2021-09-20 - Of All the Gin Joints In All The Towns In All The World

Well, the town is a mess.

Word travels quickly enough, especially for a woman whose family makes it her business to know what has happened and what to expect - whether she likes it or not. With the late night dinner crush fading to a few stragglers as the darkest hours of the evening descends upon Two If By Sea, a new arrival to the beleaguered city enters with the faint clicking of dangerously thin stiletto heels, Parisian thigh-high stockings wedged into a cigarette skirt and a long sleeved silk blouse dyed a deep blue to highlight eyes like bottled lightning. Odile Devereux's fine-boned face tilts to regard the lingering patrons within with a half-lid stare that makes her look almost sleepy, before she tucks her purse into the crook of her elbow and moves to the bar.

She searches for a familiar countenance - not just anyone's, plucked from a myriad of memories of summers past in Gray Harbor, but for a very specific one. Most privileged American families of a certain income bracket tend to hold very small circles, and she had actually heard of Easton Marshall's possession of the seaside establishment well before she even set a dainty, elegant foot back in the Pacific Northwest. She finds him working the counter, eventually, pausing for a moment to stare - not that she has doubted the word, especially when much of it had come from the man himself, but still. It was something to be seen for herself - after all, the man had a free ride to Columbia Law once upon a time.

"Mon dieu," she breathes, the words unmistakably kissed by the audible notes of the City of Lights - and loud enough for him to hear. What are friendships for, if not to exploit the implied carte blanche to give one another tremendous amounts of shit? "It is true."

The taps are filled with Octoberfest and pumpkin beers and local ciders. The glass doors are closed up against the now very cool ocean air that blows across the patio. The fire pits outside are going but only one has anyone around it. It's already well into fall here in Gray Harbor despite what the calendar says.

Easton is in fact behind the bar. He's dressed down for a night of bartending in a black tee-shirt with the Twofer's logo on the chest in white, with his usual dark jeans over scuffed leather boots. He is chatting to a customer when the sound of stilletos causes something like a sixth sense to raise the hair on the back of his neck. His eyes flick once over the new comer, ruling out the reappearance of a specter from his past that had been haunting him. Not that KK was an actual ghost, but her brief stay in Gray Harbor was enough for Easton, particularly as she was only a shade of the formidable tour de force he knew in a previous life. But with that former flame ruled out, Easton returns to the conversation without a second look.

It's the French exclamation that causes him to pause again, and finally look up at the further utterance. It takes him a moment for recognition to widen his cool gray eyes, the ones that always seem to match the weather out here on the coast. He shouldn't be that surprised, she's an Addington. They own this town. At least the more legit portion of it. But raises two hands in a /what's this/ gesture and exhales, "Ho-ly fuck." Because he may have been raised as one of the elite gentile scions of a major financial family, he's very removed from that life now. He runs a hand over his beard, smoothing down some of the fly-aways but it's starting to get unruly. Once the hand is gone though he breaks out in a big smile, one that creases his dimples and despite the beard and mileage from his experiences helps transform his face into one that she would remember clearly.

Easton comes out from behind the bar, his hands back out to their semi-confused, semi-greeting state of open-ness. "Look /at you/" He literally looks her up and down. Really it shouldn't be surprising that this is the woman Odile became, but it still rocks Easton's head a bit as he takes it all in. "You look great." You look like a path not taken. He looks down at himself and gives a little chuckle at the thought of how far apart he looks from their previously aligned path and then moves to envelop her in a hug. He's a hugger. Any cool, reserved WASP nature having long since been abandoned.

Returning to Gray Harbor has opened much by way of doors that should have remained locked from her perspective, spilling out its bloody guts whenever the hinges squeak in warning, disgust and apprehension being the most paramount of these. Really, it ought to be the tagline of anyone's biographical chapter should they ever return here: Fear and Loathing in Gray Harbor.

But with Easton's open smile and the way he smoothes out the tufts of dark hair sticking up from a long day's work, much of that vanishes for a time, true to the city's modus operandi in that regard. If nothing else, the town over which her family holds a tremendous amount of sway weaponizes memories, and the most pleasant ones tend to leave the deepest wounds for the Addington consigliere. The man has played pivotal parts in them and for a few seconds, Odile revisits the image of the youth she once knew and the open arms he offers. Arms that once held her in the first and only time she let anyone else other than Harrison see her tears. She could not be blamed, then, for stepping readily into them, graceful limbs looping and crossing over his shoulderblades in a greeting that is decidedly warmer than she would give almost any other.

"Mon ange. You look like you," she murmurs within the embrace - the highest compliment anyone has received from her since her arrival, lips brushing the air close to both his cheeks in a typical European greeting before easing back so she can frame his face between both her hands and bludgeon him with the full brunt of the smile curving up a lush and secretive mouth. "You know, when you first told me about acquiring this place, I thought you were joking, but it looks like it agrees with your soul." ...but definitely not his dress, my god. She takes comfort in the idea that his marine blues are still around somewhere. "No regrets yet, I take it?"

