2020-02-26 - Can't Open Up The Jar(Head)

Wintertime in the library suits Harper. She positively glows in the warm light of the library on this overcast Wednesday morning. Moving from the foggy, cold, morning air outside into the inviting space is like briefly escaping the late winter trudgery. The library itself seems to hold its breath for the approaching leap day, a gift of time, though illusory, is nonetheless like a prize of sorts. A red top, a boldly striped skirt, black heels: she wears it easily, an extension of her relentlessly affable demeanor, a middle finger back at winter's attempt at doldrums.

At this particular time, she's the only one working. Mornings are her time. And usually, aside from a few regulars -- especially John over there reading the various newspapers the library is subscribed to -- the space is quiet and full of as yet untapped possibility. Behind the circulation desk, Harper sits typing now and then on the computer there, entering some sort of data.

Better late than never, right? Not nearly in as 'jovial' of mood as Harper, Tyrone pushes in through the doors a little more stiffly than most would remember. Even as he crosses the distance from the door to the circulation desk, the lack of fluidity or strength to his motions would be noticeable. Maybe he just had a really tough day at the gym? Whatever the reason, the former Marine's got a slight grimace on his face as he enters the library.
And then, there's Harper. Tyrone literally freezes for a second when he sees her behind the desk, whether she's noticed him yet or not. A whole bunch of stuff he doesn't understand because emotions aren't things he's ever stopped to consider. But, because it's Tyrone and the fight-or-flight reflex is stuck to the right, he grits his teeth and steadies himself and forces his pushes to look a little more normal, lest she have her dreaded QUESTIONS. Yes, he's perfectly fine, everything's normal, and no, it's totally not weird or different to see him wearing a plain black, puffy winter jacket instead of his military jacket.
"I brought 'em back. And see? You didn't even hafta wait til Friday," he announces, lifting a new, NOT military backpack off the rear of his wheelchair so he can get those books out and place them on the counter.

The stillness of the library makes the motion at the entry doors that much more apparent. Harper turns her attention from the computer screen to where Tyrone enters her library and watches him, her expression briefly inscrutible before the familiar smile slides into place, warming those brown eyes. She lifts her right hand and places it over her heart while watching Tyrone approach, having observed the shift in his demeanor as he rolls toward the desk. She doesn't speak until he's close enough for quiet words to be heard. "Tyrone Grier in my library? I must be dreaming." There's a query hidden in those words somewhere. But it's parsed in a bit of neutrality due to the way their last in-person interaction went and the terse texts that eventually followed.

"You did. You brought my darlings back. Like a true hero. Tyrone," she stretches his name out subtlely. "-- something is different." Of course, there are obvious differences, but Harper believes those are just hints at something more. And the military man not wearing his military gear is a pretty deviant alteration from her previous experience of Tyrone. Aside from the sixty-eight year-old John over on a sofa reading his papers, the place is empty. Harper leans into the desk that separates herself from the marine, resting her red-clad forearms against the surface. "Is today the day you talk to me?"

Blinking a little, and secretly both glad and disappointed that there's no cleavage visible when Harper leans forward on the counter, Tyrone just shrugs and finishes getting the books out of the bag and onto the counter. "Naaaaaaah. Pretty sure this is the real Gray Harbor, the real library, and the real us. Plus, these books is /real/ late, so ...," he trails off, busying himself with returning the backpack to the back of his chair once more. He then leans forward so he can fish his wallet out of the hip-pack that is still slung there. "And I plan on paying the fine, too. I don't care how happy you is you got your books back, rules is rules, and I ain't deserve no favors. So, how much I owe?" And while he definitely heard her questions, Harper can probably tell he's avoiding answering.

Harper flickers a look down at the books as they are stacked and slid toward her but she doesn't stir to reach for them yet. "I've always wondered how I would tell if I were living my life in some Dream. The answer doesn't usually come so easily for me." Implied: lucky Tyrone. As to what the 'real' fine is Harper's features tease with amusement. "Do you realize who you're speaking to, Mr. Grier? I make the rules in this library. They bend to my whim. So the fine? Right now, the fine is an explanation. I want to know what is going on with you. Trust me. I can take it like a soldier." She lifts her hand and gestures in an undeniable 'bring it' motion. "Let me have it."

