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Letters, they quickly learned, were the best way to communicate while Toby spent his three year sentence in a federal prison in Hopewell, Virginia.
Phone calls were inconsistent, and noisy, and rarely private.
She visited a few times.
The first time CJ hadn’t made it more than twenty minutes before coming up with a lousy excuse to leave so she could sit in her car and cry herself into exhaustion.
The second time she visited they argued—put it all on the table and left nothing unsaid. It was nasty and bitter, their words hushed but cutting.
The third time was strained and CJ finally admitted she found the whole thing incredibly morose. They had agreed, for the first time in a long time, that her visits only made them feel further from each other.
Of course, writing letters was his idea.
Letters could be romanticized. Letters left some room for denial which was a powerful asset in their current situation.
In writing she could easily dodge the topics she so desperately wanted to avoid. The truth was that she’d been clawing her way out of her own self-inflicted prison. The White House, her indecision, Danny.
CJ had a few speaking events here and there and had done some consulting but, by and large, she was avoiding moving on.
She turned down offer after offer.
How could she start a new life while the people she loved most were frozen in time—her dad in his growing confusion, Toby in his cinderblock cell.
Her friends were doing bigger and better things and she just didn’t fit in the White House anymore. It felt tainted now. She couldn’t understand how the rest of them stomached working with all their ghosts. She was haunted enough in her own home, a heaviness lurking in every doorway.
CJ stares now at the worn piece of paper on her kitchen counter. The black slanted lettering is still perfectly crisp as if the ink was still drying. She hasn’t decided whether it’s annoying or endearing that he managed to bring a stationary set with him to prison.
Still, CJ cherishes the pieces of paper that connect them. The pages that have passed through both their fingertips. She’s realizing that’s just the kind of romanticism Toby would write to her about.
There’s no question—loving him has rearranged her cells, rewired her brain.
She knows every word of this particular letter in front of her. She’s had it memorized since it came in the mail two weeks ago.
Jeanie,
I’m coming home.
I’m yours, if you’ll have me.
TZ
The clock ticks obtrusively on the wall, crawling closer to Toby’s release. She still hasn’t decided what she’ll do when he shows up on her doorstep.
After thirty-six months Toby Ziegler is a free man.
The sun is bright, peeking through grey January clouds, as he exits the building carrying the bag of things he brought with him along with a bag of things he accumulated in subsequent months.
His sister in law is parked and waiting for him. Fitting, he thinks, since David’s death was the beginning of his end.
He goes home just long enough to clean up. He trims his beard, which he’s kept longer the last three years, but leaves some of the length.
It will be strange enough getting used to life after. He wants to be able to look in the mirror and feel the same.
He leaves again without unpacking. The remnants of his life are simply too much for him to face right now. Toby can’t begin to piece his life back together without her answer. He needs to know what comes next.
He walks to her apartment.
If he’s being honest with himself, which he should get back in the practice of doing, he runs those last few blocks, his lungs screaming for oxygen and CJ.
He knocks and she opens the door almost instantly as if she’s been waiting for him.
Toby exhales as the air is squeezed out of his chest.
He didn’t have time to prepare. He hasn’t allowed himself until now, when she’s standing in front of him, to feel the yawning, CJ-shaped hole in his life.
They take each other in, neither of them knowing what to do.
CJ squeezes his arm in greeting.
“Hi,” she says quietly as she steps aside to let him in.
“Hi,” he breathes.
Toby watches as their twenty year history plays across her features.
“Can I get you anything?”
“Water, please.”
He’s just arrived and he’s already vibrating out of his skin; his mouth is already dry.
Toby feels like his chest is cracking open from being this close to her for the first time in years. It’s painful and yet the relief of it nearly brings him to his knees.
He follows as she moves into the living room. They sit at opposite ends of the couch and Toby prays, with all he has, to feel her body against his again. CJ curls into herself protectively.
“You look different,” she observes.
“In a good way?”
“I guess” she shrugs, “I’m not sure yet.”
Toby shifts nervously.
