“You’re wrong.”

I wish.

She’s been quiet for the past five minutes while I’ve been trying to think of all the ways I can to make this not happen.

Well, actually... no.

I’ve been staring at this stupid marriage licence wondering how the hell I managed to get so drunk, do something so monumentally stupid, and yet stay sober enough to actually look like I was of competent mind to repeat the goddamn vows in the first place! I mean, surely the minister, or who ever the hell it was that performed the ceremony could tell that we were drunk? That we were in no way able to comprehend just what kind of stupid ass mistake we were about to make?

“We are not marri—we’re not. You’re wrong,” she repeats.

“You know, repeating the words doesn’t actually make it so,” is my automatic response.

“Well acting like a jackass does make you one.”

“Excuse me? A jackass?”

“I believe that’s what I said. And you’re wrong.”

“Not according to this piece of paper.”

“It’s a fake.” She’s grasping.

“So we have a fake marriage licence because...?”

“I don’t know, but there is no way we got married. It’s not possible.”

“Why?” When I woke up this morning my body was freakishly relaxed, but now, thirty minutes later, the sated feeling I woke up with seems like a distant memory. There are parts of my body that sadly haven’t had much exercise of late and due to last night’s activities, are screaming in distress. The mother of all headaches with which I woke up has only grown, to a point where my head is ready to explode. The only thing keeping me sane at the moment is the thought that if I don’t fix this, the hell I’m in now will be nothing in comparison to the one Leo induces.

I need some Advil. And sleep. And to not be married.

“Because I say so,” she states walking into the living room.

“Well, that clears everything right up,” I quip. I finally take a close look at the credit slip on the dressing table and my jaw drops at the number of zeros staring back at me. “Holy mother of--”

“What?” she screeches panicked, rushing back into the bedroom.

“I spent over ten thousand dollars on--”

“On what?”

I just point to her finger. I spent over ten thousand dollars on a ring for a complete stranger?

What the hell was I thinking?!

“So, you’re a generous drunk,” she questions. I’m still staring at the zeros, to shocked to reply. “It is beautiful,” she adds.

At that price it’d better be.

I look at her finger and find myself whispering, “It suits you.” She looks up and for an instant we’re both standing still, staring at each other, and every part of me is ready to quit worrying about what the hell happened last night and take her back to bed and— Noooooo no no no no. Not going there. I need to get unmarried. I need to get unmarried and I need to do it before Leo or CJ find out. “So, we’re married,” I state.

Again.

“No.” She shakes her head adamantly, walking back out to the living room. “You were drunk; you bought me jewellery. In no way does that support the contention that we are married. We’re not.”

“Because you say so,” I follow her, incredulous.

“Yes,” she nods, looking for her other shoe.

“Ok.” I think I need a strategy. Why does the morning after always have be harder than the night before?

“Since that’s all cleared up, I’m gonna go.”

She’s a nut. I married a devastatingly beautiful woman with a nut short of a—what the hell is that saying? Why is she not accepting this?

“You’re not going anywhere.” I may have been a little too forceful there if her body language is anything to go by. I stealthily move toward the door to block her way.

“I beg to differ.” She has her shoes and purse in hand, ready to leave. She can’t honestly think ignoring this isn’t going to make it true, can she? “And do you think that jumping in front of the door is enough to stop me from leaving?”

Ok, so I may have exaggerated my level of stealth, give me a break; I’m hung over. I’m just glad that I have enough presence of mind to stop her from leaving.

“Donnatella...” She looks at me expectantly. “I’m sorry,” I start. “This is... this is just...” Ok, I need to talk, I need to remain calm and I need to talk. The question is, where to start? “Just say for argument’s sake that we are... married,” I choke.

So much for remaining calm.

“But we’re not, so what’s the point?”

Is she always like this?

How could I have married someone so stubborn and obstinate? “Work with me here, just assume that paper isn’t a fake, ok?” She nods. Reluctantly. “We should do something about that.” You know, like getting it annulled.

“But we’re not married Josh,” she reiterates. I raise my eyebrows at the mention of my name. She blushes, “I remember... ” she starts waving at the bed and I think it’s my turn to blush as I recall just when exactly she said my name. Screamed it in fact.

Repeatedly.

I didn’t think it was possible to do what little I remember doing.

“Donnatella--”

“Donna. You—then...” her blush deepens at she points to the bed again. “So just call me Donna.”