Easton doesn't linger in the hug, their history is now a part of a life that ended a long time ago. His scent is appropriately whiskey and cigarette smoke with a hint of something fall like fallen leaves, a far more earthy and modest breath to accompany the new life. He pulls back from her and for a moment lets his hands rest on her shoulders, still wearing that warm surprised smile.

But reality creeps in at the corners as they droop and something in his eyes shift, the creases at the corner releasing. He looks at her again, as if seeing something new, but the sense is truly in his chest. He didn't know what Glimmer was back when they were kids. They all felt some sense of connection or belonging that went unspoken beyond childish words that contained it to something tangible or safe. Popular. Cool. It didn't matter that it was hardly constrained to class, that too was explained merely as Potential or in the more extreme cases Weird. And just like with Justin and Erin, Easton now reconciles those memories with the hard-won knowledge of the last few years.

"What the fuck are you doing back in town?"

He didn't mean for it to sound so judgemental. It should have been a light hearted quip of surprise but it's been a rough week and he's not coping as well as he'd like to pretend with some of the latest curveballs. At the mention of his bar, a smile returns but it's a weak, polite one and he looks around with a sniff, "Yeah." My soul. God help me if anything in this place agrees with my soul. He all but snorts at the question about regrets, "No- no regrets." Not about the bar. Or leaving his past life anyway.

It isn't the words but the way he says them, and the smile playing on Odile's mouth fades at the corners, followed by a scrutinizing and slightly angled look from underneath long lashes and the elegant arches of dark brows. "Don't tell me that putain of a former fiancee is still here," she replies mildly, vulgarity made elegant by polished diction and the brush of her accent; that, at least, remains constant, this instinct in her to always go for the jugular of the problem before it can get worse. "The offer still stands, Easton. I do not care if she is a Kennedy." She never really determined whether Katherine was part of the dynasty, but she was a lawyer raised in the American eastern seaboard - it was a safe bet that there were at least some connections there.

Released from their embrace, a long leg steps sideways, following to where he might lead, though once it's time to actually give him a significant response to his query, there's a heavy sigh. "I don't think it is that difficult a guess," she remarks dryly. "It seems that it is time to put all of my fancy education to work for the good of the family, considering fixing all of this..." She gestures towards the windows and the faint glimpse of the outside world, implicative that she is referring to the destruction the storm had left behind. "...will undoubtedly make quite a dent on the family coffers. I was called in to make sure everything is on board - and a favor to Hyacinth on issues regarding the mill." Reminder of the saw mill, no matter how indirect, clenches at her stomach. "It is good to hear that you've no regrets about the bar - sometimes good investments are not just measured in cashflow." She would know, even if plenty of her former clients would disagree.

Still the weak smile and the sniff overtakes most of her attention. And while she doesn't ask outright, the question is on her face - emphatic and probing, those striking blue eyes roaming over his features. He would know it, she will continue to stare at him that way until he spills.

The mention of his former fiance brings back that huge smile, particularly the part where Odile has offered in the past to make her disappear. Easton grins and shakes his head with a low laugh, "No. KK showed up just long enough for me to pretend I was still a part of the Marshall family." The fact that he ended up in that deal now feels like some play on her part. Did he do it because of her? Why would he even take a step back towards that life otherwise? Whatever the case, Easton's glad to be rid of both the casino and Katherine. "You can stand down, but I appreciate the offer as always."

"You're in a bar. You need a drink."

It's an abrupt transition and meant to be one, it cuts off whatever look she's giving him that threatens to expose a hell of a lot more than pleasantries like putting a hit out on his ex-fiance. He heads behind the bar as if seeking it's protection, flipping a towel over his shoulder and resting his hands on the bar bring him back to a place of comfort, a tangible reminder of who he is now. He shakes his head and says, "Surprised that the business with Thomas didn't drag you back sooner." The head shaking continues, "Are you ..." He stops and decides there are other things that need to come first.

"What are you drinking?"

He could feel it, the squint she directs at his back when he turns it to seek the protection of the bar; glittering ice-blue javelins threatening to carve down his spine and perhaps take out his other leg. But perhaps some semblance of mercy is smiling down on Easton today when Odile doesn't pursue it, nestling in the more comfortable bosom of the united front she could be counted on to present with the issues regarding his former fiancee. "At least that's over with," she observes instead, though she sounds almost petulant about it. "You never let me have any fun." The last a more overt tease.

Years of ballet have not left her; as if made of silk and air, the fluidity in which she slides onto a bar stool at the very corner in front of him is practically preternatural, setting her bag to the side (a trick long-practiced to ensure that nobody sits in the chair next to her). "I wouldn't be opposed to something extremely potent, if you have it. I don't care if it's paint thinner, I will probably need it." Mention of Thomas threatens to crack those porcelain features into something more telling, a brief flicker over blue eyes before she takes a breath, elegant shoulders shrugging faintly. "As for Old Tommy, we were here for the funeral of the others, two summers ago - Patrick's parents, and Erin's...but Maman was adamant that we leave as soon as that was over. She thought that whatever plagued the family then might hit her branch if we stayed for longer than that, and I couldn't blame her for thinking so."

