2019-06-22 - Pleased To Meet You Again

The past several hours have seen Gray Harbor weathering a deluge of such massive proportions that it was almost biblical; most businesses were closed or nigh-near deserted, with people electing to stay inside of their homes until the power returned to the city. For some, the wait for the worst of the storm to pass them by was downright interminable - but thankfully, it had to give eventually.

Now, rain continues to pour from the heavens, albeit not as severely as before. It is a steady thing, pattering against the roof and dripping down the windows and awnings of the Pourhouse, though a quick look through the windows would suggest that it's still the kind of day where people would rather stay indoors. Still, some adventurous souls - or at least those who don't care about moisture or precipitation - have braved the endless torrent and the pervasive chill. For some, no steady rain is an insurmountable obstacle for a good drink.

In this case, for Isabella Reede, a good drink is a scotch, and nothing under eighteen years.

The door swings open when she steps inside one of the few unfamiliar structures in the small town she was born and grew up in, a relatively new addition to its plethora of businesses, green eyes with their shattered filaments of gold taking in the decor within. It looks like every other dive bar she has frequented in her travels, numerous watering holes scattered through the east coast and across the pond to Europe. In spite of her academic pedigree, these are the establishments that she prefers in the end - the kind of gathering point where locals congregated and exchanged news and gossip. Though for a town like Gray Harbor, there wasn't usually much choice.

Brisk, long-legged strides take her away from the doorway and towards the bar counter.

Her manner of dress remains in the mid-point between fashionable and functional that she favors; a reddish-leather jacket pulled over a blouse with a feminine cut and with enough color to suggest a certain defiance against the drab gray palette that typically ensconces the Pacific Northwest, fitted blue jeans tucked within calf-lengthed boots that lace up the sides and with enough of a heel to add three more inches to her height. Lengths of her hair have been ribboned around a clip, the rest of it left to spool and drape in a tousled frame around her face that made her eyes seem larger. Big city living has influenced her manner of dress, not the sort to appear in public in just pajama pants and flip flops.

Upon reaching the counter, she immediately orders her scotch and thankfully the barkeep has a decent Glenlivet in stock. That alone is enough to bring some relief over her sunkissed mien.

It would seem that Jonathan has already gotten to this place, since he's seated with a few drinks in front of himself. A mixture of coffee, water and beer, in fact. He looks rather tired as he sits there, glancing towards the door as it opens, his gaze following Isabella as she enters. If she looks in his direction, there's a bit of a nod offered, before he sips the water from the glass in his hand.

When she finally settles, it's on a stool at the bar area two seats down from where Jonathan has perched himself, Isabella's long fingers working to relieve herself of her messenger bag's strap and dropping it on the space next to her. There's a smile directed the bartender's way once he sets a short glass with two fingers worth of liquid amber within, settled atop one of the Pourhouse's many cardboard coasters. "Thanks," she tells him, amicably enough, friendly enough, busily shrugging herself out of her leather jacket and tosses that on top of her bag. A moonstone pendant set in a white gold chain swings briefly into visibility.

The only other occupant at the bar gets a glance, her head in an angle and forcing a brown tress to cling against her cheek. The man looks familiar, but not, and her eyes track towards what he's actually drinking. Coffee, water and beer?

"It's okay," she tells him, tone laden with mock-gravitas. "It's definitely one of those days where nobody knows whether they'd rather stay awake or fall asleep."

Unable to hold back a bit of a chuckle as he hears that, Jonathan places the glass of water on the bar, movements a bit slow. "Those days come far too often," he offers, words a bit light, even if they're spoken relatively quietly. "At least for me." He pauses a little, before he adds, "But I must say, even if the weather's bad, this has been one of the good ones." A brief pause, and a nod to her glass. "Those are quite good, most days, though."

Those eyes miss nothing - the slow movements despite strong fingers clutching the glass of water, and not just the words but the expression behind them. Isabella cradles her tumbler between both sets of fingers, though she keeps her attention fixed where it belongs, set with the manner and intensity of one all too accustomed to throwing herself wholly - body and soul - at any given experience. As if a spotlight had fallen on Jonathan and only him, the rest of the details surrounding him fading away, leaving nothing but the former athlete in sharp relief.

At the very least, despite his baritone pitched low, that he isn't utterly devoid of a sense of humor. The dreary gray weather that perpetually smothers the Pacific Northwest tends to leech it out of most others.

Those days come far too often.

"Because of the weather?" she wonders.

At the man's nod towards her drink, that expressive mouth tilts up its right corner, a muted version of her Trickster's smile, shifting on her seat so she can push her tumbler towards him with deft fingers. "Have a sip," she tells him. "Can't promise it's good for what ails you, but in my experience, it can be very convincing."

There's a brief moment of pause, as Jonathan seems to be lost in thought, before he shrugs a little. "Well, the weather can add to the troubles, but not necessarily," he replies, after another brief pause. "The brain is an interesting thing, they tell me. For some reason, it tends to handle physical trauma a bit worse than other parts of the body." As the tumbler is offered, he glances around the room very briefly, before he takes that offered sip, a very brief one. "Ah, quite good..." he offers, handing the tumbler back. "Thank you."

The tumbler returned, Isabella settles it back on the coaster, the curve of her index fingernail tracing the rim of it - an idle gesture with little to no thought behind it, her focus on the man she's speaking with. Her quiet digestion of the small tidbits Jonathan offers her about himself is one that she takes the time to let percolate, turning them over like puzzle pieces. She doesn't mean to most days, but that is the curse of career scholars, unable to help but dissect the details in an effort to get to the glowing core of each one.

