2019-12-02 - Blame It On The Alcohol

It was the night that they'd agreed to get drinks but not at Anne's place, and though the intention had been to go to Carlo's, you know what they say about best laid plans. For one reason or another, Carlo's wasn't going to work, and so they ended up agreeing to meet at the little bar far to one end of the boardwalk. It was an old place which, many, many years ago, had been a place they'd frequented together; back then, it had been quiet and the service was decent, and they'd sit out until two a.m. and walk down to the beach after. They were even prone to stay out there and watch the sun rise over the bay.

But that, of course, was ancient history and the bar's changed hands a half dozen times now. There were still remnants of the place that had once been, little wisps of memories, but the 'bar' now shared room with an Italian restaurant and the 'quiet' was replaced by a piano that needed tuning and a player that needed lessons. But there was a free table in the corner by the window and the view of the bay was unobstructed there, so that's where Anne was sitting in wait, tapping fingers on the plastic tablecloth as she cast eyes towards the water.

The thunderstorms had come and gone, so at least they had that going for them. It wasn't too cold, so she wore a nice little black dress that came to the knees, her hair kept down in loose curls, her shoes little ballet flats in case they wanted to walk down to the beach later. Or, perhaps, in case she needed to run the hell out of here.

Patrick... does not react well to changes to (his) plans. Witness the last time they were supposed to do something and it went off the rails and became a whole big argument. So every message it took to orchestrate this rearrangement was fraught with his desire to just 'never mind [send].' But he fights the urge, powers through, and arrives somewhere between four and six minutes late, depending on which clock is to be believed. The reward for all his fortitude is a moment taken after he comes into the bar, where he's found Anne watching the water and just appreciates the view for a minute - before she can start saying things and fucking it all up!

It's only a moment, though, before the jangling piano and the 'can i help you sir?' interrupt his reverie, leaving him to answer the nice host with, "I seriously doubt it." He just shows himself over to the table with a pleasant, "If someone's sitting here," while he sheds his coat onto the back of the chair across from Anne's, "they're not any more." He's not sitting down yet, but only because he hasn't figured out if he needs to wait for a waiter to come ask what he's drinking, or should he just go over to the bar?

He decides on the latter; "Rotgut and tonic with a lemon?" For Anne, he means.

It was a nice view while it lasted, though it wasn't long before Anne turns away from the window out of sheer irritation to reach for her phone. It was absolutely six minutes past whenever he was supposed to show up, and really, what was the point if he wasn't going to come on time? It wasn't her fault that Carlo's sprung a leak from all the thunderstorms and was currently under two inches of water. But just before she manages to fire off an exceptionally angry text, her gaze briefly lifts and she catches sight of his saunter her way. The annoyance twitches there in the corners of her mouth, causing her lips to purse faintly, before she smooths them out into a pleasant smile once he's near.

"You're in luck, the seat's still free," she replies, fingers unfolding that-a-way, before they fall to tap again on the plastic tablecloth. "I was going to wait another five minutes before I found someone else to fill it," it's at least spoken in good humor. Look, there's even a soft laugh attached to it, like ha-ha she's just kidding. But seriously. A brow lifts. "Are the roads bad?" Or was he just being late on purpose?

As for the drink, there's a quick shake of her head. "My rotgut and tonic days are long over. But I'll take a chardonnay."

With a glance in the direction of the bad pianist, Patrick counters blandly, "Were you," going to find someone else to fill his seat. He shakes his head fractionally, a small gesture to convey a wealth of skepticism: NO SHE WOULD NOT HAVE BECAUSE HE'S IRREPLACEABLE. Anyway, the head-shake increases to a proper one when he answers for the badness of the roads with a simple, "No."

Then he's off to fetch drinks, meaning it's solidly fifteen minutes beyond the hour before he's actually sitting down at Anne's table, dropping a glass of chardonnay in front of her and an amber-colored drink with a twist of orange in front of his own chair. "So," while he settles himself, fussing with the arrangement of non-alcoholic things on the table to put them all over to the far side, out of the way. The little thing full of sugar, the drinks-menu, that kinda stuff. "Where were we?" he asks, folding his hands and looking expectantly across the table, as if they only just pressed pause mid-conversation.

