I'm sitting in my office, staring at the wall. I wish I had something to throw, but I don't. It's strange; normally I'm the active one. But since the fountain I haven't been able to move without thinking of her.
She said she lied about the diary for "no reason." If nothing else, she lied because she didn't want a Congressional committee to pry into her life. But it's like I said and have I mentioned how sorry I am that I yelled at her like that? she doesn't get to decide what's important. Unfortunately. If she did we'd all be a lot better off.
But the look on her face, when I handed the diary to Cliff... her entire life will be unlocked to the public. If anything remotely interesting is in those pages and knowing Donna I'm sure there will be it'll be on the front page of the Post before noon today. And yet, by consequence, I'll be unlocked as well. Because I can't believe she's worked here as long as she has and seen what she has and not written anything about me. What an ass I am, or how underappreciated she is.
I can tell you, right here, right now, why she lied. In a word. Oh, maybe I'm being egotistical. But she wouldn't be stupid enough to lie for "no reason." So she's lying to protect someone. Besides herself, I mean. And who's worked closest with her and had all sorts of personal problems in the past year?
Honestly, it sounds absurd right now, but I can almost thank her for this. Because she's trying to help us. Or me. Whoever she wrote about.
But what is a large pain in my ass is that I can't hate him. Oh, I can sure try she slept with him, didn't she? That realization, for whatever reasons, sends little shock waves up and down my spine and, quite frankly, makes me feel sick.
But for all that, I cannot despise him like I probably should, for two reasons. Because he tried to help her. The Republican didn't hold it over her head; he didn't accuse her of an outright lie during the deposition. And for that I can't hate him.
But I also can't protect her, no matter how much I want to. She's a big girl, she can normally take care of herself. And me. She made me. Without her I'd be dead. Or fired. Or both. I feel so helpless that I can't make this all go away for her. This is not all about me, but I want to repay what she gave me. And I can't; not fully.
So instead, I hand over her diary and put my arm around her awkwardly, sitting there in the night.