“Sure.” I walk up to her and take her left hand in mine with a gentleness I don’t ever remember employing before. I’m not sure what else to do to convince her that paper isn’t a fake. It may have been insinuated by some that I’m not a real lawyer, but I can most definitely recognise a legal document when I see one. I rub her fingers softly, feeling the cool platinum band of her wedding ring under my thumb. “Donna, we did get married last night.”

She’s quite for a minute and then takes her hand from mine. “No. We didn’t.”

Screw it.

“For God sakes! Do you really think that waking up with a strange woman and finding out that I married her is something that I want to be faced with?” Yeah, ok, the gentle thing I was trying out before totally flew out the window there. “That piece of paper isn’t a fake, we got married last night, and actually managed to consummate the marriage, so deal with it!”

“How the hell would I know?! I don’t know you! And you think that a piece of paper proves we got married?! How the hell do I know you didn’t create a fake?”

She can’t be serious.

“How in the hell would I do that?” I actually managed to sound somewhat reasonable there. “why in the hell would I do that?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you have a warped sense of humour. How do I know that this isn’t some stupid--”

“Stupid what?”

“--Prank; you and your friends trying to be funny. A cheap laugh.”

“You think this is funny?”

“No! But you’re too calm for someone to be—you’re too calm!”

“So I should become hysterical like you? That’s what it’ll take for you to believe me?”

Someone explain women to me.

“I’m not hysterical!”

“This is you calm? Because, if that’s the case, I really don’t want to see you hysterical,” I joke. She glares at me. “Just trust me on this, I have a great sense of humour, one which many fail to understand, I admit, but this is not in the realm of things that make me laugh. For starters, I’m going to be subjected to years of torture when I get back home.”

“Why would you—Oh my God! You have a wife?!” I think if her voice were an octave higher, glass would break.

“No,” I laugh, “That I could deal with—not that I’d ever cheat on my none-existent wife,” I add quickly. “I have to deal with Leo.”

“What?” A little line appears as she narrows her eyes and squints at me; she’s confused. And then she’s mortified. “You’re-- You’re gay?” she shrieks, “I married a confused man?”

“Nooooo, no no no. Nope.” For some reason the idea of her thinking of me as gay bothers me more than having her refuse to believe that we’re married. “Leo’s my boss.” She still looks sceptical. “I am not gay.”

“Why would your boss care if you got married?”

“He’s—I have a sensitive job.”

“Oh.”

She doesn’t quite seem convinced. “I am not gay.”

“This isn’t some thing where you need to sleep with a woman to prove to yourself that you’re not, is it?”

“No! And if that was the case, don’t you think the sex thing would have been enough? Would I really have had to marry you?”

“I don’t know how your mind works,” she shrugs.

“For the umpteenth time-- I. Am. Not. Gay! And could we please try and concentrate on the fact that we got married last night and now need to find a way out of it?”

“Maybe that could be our excuse.” She plops down on the couch in the centre of the room. I continue to lean against the door. I’m finding it a little difficult to follow the way she changes topics at the drop of a hat.

“What?”

“You’re gay.”

I sigh. “I’m really not.”

“They don’t know that. And how can you be sure?”

“Because I am. And what the hell would we say? That I was gay but I married you anyway? What idiot would believe that?”

“Our legal system primarily consists of idiots.”

I smile at her.

“But seriously--” she starts, apparently enamoured with this idea, “We could say that we were drunk, which you know, isn’t actually a lie. Anyway, you weren’t sure of your sexual preference, but after consummating our vows, you realised you were gay and couldn’t in all honesty uphold them. You look like a capable guy. You can sell it.”

“I am not gay,” I reiterate. She manages an indulgent smile at my insistence. “And after the night of mind blowing sex we had, did you think I would suddenly wake up and find myself wanting to switch sides?”

“Why do you keep saying that?”

Huh?

“What?”

“That we had mind blowing sex. Do you remember last night?”

I give her a significant look. “I’m good in bed.” Out of it too.

“So am I,” she asserts, looking indignant.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to say, “I know; that much I remember.” But instead I bite back the comment and say, “So you think two people good in bed would somehow not have great sex?”

“It’s not about being good in bed.”

I’m confused. “It’s not?”

“It’s about clicking with the person you’re sleeping with.”

“Well, we got married, so I assume we clicked somewhere along the line.”

“Not if you drugged me.”