The piano man misses a key or twelve, curses under his breath, and continues muddling his way through the song; maybe he knew a pair of Addington eyes were on him. Or maybe he was really just that bad of a pianist. Either way, Anne doesn't follow Patrick's glance. She instead holds steady on him until he's made his bland counter, and as soon as he looks her way? She lets her own gaze slide to the bar, lingering briefly on the suit-and-tie sitting by himself at the corner. "Maybe," she lifts a shoulder and looks back to him, the slant of her lips into a wry smirk an acknowledgment that she knew she was poking the hornet's nest. Which is probably why she almost immediately follows up with a rather guilty, quiet, "No," just prior to his own, the truth about the roads leaving her scowling as he goes to fetch the drinks.

The expression calms when the chardonnay is returned, and she shifts to lean back against the chair while fiddling with the wine glass stem. His 'so' is met with a double-brow raise, her attention briefly on the way he arranges the sugar before she lifts her focus up to his eyes. Where were they, indeed? "That's a good question," she replies, hiding her frown against the rim of the wine glass as she takes a quick sip. "I don't know." At least she's being honest? She tries for a smile, canting her head slightly to the side. "Maybe you should have a drink first. At least then, we'll be further along than we were before."

"I know," that it's a good question. That's why he asked it, duh. Patrick waits through the frown, then the dunno, which at least gets him to tick a brow upward and glance around. "I'd have gone with 'not Carlo's,'" he shares helpfully, to be followed by a grave nod at the suggestion that he should have a drink first. He does that, debating the quality of said drink after a sip, head tipping this way and that before settling into an iffy shrug, so at least the drink is passable. He drinks it regardless, but in small sips (he might have gotten himself a head-start down the road to Drunk Town earlier in the day, on account of HE DOESN'T LIKE WHEN HIS PLANS GO AWRY, GDI).

"How's your foot?"

😃

There's a subtle narrowing of her eyes at his helpful sharing, before she just shakes her head and drops her attention to the wine at hand. Unlike some people at this table, she wasn't already drunk, but she was more than happy to speed things along if this was the direction the conversation was already going. "I'm sorry," no she wasn't, the tone made that clear. "But I didn't want to put on my bikini in December and have drinks pool-side. Besides. You used to like this place." There's a tight smile before she takes another swallow of her wine, her focus drifting out the window. "I used to like it here, too," she adds in a quiet voice, her brows dropping into a contemplative furrow.

And in spite of her successful composure, Anne can't help but roll her eyes right back to him at his question. "Really?" A sigh punctuates the disbelief at his question, but she forges ahead. "It's fine. It hurts, but it's fine. I didn't break anything, I didn't die. I came back. And I want to have a nice night," there's a purse to her lips as she looks across at him, blue eyes imploring. "So if you need to say something in order for us to get away from .. whatever this is? Then say it. Please."

"No?" About the bikini and the poolside drinks. "That's a shame. I'd have been on time for that." Patrick sighs regretfully into his drink, then rattles the ice cubes in the cup prior to downing... about half of it. Actually, when she rolls her eyes at him, he just goes on ahead and makes it the whole drink. It leaves him squinting a bit waterily (wetly? except it's watery, so waterily is now a word) for a few seconds during the harrowing tale of What Happened to Anne's Foot. He's so fucking ready to quip back.

But he doesn't. There's even a moment, after she professes to wanting a nice night, where he attaches gray eyes to blue and looks sadly back at her: nice isn't really his forte. 🙁 So appreciate the volume of effort he has to expend to answer genuinely, "I'm glad that you're 'fine.'" Hold on, he makes air-quotes. "But I've said my piece and then some. It will never sit well with me, so better to just agree to disagree." Beat. "Unless you've got any interest in being locked in a basement?"