“Are you seeing anyone?” his cheeks flush before he’s finished asking the question, “I’m sorry that’s—“
“It’s okay,” CJ interjects. “There was someone, at first. I thought maybe I’d get over you by getting under him.”
Toby snorts a laugh, flooded by relief that in some ways, she’s still the same.
“Was he good to you?” Toby asks seriously.
“Yeah.”
They’re silent for a moment before CJ speaks again.
“Have you seen the twins yet?”
“I’m visiting this weekend.”
“Good.”
Toby feels the thick wall between them made up of all the things they don’t say. He can’t stand another minute of this.
She’s avoided his questions for months but surely she realizes the rest of their friends have filled in the gaps of information.
“Why won’t you work for President Santos?”
CJ sighs heavily, “I can’t go back there.”
“CJ—“
He watches as her body goes taut with defensiveness.
“That’s a perfectly good reason.”
“You can’t avoid it,” Toby admonishes, “You can’t just avoid the pain, the fear.”
“Can we not talk about this now?” CJ begs.
“I’m saying, I think you should have this conversation with somebody.”
It’s a callback to their conversation seven years ago, when Toby was suffering from the aftermath of Rosslyn.
“That’s not fair,” she replies, shifting. There’s no bite to her voice, only quiet resignation to him.
He sees her, knows her, so completely that there’s no hiding.
“You have to try to be happy, CJ.”
She stands up, voice raising, “This is me trying to, asshole.”
He follows her into the kitchen. She goes to the counter, picking up a familiar piece of stationary. It’s the letter he wrote a few weeks ago.
“What did you mean, ‘I’m yours, if you’ll have me’”? she asks, holding it up.
Toby opens his mouth to respond but he’s suddenly distracted.
The warm light catches on a glass bottle that’s perched on her counter top. He instantly recognizes it—his favorite scotch. Next to it lay a box cigars and his cologne.
CJ follows his gaze, “Figured you could use some creature comforts,” she offers simply, as explanation.
She takes an instinctive step closer and he can’t stand it anymore; he’s starving for her.
He catches CJ gently by the wrist, pulling her close and kissing the corner of her mouth.
She lets out a broken sound at the contact, another when his arms wrap solidly around her.
Her breath catches, tears pricking in the corners of her eyes and spilling onto her cheeks just as quickly. She resents how easily her emotions rise to the surface. He hasn’t even been here ten minutes and she’s already reduced to tears.
To her surprise, Toby breaks the contact. He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a handkerchief.
“I made these for you,” he tells her, turning the fabric so she can see the tiny embroidered flowers.
She takes it from him and the sight of her wiping her own tears breaks his heart all over again.
“Toby,” she says shakily, “What did you mean?” she asks again holding up the letter.
“I’m asking for your forgiveness,” he says reverently. “I’m asking you to let me spend the rest of our lives trying to make it right.”
She sniffles quietly in response.
“I know you might not be ready,” Toby continues. “But, Jeanie, I never want to lose you again.”
CJ throws her arms around his neck, holding him tightly.
“I’m tired of being mad at you,” she sobs. “I’m tired of mourning you.”
“I know,” he soothes, “I know baby.”
He allows himself to cry with her. They stand there clinging to each other for what feels like hours until Toby feels her body sag against him, spent from the emotion.
Toby presses a kiss against her cheek, “Do you want to lay down?”
She nods and pulls him behind her to the bedroom.
CJ waits for him to lie down first before settling against his side, her head tucked into the place between his chin and his shoulder.
“Ive thought about this so many times,” he murmurs, running his hands through her hair. “So many nights when I thought I might not get the chance to hold you again.”
She reaches up, wiping away the fresh tears on his face.
“I was afraid to see you,” CJ admits, “I was scared it was going to be different.”
She stands up and walks to the dresser; it’s the same one she’s had since her met her. CJ looks back at him before opening the top right drawer—his drawer. From his place on the bed, Toby can see some of his clothes, folded neatly on one side. The other side is empty.
It’s a confession, an invitation, and a promise all at once.