in that fleabag motel.  What's so wrong with that?"

"Nothing," she answers, "if only you had a clue."

"What's that mean?"

"Never mind.  You know Donna's welcome to stay with me, but she's been politely refusing for--"  CJ stops and narrows her eyes.  "She is not staying with you!"

"What?  Staying with me?  Where did that absurd idea come from?  Of course she's not staying with me.  I wouldn't want her to stay with me.  I mean, I'm with Mandy, remember?"  I have to force myself to stop issuing protests.

"Who could forget that?" CJ comments, her tone disapproving.  "And knowing you, I wouldn't be surprised if you opened yourself up to a lawsuit by offering to share a hotel room with your young, blonde, gorgeous assistant."

"I would -- I did not--" I sputter.

"You're just going to pay her more?" CJ guesses.

"Yes."

"Out of your own pocket?"

"Yes."

"And this doesn't strike you as at all strange?"

"No," I answer defensively.  I prefer not to examine my motives too closely; Mandy nearly had a fit when she found out I was paying Donna myself.  But it's not like I can't afford it until we can put her on salary.

CJ shakes her head at me.  "Did it occur to you that Donna doesn't have health insurance?"

I stare at her.  "Not really."

"And she spent an overnight in the hospital.  That, plus the ambulance ride--"

"Shit," I interrupt.  "She can't afford that."

"That's what I was thinking."

"Wait," I say, "this is the health care thing you wanted to talk to me about?"

"Yes.  I spoke to Leo, and he's agreed to put her on staff -- part-time, but she'll be eligible for health care."

"I'll make up the difference," I decide.  Actually, I figure I'll still pay her the same amount; that plus the part-time salary from the campaign should be a nice raise for her.

"I figured," CJ notes dryly.

"Shut up," I answer cheerfully.

"That won't help with the bills from the accident," CJ points out.

I nod, considering our options.  "Which hospital?"

CJ gapes at me.  "Josh, no--"

"Which hospital?"

"I honestly have no idea."

"S'okay," I shrug.  "I'll have Donna -- Oh."

CJ laughs at me.  "Told you you couldn't function without an assistant."

I am grinning like an idiot, I'm sure, but I don't care . "Lucky for me, I don't have to."

***

It looks like I'm back in the world of the twenty-hour workday.

Thank God.

I am remarkably proud of how quickly I have once again made sense out of the chaos that Josh seems to create without me.  The files make sense, the appointment book is legible (to me anyway, and that's what matters), all is right with Josh's world.  Well, except for the fact that he's involved Mandy again, but that's none of my concern.

None whatsoever.

Doesn't matter to me.

Not in the least.

She's not good enough for him, but that's his problem.

My problem, on the other hand, is finding a hotel room.  God, I hate the EconoLodge.  There are roaches, and the night manager looks at me as though I'm naked.

On the plus side, however, it's cheap, it's close to campaign headquarters and there's never a shortage of rooms.

"You will notice," I tell Josh, who has been sitting beside me quietly for the past few hours -- and I must say that's unnerving, "quiet" not being a word I normally associate with Josh -- "that once again we are the last two people here."

"Your point?" he asks.

"You work too hard.  Which is fine for you, but you're dragging me down with you.  I'd like to have a life."

"This is your subtle way of telling me it's time to go home, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't call it subtle, Josh."

He starts putting papers into his backpack, which is an absurd thing to do.

"Josh, it's 11 p.m.  You don't need to work between now and your 6 a.m. wake up call."

"Maybe I'll sleep in."

"You won't.  I am your 6 a.m. wake up call, remember?"

He smiles at me.  "Yeah.  I actually missed your dulcet tones first thing in the morning -- 'Joshua, get your ass out of bed!'"

"Works, doesn't it?"

"Not only that, I've discovered that the operators at the Marriott complain if you yell at them at first thing in the morning."

"We don't have that problem at the EconoLodge."

"Yeah, Donna, about that--"

"Not again.  Look, it was sweet of CJ to offer and I didn't have much choice before I was on salary, but I need my own space."

"I don't want you going back to that flea dump.  Especially not after -- not after your mishap."

"Car crash."

"Whatever you say."

"Virginia Woolf said that every woman needs a salary and a room of her own."

"What if I gave you that raise?  Just enough to cover the cost of a room at the Marriott?"

"You could do that?  Leo wouldn't freak out?"