"It depends," she tells him, the spark of her earlier amusement intensifying a touch. "The human brain has ways of protecting a person when the body suffers more trauma than it can handle, also. Any other organ and body part can be predictable, depending on genetic markers and lifestyle choices, but the brain can't be said to be the same. Equal odds that it can go either way. What sort of injury are you dealing with, if I may ask?"

Normally not an inquiry to pose in a first conversation with someone, but Jonathan opened the door, and it's clear that Isabella intends to go through it.

Jonathan nods a little as he hears that. "At least the odds being equal is a good thing. Means a number of people manages to avoid these injuries," he replies, a bit thoughtfully, before he lets out a bit of a breath at the question. "The after effects of one too many concussions. This one has been refusing to let go properly." He lets out a bit of a breath, before he adds, "And of course, that fact brings other problems, more related to the mental state of things." There's another brief pause as he seems to realize something. "I hope you forgive me for having forgotten my manners. I'm Jonathan Wallgren. It's a pleasure to meet you."

"Or if they can't, they'll be able to survive it and cope with the fallout with the proper professional attention," Isabella muses, though the remark is absently made, her interest falling squarely on whatever replies he deigns to give to her earlier inquiry. Though once she receives it, the visible strains of her curiosity become all the moreso, threading over her delicate features. Her virid stare flicks past his eyes and over his dark haired head; she is no medical professional, even if she could look inside of his brain with an X-ray vision she most certainly doesn't have, she was ill-qualified to diagnose him. But it happens anyway.

Her eyes fix back into his blue ones once he gives his name. Curiosity gives way to faint recognition.

"I was wondering why you looked familiar but not too familiar," she confesses, a slim hand extending to offer it to him for a shake. "We went to the same middle school. You're the one everyone was saying was going to end up drafted to some big league team once you got older. Did that ever pan out?"

After a pause, and with only a sense of hesitation that isn't all too visible: "Isabella Reede. Pleased to meet you, too." A hint of good-natured mischief. "...again."

Nodding as he hears that, Jonathan lets out another breath. "Yes, the proper professional attention is rather important," he replies, before he nods a bit as she speaks of having gone to the same middle school. "It did, yes. Both the getting drafted and getting signed by the team." Shaking the offered hand, he smiles, "Ah, I think I remember your name, at least." A brief pause, before he adds, "It was during one of those games the concussion happened. And of course it had to be the one when mmy family was able to attend."

"Wow, you made it all the way, huh?" she says. "Which team? Which sport?" That subtle smile shifts into a grin that exposes the pearly hints of her teeth. "Sorry....I've made a career out of being a professional nerd and ended up in a place where they live, breathe and bleed foot-- soccer." Too enured in her years in Oxford that she affords the proper term for the sport, nevermind that her fellow Americans call it something different. "I have to ask before I embarrassed myself."

She tilts her head at him faintly. "Are you getting that here, then?" Isabella wonders. "Proper professional attention, I mean."

It certainly bears asking, given the slowness of his movements from earlier, and while she has demonstrated no qualms at all in asking him relatively personal questions, she is no unfeeling creature. She refrains from asking him whether there is any chance of recovery, electing to leave that to the gods of reality and circumstance to suss out, but she can certainly pose the question, in good conscience, as to whether he is getting the care and treatment he needs.

"As for the family..." Not a subject she generally likes touching, especially with someone she barely knows, but she takes a sip of her scotch before pressing forward. "...at the very least, they were there, yeah? In the hour when you needed them the most. Otherwise I don't think you would have ended up back here."

Jonathan nods. "I did. Ice hockey, the Detroit Red Wings." There's a smile at the mention of a place where they live, breathe and bleed a certain other sport. "Had a few teammates that were fans of some of those soccer teams." As for the part about the proper professional attention, he nods as he reaches out to take another sip of his water. "I do. And with my mother being a doctor as well, it's a bit safer staying with the family than just on my own out there." He nods again as he hears that last part, before he smiles a little, "True. I'm not sure where I would have ended up without them being there for me, both right after that game, and since then."

There's an appreciative whistle when Jonathan reveals the name of his team. "One of the best, I heard," Isabella remarks, bringing forth what little she knows of hockey to bear. "Look at you, Hot Shot Slapshot!"

Despite her words and Jonathan's easy smile, the clear regard he has for his family in a small town teeming with dysfunctional relationships, she can't help but taste the bitter lance of the seeming inevitability of those born here to return, for one reason or another. As if the city itself, in all of its strangeness, makes a conscious effort in keeping its sons and daughters tethered to its darkest underbelly, no matter how far they run in order to build lives elsewhere. It is distressing, disturbing, in more ways than she could eloquently articulate.

And she knows this better than most, because she has tried. Even now, she is still trying, determined to leave Gray Harbor behind once again the earliest moment she's able.

She drains her scotch at that.

"You're luckier than most," she tells him. "Best part is, I think you know that."

As far as observations go, it's a simple one, the acknowledgment of a silver lining in the midst of unfortunate circumstances.

Depositing some bills on the countertop, she starts to rise, shrugging on her leather jacket. "Anyway, I just stopped by for a drink - shore myself up for a long afternoon. I'm glad you're being taken care of, Jon. I hope it gets better."

Jonathan smiles, nodding a bit, as he drains the rest of his water. "I know I'm luckier than most, at least most in a similar situation," he replies, before he nods again as she starts to leave. "I think I should be heading off again soon too. It was nice to meet you again."

Slinging the messenger bag diagonally across her chest, Isabella's smile tilts upward once again. "You too, Jon."

With that, and a slight wiggle of manicured fingers, she pivots on her heel and heads for the door.