"You should have been on time regardless. We made plans," remarks Anne, watching passively as he drains the glass. With the tension so thick, Anne is quick to empty her own glass into her mouth, shifting awkwardly until she's perched on the very edge of the seat. But hey, look at them! They managed to finish an entire drink. This evening was looking up! And then it probably immediately looks back down as she starts scoffing at his air quotes. At least she's managing to keep her voice down to a respectable 'this conversation is between you, me and the table' level. "If you wanted someone you could lock in a basement, Patrick, why are you here? Why did you come over to my house, why did you.." She doesn't finish the thought, her own gaze turning sad and quick to look away, down to a tiny hole in the plastic of the tablecloth. She uses her nail to pick at it. She breathes out through her nose, a quick huff of an exhale.

This was going sideways fast. But look! Never let it be said that Anne wasn't trying here. "I know it's been.. a very hard few months for you and your family, Patrick. And I'm very sorry about Mike and Susan," there's sincerity there in her tone, in the look she levels upon him. "But I'm not sorry for going. And if we're going to be.." the awkward pause there is coupled with a crinkling of her nose as she searches for a word, "... friends," it comes out sort of flat. "Then you're going to have to deal with this sort of thing. I want to understand what it is we're dealing with over there, Patrick. We're never going to be able to figure out how to make it all stop if we don't know what we're dealing with."

They made plans. "Yes. To have drinks at Carlo's." Patrick points out again that this is not Carlo's by the little twirl of his finger, which ends with a dab at the air in the direction of the bad pianist. He's jangling away at some song that's supposed to be Billy Joel, but good luck figuring that out. Done with the gesture, his finger taps loosely on the rim of his now empty glass - he's going to get impatient and go get another round in a second, especially since Anne has just knocked back her own bev - while she asks a bunch of why-questions that he hears, even wears a momentarily questioning expression. Let's be charitable and say he doesn't answer the questions because she's already moved the conversation along, not just because he doesn't want to.

His nod accepts her sympathy as much as his pride will permit. Thankfully, they're arguing, so there's no time to get all dreary about his whole murdered family angst. "Let me just make sure that I'm following you." He leans forward over the table, super-focused on the particulars. "I have to deal with this sort of thing. So that you don't have to deal with my disapproval. Those are the terms that I'm meant to agree to? Because." He pushes back from the table, shaking his head. "That's an incredibly lopsided deal. We're going to have to do some negotiating here."

"Which is going to necessitate more drinks." He's looking around for someone to bring them some.

"Only because you wouldn't come over to my house," Anne retorts, following his gesture over to the bad pianist. She could've put on real music at her house. She could've had wine that didn't taste like vinegar, and they could be sitting on chairs that didn't wobble whenever she shifts to make herself comfortable in this wholly uncomfortable situation. She could've yelled at him instead of being forced to use her 'we're in public' voices. Okay, maybe that last part is why they are here instead of at her place, but that's besides the point. "Which I still don't even understand why we couldn't just have drinks at my place," she frowns.

He leans forward over the table which makes her instinctively lean back, arms folding across her chest as she lifts her brows at him. "They're not terms, we're not in a contract negotiation! I just want to get to a place where we're not like this, where we're not snipping at each other all the time," she snips at him. But this was a conversation that necessitated more drinks, that was for damn sure - it's unfortunate, then, that there's not a waitress in sight.

Which is what gives way to a little snort of frustration from Anne as she jerks herself out of her chair. "We don't need to get drunk to have this conversation, Patrick," she remarks blandly before she marches over to the bar .. only to return a short while later with another amber-colored drink with a twist of orange for him, and one for her as well. Except, notably, these were doubles.

Not that Patrick's got an axe to grind, but he is quick to counter, "Only because I came over to your house, and you told me that I needed to leave." He opens his palm at Anne, assigning all the blame for the reason that they're here to her. So there. He doesn't have a quick argument ready for anything else, other than the fact that his mouth drops open when she's saying they don't need to get drunk. But he waits till she's off getting refills to mumble, "Way too late for that."

So he lifts a beatific smile when she returns with even bigger drinks! Which are hopefully just 'two more of whatever he ordered the first time' and not big glasses of whiskey or something, 'cause that'd be gross. (Not to say he wouldn't drink it; he totally would; but still.) Drink claimed, "So you're asking me to, what? Keep my opinions to myself? Because that's never going to happen, Anne. I think you're shining lights on things best left in the dark, undisturbed, and that's foolish at best, suicidal at worst. If my having opinions is a deal-breaker for you, well." He clicks his glass to Anne's and sips, c'est la vie.

