She opens the diary again, flicks through it with her thumb, snaps it shut, allows no emotion to cross her face.
“No,” she says at last, and when she’s sure she can keep her voice steady she turns and meets the interrogation in Amy’s eyes. “No.”
She feels, oddly, nauseous and ashamed, that she is betraying him through her lack of courage. But she has never heard herself say it, nor has anyone suggested it, not out loud, not with words, not so bluntly, though she knows how to interpret the looks that Carol shoots at her on her way past the bullpen, knows that she and Margaret occasionally gossip, suspects it might in fact be more than occasional. One day, one day, she will say it, very quietly, to herself, and on that day she will have some decisions to make, but that day is not today, and this is not the person, and this is not the place.
“Okay,” says Amy, swigging the very last drops out of a bottle with obviously feigned nonchalance. She shrugs, forces a laugh, as though the question had cost her nothing, as though the barefacedness of the lie did not feel like a punch in the stomach, as though Donna’s very inability to admit so much as a fleeting interest did not confirm every suspicion she has had, every moment when she has felt Josh was less than fully present with her. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what made me ask that.”
“It’s the beer,” says Donna, recovering her I love what you’re wearing tone. “It makes all of us ask all kinds of strange things. Of ourselves and other people.” She feels light-headed now, wants to sit down, to disappear, to be away from all of this, far far away with some ice cream in a dark movie theater maybe, she doesn’t want to think about it and now all of a sudden it’s been forced on her, after all these years of dodging and ducking mostly successfully it’s right there staring at her and she wonders if the color has drained from her face, she wonders how much longer she can sound breezy and unconcerned and not at all jealous.
“I guess you have work to do,” says Amy, and Donna doesn’t argue.
“Yeah. Thanks for letting me know about the Wellingtons.” She watches her go, puts her head down on her desk, and she knows she won’t get any work done tonight, at least not until she can stop feeling as though she is shaking, adrenaline coursing through her, fight and flight both appealing alternatives, appealing and unrealistic, like so much else in her life.
