Girl Talk
Zoey Bartlet's favorite pastime is watching people. It drove her sisters crazy when they were kids. "Stop staring," they'd say. "You're bugging me. I'm going to tell Mom."
Not that Zoey could help it - she hadn't even realized what she was doing.
She takes after her dad that way. He loves to watch people too. When Zoey was little, she'd sit on his lap at parties and they'd study the people around them. He's an excellent judge of character, always has been.
Zoey is too. Then again, she did date Jean-Paul, so that's debatable. (She'd rather not think about him - she screwed up, it's over, time to move on.)
She misses those moments with her father. She's too big now to sit on his lap and he's too busy running the country to gossip with his youngest daughter.
She wonders when her family started to fall apart. She's afraid to let that happen, worried because her mother doesn't seem to care that her husband doesn't have enough time left for her to waste it hating him. Zoey doesn't blame him for what happened. He didn't kidnap her. It wasn't his finger that pulled the trigger to kill Molly. He gave up the presidency to get her back.
Everyone makes mistakes and bad things happen to good people, sometimes for no reason at all. Stanley would be proud to know she's actually been listening to him. She'd hated the idea of therapy at first and insisted she was fine (countless nightmares, bruises and a broken clavicle to the contrary). Then Josh had gone to see her and offered his scarred hand as proof that it was okay to be not-okay, and he hugged her and gave her card. She called Stanley Keyworth the next day.
Zoey's been trying to get her mother to talk about the kidnapping, but Abbey won't hear of it. Stanley says to give it time, she'll always be Abbey's baby girl, that people heal at different speeds. Zoey admires her own resilience; now she has to work on her patience.
When Zoey mentioned that Abbey was attending a conference in New York, Stanley thought it would be a good idea for Zoey to accompany her. He suggested they do mother/daughter things: lunch and shopping, or a simple afternoon in Central Park.
Stanley'd had no idea how complicated it was for the First Lady to go shopping. Smiling, Zoey remembers the look on his face as she'd explained all the security measures that have to be taken. An afternoon in Central Park, though appealing, is also out of the question.
Still, here Zoey is, in a hotel in New York, waiting for Abbey to get back from the conference so they can go to dinner. Sitting in the room is too boring, so she's in the bar instead, nibbling on breadsticks, sipping water (she hasn't touched alcohol since That Night) and watching people.
Her two Secret Service agents are nearby, glaring at anyone who even dares to look at her. If it weren't so annoying, it would be funny. If there's anything worse than an overprotective parent, it's an overprotective bodyguard.
Zoey's attention is drawn to a woman who's just entered. She's walking with a slight limp, her hands are in her coat pocket and her shoulders are hunched. Zoey can't help wondering why she's so obviously unhappy.
Mike, agent number one, eyes the woman as she takes a seat near Zoey. He exchanges a glance with Bud (his real name, much to Zoey's amusement), agent number two. They nod. Zoey rolls her eyes. Even she can tell this woman is not a threat (because, despite the whole Jean-Paul-thing, she really is a good judge of character).
Though she knows it will piss the agents off, Zoey moves closer to the woman in time to hear the bartender say, "Been one of those days, eh?"
The woman nods, and Zoey's heart almost breaks at the sadness in her voice. "You have no idea."
The bartender smiles. "I'll make it a strong one."
The woman reaches for a bowl of peanuts and Zoey takes advantage of the silence.
"Hi."
The woman turns her head and gives a brief smile.
"I'm Zoey."
"I'm flattered, but you're not my type."
Zoey blushes. She can picture Charlie's expression when she tells him about this. "I'm not trying to pick you up. I just thought . . . you look like you could use someone to talk to and, uh . . ."
The woman looks at Zoey again, her brown eyes narrowed and her forehead creased in confusion. "Have we met before? You look very familiar."
Zoey shrugs. "I get that a lot. I guess I've just got one of those faces."
The woman smiles. "I'm Samantha."
There is an awkward moment. Zoey's not sure how to proceed. The bartender slides Samantha's drink across the counter.
"Uh, do you want something to drink?" Samantha asks.
"No, thanks. I . . . had a bad experience with alcohol a while back . . . it put me off it for good."
Samantha smiles. "Bet your parents are glad about that. So what happened, you go home drunk and throw up all over the living room carpet?"
"Uh, not exactly." Hang on a second, Zoey thinks, how'd they end up talking about her?
"Hey," Samantha says, "do you know you've got a couple of admirers?"
"What?"
She nods in Bud's direction, then in Mike's. "The hottie by the door hasn't taken his eyes off you once, and the older guy in the suit keeps looking over here."
Zoey smiles; Bud and Mike are not as inconspicuous as they'd like to be. "I have a boyfriend back home. His name's Charlie."
"Where's home?"
"DC."
"So what are you doing all the way up here?"
"Family stuff." Zoey doesn't see the need to go into detail. Besides, it's nice to talk to someone who doesn't know who she is.
"Ah, enough said. So, what do you do when you're in DC?"
"Nothing at the moment. Spending time with Charlie, hanging out at my dad's office . . . I graduated in May so I'm not really looking to jump straight into a job. How about you?"