That counter from Patrick gives her more than enough to stew over while she's at the bar; it's amazing she doesn't blow up at the bartender with how much she was boiling on the inside. But she returns with two glasses of whatever it was he had before but bigger, because bigger is always better, and two glasses of straight whiskey would absolutely be gross. She keeps fingers on one of the glasses so he doesn't get any ideas, drops into a chair, and promptly throws back about half the glass at the c'est la vie that follows his monologuing. "Okay, so wait. Hold on a sec," she takes one last drink and sets the glass down, spreading out her hands. Wait. "You can have opinions and that can't be a deal-breaker for me, but I can't have opinions without it being a deal-breaker for you? Because if you want to talk about things being lopsided, Patrick, I'm about to fall off the face of the universe with how slanted that is."

".. And besides," yes, she's still going. "I asked you to leave because you said you didn't care and you weren't exactly keen on clarifying yourself in the moment." She takes a breath, and a drink. She should've ordered more, come to think of it.

"I never said that." Re: Her having opinions being a deal-breaker. Patrick slips a sip into the mix, 'cause Anne's still going, but he must have put a mental pin into this part of the conversation, because he goes back to it promptly once she's gotten to the end of her bit. "Point of order, the only time there's ever been a deal-breaker for me, when it comes to you and me? Was a decade ago. And we both know how that turned out." He smiles as if dotingly, such a fond memory~

"So if we're going to be," the pause is perfectly measured, "friends," as is this pause, "and I'm going to have to deal with this sort of thing? Then you're going to have to deal with how I deal with it." GOSH, it's a real mystery why they didn't work out! "Which is what I said at the outset." Annoyingly slowly, "We are going to have to agree to disagree."

The sour look that puckers Anne's lips has nothing to do with her bourbon that she drains, and everything to do with the memory of how things turned out to be. At least, that's what the expression is attached to - his doting smile, the fondness spoken in his words - and she drains the rest of her glass. Instead of speaking, she holds up her now empty cup and makes eyes with the bartender, ensuring that he's looking directly at her before she gives the cup two shakes, making the ice clink noisily in the cup. Then she holds up two fingers and flashes a broader smile that dies when she looks back to Patrick.

"Fine," she says through her teeth. "I agree to disagree with you. But you're going to have to accept the fact that I'm not going to seek your approval to do the things I want to do, we're not.." There's a stumble as she forces herself to pause, mostly thanks to the interruption of the bartender who brings them two more doubles. It's enough of a distraction to throw Anne off her game, leaving her rolling her shoulders back as she looks from drink to Patrick, to drink again, and finally back to Patrick. "We're.. we're not.. That's what we're going to be!" The flush on her cheeks suggests either the bourbon or this conversation's having a bit of an effect on her. ".. Friends." She adds, to clarify, pausing for just a moment. "That's what we're going to be." Another pause, not as perfectly measured as his own. "Right?"

Patrick waits for the end of the sentence, leaning forward like that will make it come along quicker. Only to have to lean back with an irritated glance at the person bringing him a drink. It's a tough balancing act: he wants the drink, but not the interruption, so he curls a hand around the former, and looks daggers at the retreating back of the latter. Then he resumes waiting for the end of that sentence.

Oh. She uses a TOTALLY different f-word that he would have, so forgive him a momentary frown. And a check, 'cause this would be his... like... umpteenth drink today.

Cool. He's got this. "Oh, yes. Let's." Be friends. They need to clink glasses again. It seems important; he lifts his and tilts it across the table.

Believe you me, it was a totally different f-word than the f-word she wanted to use. Which probably explains the prompt and miserable expression at his acquiescence, that goes completely counter to the word that she speaks: "Great." The clink of her glass against his own was as half-hearted as the way she speaks, no enthusiasm here. Even if being 'friends' was totally her idea.

Still, at least this means she has nothing left to say. "At least we're somewhere else now," okay, she had almost nothing left to say. She manages a thin smile at the end of those words, before she lifts up her glass and takes a drink.