He gives me this strange smile.  There's something going on here that he doesn't want me to know.

He already cleared this with Leo.  That's it.  Honestly, sometimes Josh can be quite sweet.

"Yes," he says, "I can do that."

It seems to matter to him, and I honestly don't want to go back to that flea trap myself, so I agree.  We gather up our stuff and start the walk back to the Marriott in silence.

As we're walking, I think about why coming back here was the right thing to do.  I was wrong three weeks ago when I thought that my relationship with Josh was starting to resemble my relationship with Alan.  Not just because Josh wouldn't take advantage of someone the way Alan would or because I don't love Josh.  Not the way I once tried to convince myself I loved Alan, anyway.  No, the reason my relationship with Josh is different and is worth hanging on to is the fact that he treats me with respect.  I mean, he's demanding, sure, and no one can deny that he has a temper.  But he expects me to give back to him everything that he dishes out to me.  If he gets into one of his belligerent moods, he wants me to tell him that he's being an ass.  If he's taking advantage of my time and patience, he'll stop when I tell him he's crossed the line.  Despite the boss/assistant titles, Josh treats me as though we're partners.  Equals.  I don't think I've had anyone treat me that way before.

And sometimes, he's incredibly sweet.

We're about halfway to the hotel when Josh stops and turns to me.  "Donnatella," he says, "I missed you."

"I missed you too, Josh."

"Don't ever go away again."

"Or you'll lock me in the supply closet. I heard."

"I mean it."

"Whatever."

"He's not good enough for you, Donna."

Someday I really should tell him that's not why I left.  But it would simply be too awkward to try to explain right now.

"I know that.  And while I could make a few comments about your choices in women, you will notice that I show admirable restraint."

He gives me this puzzled look, but he doesn't ask me to elaborate.  Just as well. I'm thinking we really don't want to go there tonight.

"Anyway," he says.  "I'm glad you're back."

He takes my hand in his, and we walk back to the hotel together.

***

Donna's back.

I'm ridiculously pleased about this.

We're walking along the sidewalk in downtown Manchester, our hands linked, and I'm just elated.  All it takes to make me happy is for Donna to be here.

Of course, it doesn't hurt that earlier CJ pulled the Madison paper up and printed out a blurb on the arrest of a certain drunk driver, which put the last of my Dr. Free Ride fears to rest.

Well, maybe not to rest.  I still loathe him with every fiber of my being.

But it doesn't matter that much anymore, because Donnatella is here with me.

I glance over at her, and she's looking at me with a small smile on her lips.

"What?" I ask.

She uses her free hand to gesture around us.  "I thought you hated the outdoors."

"I do," I answer promptly.  "Except for sometimes."

Her smile widens.  "Sometimes you like the outdoors?"

"Yes," I grin, pulling her to a halt. I gesture up at the moon, hanging low in the sky.  "When I'm in the middle of nowhere."

She follows my gaze.  "It's beautiful."

"Yes."  I'm not sure if I'm talking about Donnatella or the night sky.  Either.  Both.

"But," Donna says, grinning over at me.  "There are mosquitoes out here."

"There are indeed.  Which is definitely in the anti-nature column."

"How can you dislike nature?" Donna laughs.  "You're a strange man."

Impulsively, I drop her hand and pull her into a hug.  "I've been told that," I whisper into her hair.  "But some people find me quirky and delightful."

Donna leans back, her hands linked together at the small of my back.  "Delightful?" she repeats skeptically.  "Are you sure it wasn't demented?"

"Delicious?" I offer with a suggestive waggle of my eyebrows.

"Joshua!" she laughs, pulling away and smacking me on the chest for good measure.  "I can't believe I missed this."

I'm still grinning at her.  "I can," I say, grabbing her hand again as we head for the hotel.

"Why's that?"

"Because my charm, wit, and good looks are an irresistible combination.  You couldn't find a better boss."

Donna squeezes my hand, but counters with, "Egoist."

"Masochist."

"Sadist."

"I do not enjoy inflicting pain on others," I protest.

"Yes, you do," she argues.  "If they're Republican."

"Well, of course." We slow as we near the hotel.  "Who doesn't want to inflict a little pain on Olasky and his corporate owners?"

Donna laughs and precedes me inside.  I have no idea how to define this thing between us; I only know I feel better when she's here.

Good thing for me she came back.

THE END

03.27.01