There's a terse, humorless chuckle when Harper muses about knowing if she were in a Dream. "Oh, you can tell, if you pay attention. There are signs," he offers, without giving more away. "And I /do/ realize who I'm talkin' to, which is why I'm asking what I gotta pay. I ain't got nothin' goin' on right now. That's why I didn't bother to read the books. Ain't no reason to, no more. Just sorry bout bringing them back so late; normally, I'm really good about punctuality and stuff," he says, settling back in his chair.
Tyrone pulls his debit card out of his wallet and sets it on the desk between Harper and himself. "Look, I know you like ta dig and figure me out and stuff. It's really super cute and I appreciate you care 'n everything. But I really don't think you oughta waste your time worrying about me," he says, shaking his head and rolling it side to side slightly. "I'm good," he pauses, grimacing slightly because he knows Harper won't let that fly. So, he amends. "I'm aight. Stuff that was goin' on was months ago, it's over now, so ain't nothin' to talk about. So you ain't gotta worry 'bout me, or how I'm doin', or any of that, 'cause ain't none of that a thing no more." Which was almost like talking! See? She can feel all good about herself and stuff, because he 'talked'! Mission accomplished, time to move on! Or, that's obviously what Tyrone is hoping for.

It may be that Harper was prepared for the humorless response. She may seem superficial to some, but she is no fool. "I'm sorry to hear that you've gone from something to nothing. That's disheartening. But I don't think it's the full story."

Harper watches Tyrone pull out his debit card with an animated gaze that says a whole lot of something that isn't immediately obvious. "You can call me cute all day long, Tyrone, and it won't have the effect you want it to." She settles back in her chair and folds her arms loosely across her chest. "And I'll thank you not to tell me what is and is not a waste of my time. I'm a smart girl and I take all the responsibility for the choices I make. They just might be the only agency I have in this dark world."

Tyrone is 'good'. Harper arches one brow faintly. "Tyrone," she counters to his next statement, so very stubborn, "You don't get to tell me what I do and do not perseverate about. I have an interest in hearing what is going on behind --" She lifts one hand from her folded arms to gesture vaguely in Tyrone's direction in a circle. " -- all this. And I don't think you have much of a reason not to tell me."

Tyrone frowns a little and shakes his head. "I was sayin' you is cute because you are, not because I'm tryin'a holla. I was just paying you a compliment, that's all. I know you already with somebody. Damn." He takes a breath, giving the edge of the counter a rather harsh stare. It takes him a second, and a few more deep breaths, but he regains his cool and rubs his hand over his face before he looks up at Harper. One hand animates the rest of his speech, as he does his best to burn it with fire. "You know, I do appreciate the offer. But, we go'n have to disagree about things. Like the fact that I ain't got no reason /to/ tell you anything, because it won't change anything. What happened, happened. Ain't no amount of talkin' in the world ever changed the past. Plus, only part of it gots ta do with you is these here books, which is what I'm tryin'a fix right now. So, if you don't wanna fine me, that's on you. But what happened ain't had nothin' ta do with you and really ain't none of your business. These books, this is your business. So I'd like to just leave it at that."

Tyrone's explanation of his use of the word 'cute' does a little to undo how patronizing Harper construed it to be, despite their crossed wires. She doesn't feel the need to verbalize this fact while watching him struggle with something mysterious. "Tyrone, are you telling me to mind my own business? Because that is most certainly your prerogative. I would just caution you not to shut that door. That said, all you need to do is say the word and I'll leave you to your steely, stubborn mission of isolation. I may be stubborn, but I'm not senseless." She is quiet a moment, the books left as they are. "What happened?"

"I was gonna leave Gray Harbor. I didn't," Tyrone explains, reaching out to claim his debit card once again. As he sets about putting it back into his wallet and then squirreling his wallet away as he finishes. "And, like I said, I appreciate the offer, Harper. I'm sure you mean it, and I bet you're a terrific friend. You seem like you would be. So thanks. But no thanks. I'ma use the other door," he says, tossing his head towards the entrance before he backs up and turns to start heading towards it.

He essentially tells her 'thanks, but no thanks' when it comes to friendship. "Be well, Tyrone." Harper's voice is warm and perhaps a little sad as she watches him go, respecting where he draws the line. She lifts the fingers of one hand to her head as if accosted by a severe headache. "Let it go, Harper," she murmurs to herself, then reaches out for the books and places them with the other books to be checked in and reshelved. She returns to her data entry, her smile gone.