I sigh, “Yes, because of all the things I wanted to accomplish in life-- drugging a girl named Donnatella, and tricking her into marrying me, then having to get the marriage annulled and have my boss rip me apart for doing something so stupid in the first place was right up there with graduating from Harvard and Yale and serving the at the pleasure of the President.”

“I don’t know you. That could very well have been your goal; some people are very weird like that.”

“Why are we assuming that I married you? You could have drugged me.”

“Well, I do have access to the drugs,” she ponders. “I’m a doctor,” she elaborates as I stare at her with my mouth agape. I’m sure I was doing an amazing job of resembling Gail a moment ago. “But no. You must have drugged me.”

“In light of what you just revealed, a convincing argument can be made that it was you who drugged me. You have access to drugs for starters, where as I do not.”

“Yes, but I do not need to drug people to sleep with, or marry me.”

“And you think I do?” She just challenged my ego. “I have no problem attracting women. I’m a very powerful man. I have my own fan club, too,” I boast. “I walk out on any given day and women scream my name, asking for autographs,” I add, indignant. That’s not something just any politician can claim. Except, maybe the President.

“So then why did you drug me?”

“I didn’t drug you!” I shout. I pace for a few seconds, and then as something clicks, I join her on the couch, sitting dangerously close. “You’re very good at the avoidance thing.”

“I am at that,” she nods.

“We need to deal with this.”

“I never said we didn’t.”

“No, you just thought it was better to challenge my masculinity, accuse me of drugging you to have sex, and generally avoid the topic of how we fix this mistake.”

She graces me with a small smile.

“I would never do that,” I state, my voice just above a whisper.

“I’m sorry?”

“Drug you. Or anyone. I would never violate you or any woman. I’m not that kind of man.”

She looks at me for the longest time, her face just inches away, but then averts her eyes, but not before I see embarrassment and shame flash across her face. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that you would. I just... I don’t think you would—that is to say, I don’t think you’re not that kind of man.”

We’re having one of those moments again, where the sparks are just zooming through the air between us. If either one of us was to move right now...

“Josh,” she sighs, “How can you be so sure of the marriage thing?”

“Do we really need to do this again?” Please say no.

“I just... I’m not the kind of person who does this. I’ve never had a one night stand with a stranger, I’ve never drunk to the point where I don’t remember the night before. This isn’t me. Asking me to believe that I married someone I don’t know in a cheesy Vegas chapel is a little to much to ask.”

“This isn’t me either, Donna.” It’s more like Sam; it’s definitely like Sam. She raises an eyebrow. “Ok, well, it is a little, I have drank enough alcohol to the point where I can’t remember the previous night, and I’m not new to the one night stand thing either. But I’ve never woken up married before.”

“Then why are you so ready to believe this?”

“Because the quicker I accept the problem, the quicker I can deal with it.”

“Yeah,” she smiles.

I breathe an internal sigh of relief; I think the shock has finally worn off and she’s finally accepting the reality of the situation. I might actually be able to deal with this today and get back tonight for my meeting with Rooker tomorrow. Which reminds me, I really need to schedule a meeting with—

“Wait.”

I really don’t like having a sinking feeling in my stomach. “What?” Although, you’d think I’d be use to it by now.

“Oh. My. God.”

What? “What?”

“You work for the President?!” Oh shit.

Um... “Yes?”

“Oh my god. This is bad on so many levels.”

“Why? You’re not going to do a tell all exclusive for the press are you?” I joke. Or, at least I attempt one.

It fell flat I know.

She glares at me.

The actuality of what I just said sinks in and now I’m wondering why this thought hadn’t occurred to me before.

I can just see the headline. I can see the little vain on Leo’s forehead exploding. I can most definitely see Margaret running at me like a Linebacker-- with her treasured pencils ready to destroy all elements of my manhood for screwing up Leo’s schedule, and you know, giving the guy a heart attack.

Let’s not even begin to think about what CJ would do.

“I mean,” I start, a nervous, bumbling idiot. “I can see the appeal... there’s the money, not to mention the 15minutes of fame, and of course letting the world, or well, DC at least, know that you had the great presence of mind to marry me--”

If looks could kill—you get the idea.

“It’s a bad idea, trust me, you just shouldn’t do that,” I finish quickly. I swear to God this mouth of mine will get me killed one day. I’m thinking today maybe that day.

“You think I’m gonna go to the Press with this?!”

“No. I just—well... you know--”

“No, I don’t know. Explain it to me please.”