"FBI. Let me give you some advice, don't work for the government."
Zoey hides her smile. "Why do you say that?"
"Because your life is no longer your own. So many damn rules . . . and I work in the Missing Persons Unit. Too much heartbreak there."
"I can imagine."
Samantha sighs; a deep, sad sigh.
"What is it?"
"Have you ever been in love with someone who is so completely wrong for you, but who you want to be with anyway?"
Zoey wonders what prompted the question; Samantha has barely touched her drink and is looking at Zoey with a helpless expression in her eyes.
Well, Zoey thinks, now she knows why Samantha is so sad.
"What do you mean?"
Samantha raises her hands, her palms facing upward. "To you, being with him feels right but, to others, it's wrong."
"Oh. Yeah, okay. The guy I'm with now, Charlie, I'm pretty sure I love him. But some people don't think it's cool for us to be together."
"Why?" Samantha leans her elbows on the counter and looks intently at Zoey.
"Well, he's black."
"But he makes you happy?"
Zoey grins. "Yeah, he's the best."
Samantha looks away, her hair falling to hide her face. "I was seeing someone a while ago . . . Jack . . . and then it ended. And I was okay with it, I mean, I knew it wasn't permanent but . . . a couple of months ago something happened . . . I was shot . . . and I realized I still had feelings for him, and that he still had feelings for me."
"Do you work with him?"
"Yeah."
"I see why it's complicated."
"It's not only that . . . he's married." Samantha looks up quickly. "When we were . . . he was separated from his wife when we were together."
Zoey bites her bottom lip. 'Complicated' is an understatement. "Do you love him?"
Samantha nods, then grabs a napkin and dabs her eyes. "Shit. I said I wasn't going to cry over him anymore."
Zoey puts an arm on Samantha's shoulder and thinks, where's Stanley when you need him?
"I take it he went back to his wife?"
"Yep."
"I'm sorry . . . I don't know what to say."
"That's okay. I feel better having spoken about it, you know?"
Zoey chuckles. As a Catholic, she understands the feeling of relief after a confession.
Samantha takes off her coat. Zoey immediately sees the gun and, as Mike and Bud jump up, drawing their own weapons, knows they see it too.
She swivels around and holds up her hands to stop them. "Guys, it's okay. She's FBI."
Samantha looks at her strangely. Zoey gives a rueful smile. Bud and Mike stare at Samantha but don't put their guns away.
"Do you have ID, ma'am?" Bud asks.
Samantha digs a badge out of her coat pocket and passes it to Bud.
"Special Agent Samantha Spade," he reads. Mike speaks into the tiny microphone in his jacket cuff, asking someone to verify Samantha's badge number.
"I'm so sorry," Zoey says. "They're a little paranoid."
"What's going on, Zoey? What's all this about?"
Zoey shrugs. "It's nothing. My dad worries about me . . . so, Samantha Spade? That's kind of ironic, don't you think? That you're in the FBI and everything . . ."
"She's legit," Mike says.
Bud hands Samantha's badge back. "Sorry about that, Agent Spade. Miss Bartlet."
Samantha's eyes widen. "Zoey Bartlet? Oh, I'm such an idiot! Of course you look familiar. Your face has only been all over the news. Why didn't you say something?"
Zoey sighs. "This is what I was afraid of. Now I'm Zoey Bartlet instead of just Zoey."
Suddenly a group of people enters the bar, Abbey Bartlet at the center.
"Zoey, I'm sorry. The meeting ran late. Are you ready to go?"
Zoey slides off the stool and hugs her mother. "Mom, this is Samantha."
Abbey smiles and takes Samantha's hand. "Hello."
"Hi . . . I mean, hello, ma'am." Samantha seems a little shell-shocked. Zoey can't really blame her. Abbey has that effect on a lot of people, and Samantha was hardly expecting to meet the First Lady when she came in for a drink.
"Thanks for keeping me company," Zoey says. Then, struck by an idea, "Do you want to come have dinner with us?"
"Thanks, but I really can't."
Abbey still has Samantha's hand. "Are you sure?"
"Yeah, thanks."
Zoey scribbles a number and an email address on a napkin and presses it into Samantha's hand, then hugs her. "If you're ever in DC or you just want to talk, call, okay? And let me know what happens with you and Jack."
"Sure."
Zoey hooks her arm through Abbey's and they turn to leave. She pauses, then turns back. "Hey, Sam, as a former missing person, I just want to say . . . you're appreciated more than you think."
Samantha smiles. "I'm glad I met you, Zoey."
Zoey waves goodbye.
"You're very chirpy tonight," Abbey observes.
"For a while I felt normal again. It felt good." She smiles affectionately at her mother. "Let's get room service instead of going out. Something deliciously unhealthy, like pizza and ice cream, and we can eat in our pajamas . . . and talk."
Abbey is silent for a moment. "Sounds good. What do you want to talk about?"
Zoey laughs. "Oh, Mom, there's so much to talk about!"
Arm in arm, they head for the elevator and Zoey grins. For the first time in a long time, she has the feeling that things are going to be alright after all.