Patrick should be nice and pretend not to notice that half-heartedness. Buuuuuut - as previously mentioned - nice is not his forte. So, "Or we can not be friends. In case that makes for an actual 'great' and not just a poorly-preteneded 'great.' I'm flexible." Except he's not. He is, however, pounding whatever Anne ordered like it's Aquafina, which is why he very abruptly states, "I can't deal with this anymore." And puts some money on the table, then walks off.

To the piano. Where he proceeds to pay the pianist, like, at least ninety dollars to stop banging on the keys, you're fucking awful at this. Mission accomplished, he crooks a finger to Anne, come over here plz.

Anne should be nice and not call him out on his bullshit. Buuuuut - while nice is totally in Anne's forte? She's at this point well lubricated by bourbon. "No you are not," she replies to his being flexible, the laughter that follows the words dry. "You're like the least flexible person I know. But this is what you want! Friends, we're friends. It's great." The italics might suggest that this was spoken again now with fifty times more enthusiasm, but the reality is .. it's just a step above the half-heartedness. But maybe three-fifths heartedness will be enough? Except that he suddenly can't deal, and Anne's scoffing again, straightening up. "What do you mean, you can't deal with this anymore? Patrick..!" She gets to the edge of her seat as he walks off, and she's left with a drink in her hand, eyes on his backside (and not in that 'I love to watch you go' sort of way).

At least he stops at the piano, which only serves to bring confusion to her wide-eyed stare. The crook of his finger takes a second or two to process, before she drains the rest of her glass and sets it on the table while she gets to her feet. Steady as she goes, thankful she's got flats on instead of heels, there's only a subtle favoring of her hurt ankle as she makes her way over to the piano, brows climbing with every step. "What are you doing?"

"A favor for everyone in here." Are there other people here? Or is it, like, just these two being all dramatic? Well, these two and the bartender and the pianist that Patrick just paid to fuck off. Regardless, he's doing a favor for everyone in here, god dammit. Step one was getting rid of the pianist; step two is, after bracketing her shoulders with his hands, to have Anne stand right here, next to the window, don't move; step three is to sit down at that badly tuned piano.

Step four requires another roll. Either way, it's going to be awesome, but it's important to know what kind of awesome.

The kind of awesome where whatever he thinks he's playing is at least as bad as what the pianist was playing. At least he looks much more attractive playing it? Though it takes him, like, six times to find middle-C, two of which are coupled to comments about how desperately out of tune this so-called piano is. Anyway, the end result is a bit of noise and the frank assertion, "I honestly don't want to be friends with you. You broke my heart," ping ping ping goes the piano, "and I'm not sure I'm over it. Does this sound as awful as I think it does?" The music, the frank commentary, she can pick which one!

Are there other people here? Probably, but Anne isn't really counting the patrons of the bar. For what it's worth, there's at least one other couple at a table over there~ who look very relieved when the pianist gets up .. only to look promptly unrelieved when Patrick sits down. But while confusion reigns supreme for Anne, she at least stays in the spot he silently instructs her to stay in, which is a step in the right direction! But without the step, of course, because Anne doesn't move.

She does, however, wince at the first note. He might look pretty (and he does look very~ pretty), but he doesn't play pretty. The grimace holds at the sudden frankness, coupled with a lean backwards and a fluttering of her lashes at widening blue eyes. She needs a drink, and there is a moment where she looks for help from the bar, but it would be pretty shitty of her to leave those words lingering while she gets her bourbon on. Besides.. "I broke your heart?" Her voice raises above the badly tuned piano. "No, no. That's absolutely not what happened, you left town! You left town when you could've stayed and been a lawyer here." Anne stubbornly folds her arms over her chest, "You broke my heart, Patrick Addington, not the other way around. I don't want to be friends with you, either."

The important point is that Patrick is very adamant about his, "Yes!" She broke his heart. Everything else - well, he should let it all go, but a derisive laugh falls out of him of its own accord when he clangs all ten fingers discordantly down on the piano keys. Thankfully, that's when the racket ends. "Oh, is that all I had to do? Stay and be a lawyer here?" He lifts one of the hands off the keys, slaps it to his forehead, like wow! This is news to him! "If only I'd known!"