’Oh shit’ doesn’t cover this.

“I meant—I didn’t mean to imply— Look, I had to ask, you don’t know CJ Cregg—she’s the Press Secretary--”

“I know who she is.”

“Right, well, if I didn’t somehow get some sort of confirmation that you wouldn’t... you know, she’d make my life a living hell for all eternity. She’d follow me to hell if need be.”

“So, of all the possible ways you could have asked that question, that’s the way you chose to do it? Are you really that stupid?”

“Have I mentioned that I have this inability to keep my foot out of my mouth at the worst of times?”

“You’re an idiot.”

“Strangely enough, you’re not the first to say that.”

“Imagine my surprise.” She’s quite for a moment, her anger still in tact. “What do you do?”

“What?”

“What do you do? Your job title—what is it?”

She knows who CJ is but she doesn’t know me?

Well, that’s just wrong.

“I’m...”

“Yes?”

“I’m the White House Deputy Chief of Staff,” I admit.

“The Deputy Chief of Staff,” she mumbles, quietly. “The Deputy Chief of Staff,” she repeats. I think she’s having a little trouble digesting that little piece of information. “The Deputy Chief of Staff?”

“Yes.”

“The White House Deputy Chief of Staff?”

“I think we’ve established that.”

“You’re not an idiot.” She shakes her head.

“Well, thank you.”

“You’re an imbecile, a moron--”

“I take it that’s a step down from idiot.”

“How could you be so stupid!? You work for the President!”

What the hell?!

“You were there too, you know. How the hell is this all my fault?!”

“Because--”

Damn the stupid phone. “I need to answer that.”

She doesn’t answer, just continues to glare at me.

I pick up my cell phone and silently send up a pray to the Gods when I see the caller ID.

“I need you back here after your lunch meeting,” Leo states without preamble. “And the notes you said that you’d get done on the flight down to Vegas, I need you to fax them over to me now.”

“Sure Leo, just give me a minute, the fax is in the other room.”

“You booked a suite?”

“Yeah.” I figured there was a chance that by the end of the night there’d be some male drunken bodies in my room and I didn’t want to be sharing a bed with them. I walk past Donna into the next room, and begin my battle with the fax machine, while listening to Leo do something that not many people know he does.

Gossip.

“Andi was due two days ago and its driving Toby nuts.”

“Yeah?” As much as I want to listen to this, I have a wife in the room next door that Leo really should know about. I have no idea how much I managed to screw up last night, but I remember taking Donna’s underpants off in a taxi, so I’m thinking that I wasn’t all that discrete while doing... whatever it is I did. This is one of those times where Leo needs to be forewarned.

Also, if I tell him over the phone, I can keep the receiver away from my ear and zone out while he reads me the riot act.

So, um, here goes...

“Listen, Leo, there’s something--” Wait. What the hell was that? It sounded suspiciously like a door closing-- Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit—“Leo, I gotta call you back.”

“Everything ok?”

“Yeah.” Hell no. Absolutely not. I’m in hell.

“Ok, give me a call once you’ve finished with Rippon.”

“Sure.” And with that I click the cell phone shut and literally leap into the living room.

She’s not here.

She’s not here. I can’t believe that she’s not here! Let me repeat that for those who have yet to comprehend the situation.

She’s. Not. Here.

My body’s two steps ahead of my mind as I propel myself toward the door, only to run through an empty corridor.

Oh. My. God.

I can’t see her anywhere.

Ok. Think logically Josh. She’s shocked. She needs time to adjust, to digest, to—

She’s Not Here!

I’m walking back into my room wondering what the hell I did in a past life to deserve this. Seriously? What? Isn’t it enough that I have my very own watch police in the way of Ms Claudia Jean Cregg, to mock & kick my ass every time I so much as sneeze the wrong way? Isn’t that enough? If not, we could always add the incessant calls from my mother about grandchildren. There’s always Leo.

And the whole getting shot and living with PTSD thing.

Isn’t that enough?

Obviously not.

How could she just up and walk away like that? Really? How insane can a person be?

Ok, she may be insane, but she’s not dumb, right? I’m sure she’s left a note with all her contact details somewhere around here. Right? Ok, so...

What the hell is it that I’m supposed to be doing now?

Think Josh. ... right.

The note.

There’s a God in heaven, because she left a note.

I pick it up to see one simple line written.

 

I need to think--Donna

 

I am so screwed.