He stands up about then, comes over to where he left Anne - 'cause of course she didn't move, THAT'S THE WHOLE PROBLEM!!!!!!! - and once more takes her by both shoulders. Seriously, "I am here, Anne. Indefinitely. Until I die or worse." Which hurts his heart a lot, for the record. "So you got what you wanted. Now, for Christ's sake, will you stop picking fights with me about every fucking thing and understand that I care because I care?" At least he only shakes her a little bit. "God, you're infuriating."

"Yes!" Anne can be just as adamant as Patrick can be on important parts, which is why there's a resolute answer to his 'that's all he had to do'. It follows the cringe as he hits all ten keys, but she doesn't back away. She holds her ground! She is immoveable. Which is, absolutely, the entire problem. It's good for him though - there's a lot of tension there in her shoulders, but she doesn't pull away when he grabs her by them, stubbornness keeping her stiff and her chin up as she glares, matching blue eyes to gray.

"Did I?" Get what she wanted. "Do you really think this is what I wanted? For you to leave for ten years and come back and not for me or for us or for anything except Margaret?" There's a tightness to her jaw, but the words make her wince again, blue eyes turning briefly misty. "God, fuck," Anne sputters, her shoulders slumping, and she moves to peel his hands off of her - but instead of just shoving them off, she grips up his fingers, dropping her watery focus to his chin. "I'm still so mad," she admits, words sharp, but the volume low. "And I'm not even mad that you left. I'm mad that I couldn't get you to stay," her voice shakes as she says that. "And I'm mad that you couldn't get me to leave."

Absorbing the return-fire as best he can, given he's pretty drunk by now, Patrick bites his fingers into her collarbones at the Margaret comment, so it's probably for the best that Anne's making him move his fingers afterward. Or it's superfluous, since his own hands slacken when they curl around hers, dragging off the curve of her shoulders and weighting her hands down with his. He looks sadly down at her and says, "Do you know that the last time that I - " He leans forward, resting his forehead against hers (it's a long way to lean, he stumbles once before he gets it right). " - prowled around in anyone's head, it was yours? And that fucking awful ache." He swallows.

"That fucking awful ache because you couldn't get me to stay..." He was going somewhere with that story, but he's lost the destination along the way, so he just pulls in a breath. "I'm drunk. And getting maudlin." Briskly, "It's time to go." There's a peck for her forehead, a (not crushing) squeeze for her fingers, a sobering sniff and glance around.

Anne shouldn't have had so much bourbon so quickly; she was subtly swaying in place as he stumbles towards her, his image swimming in tear-stained eyes until he's too close for her to focus what-so-ever. The press of his forehead to her own - or maybe the way he just looked so sad - makes her close her eyes, a sharp intake of breath choking in her throat at his words. "Patrick.." her voice quivers, barely above a whisper now, and her fingers tangle around his own. There's a subtle pull as he gets lost in his story, but she's not forceful enough to keep him close when he starts to straighten up.

It's not difficult to see that she was crushed when he pecks her on the forehead, tears clinging to her lashes but she's too stubborn to let them fall. She's also too stubborn to release his fingers, the grip tightening as he looks around. "Okay," she replies, follows it with a sniff, and a stiff nod of her head. "Okay. We can go. But I'm not.." This was hard. She was drunk and emotional and stubborn as hell. "I'm not done. And we don't have to be friends, Patrick, but I don't want to be done."

Heavily, exhaustedly, candidly, "We're never going to be done." But they do have to be done, sans italics, because they're a hair's breadth from making a scene - plus the pianist is, like, trying to squeeze back into his seat to resume making his jangling versions of songs. He gets a hateful from Patrick look over the top of Anne's head, but it's enough to have him drawing on her hands back over to the table. Where he'll help her on with her coat, collect his own, and look sloshily around the restaurant or bar or whatever this place is.

"We should call for a car." Because they're way too drunk to be driving themselves places. The cold air outside is rejuvenating enough that there are no more angsty outbursts from here on, just a quiet ride up Bayside to Anne's house, during which Patrick quietly plays with her fingers in the backseat and watches out the window while she goes inside, ending the evening with a subdued, "I'll call you later." So someone's getting a drunk two AM voicemail. 😃