But now she knows the truth of it, the reasons for it, and it makes her sick to her stomach. It might not register on her features, but Easton knows her better than most - he would be able to sense that she has been read in.

After a moment, she draws out another sigh, leaning forward to cradle her chin on a palm and long, artistic fingers. "Am I what?" she wonders, never one to let anything lie, especially when aborted that way.

There was a time when Easton was fully arrayed with the haughty armor of wealth and privilege, armed with a biting tongue and withering look. He was more than a match for those around him and would gladly clash with anyone. But those days are long past and now it feels so odd to have her turn that look on him in his present state as if she's the one who brought the gun to the knife fight when that is nearly always the other way around in his case. He knows there was a time when this was as comfortable to him as breathing, and it's a little distressing to feel how out of practice he is, even if it is by choice.

"I'm sure you have plenty of fun without needing permission from me or anybody."

He grunts at the news about the funerals, "Smart move on your mom's part. There were far too many dead Addington's that year." He tries not to think of the funeral. Of Itzhak's violin absolutely destroying him in ways he didn't think possible. Of the look in the ghost of Tom's eyes. Tom's eyes. His jaw flexes and brings him back to the present and he pulls two glasses out and pours three fingers of Knob Creek whiskey into each. "Well you're back in the states so you're going to drink like it."

With his glass raised he gives her a knowing look, as if they are toasting to the beginning of something that they know will not be altogether pleasant.

"Are you planning to stay long?" It's fatalistic in tone. He wants very badly for her to say she's just in town for a few days to sort those affairs off and then hop on someone's private jet back to Europe or somewhere else ... anywhere else. But he's already seen the look in her eyes. She knows what kind of town this is, and she's here anyway.

There is no complaint in her when he pours out the whiskey, gratefully reaching for the tumbler and cradling it within those elegant fingers. "Salut, mon cher," Odile murmurs, lifting it to him in their not-so-silent toast, before she swallows the first finger and feeling it burn. She makes a face - perhaps that's expected, but it's one peppered with gratitude for something strong to thaw the ice in her veins - or at least, the glaciers that she insists are there, bred from the womb to appreciate the appearance of indomitability no matter how far reality stands from the facade. Here, at least, she doesn't have to pretend much. Easton is one of the few who knows how deep the wounds truly are.

Are you planning to stay long?

The alcohol is working already. That pale, imperious, elegant face softens palpably, more visible around those bottled-lightning eyes than anywhere else. Mentalists aren't mindreaders, but they are empaths no matter the degree of ability or the color of their stripes...and she has inherited her older cousin Hyacinth's penchant for the Art. She knows he doesn't want her here, a testament to the fact that despite the years and distance, he hasn't stopped caring about her in the way that she finds precious anchors in his friendship. How many people can she truly say that about, really? "I'm afraid that I'm here for the immediate future," she confesses, lifting her chin and something more defiant flashing in her eyes - not directed at Easton, but rather that she means what she says. She is afraid. People who know the nature of the town ought to be. But like hell if she would show it, or admit it overtly. "The family affairs are a mess. It's much improved since the accord with the Baxters, but...from what Hyacinth tells me, all of this was caused by one of them."

Said with a tone that implies that if she had her way, she is inclined to also make said Baxter disappear, making it necessary for her to return here on top of other unforeseen and unspeakable consequences, but that would only be feeding the cycle and Hyacinth had been adamant that it needs to be cut off; these days, with Old Marge put out to pasture, what she says goes. "So, catch me up. Other than the usual, what else are we dealing with, here?"

Easton nods and grunts back an oh so American-ized "Salut" that is entirely on purpose in it's lack of French pronunciation. He doesn't wince at all at his first gulp. It's not his first whiskey tonight and it will definitely not be his last, even if Odile hadn't shown up. He watches her reaction at the question and can't help show a little disappointment at the answer though he covers it with another sip and a nod. It's what he expected. It just means another person in the line of fire for him to worry about keeping safe.

"I don't think Gohl being a Baxter had much to do with ... I mean." He stops himself and corrects. "He was a killer. And yeah he took that out on your family, and I'm sorry." His conflict about Gohl and everything he was made out to be and everything he took is etched on his face and somehow stopping the words from flowing in what would be his normal loud crass manner. "It was beyond just a bad feud though... that was something else entirely." Something he doesn't really want to discuss. Because of his uncle's part in all of it and because of what he lost in it.

"Ha. You know? You hit town at a funny time." Easton's smile isn't exactly merriment and joy though, more sardonic and pained. "Something happened in that storm O." He knows that sounds cryptic and he hates sounding cryptic. There is far too much pussy footing around the darkness and oooh you can't say Voldemort for his taste. "But I don't know what. Fuck, everyone here who stands out can't remember anything between then and just a few days ago. We didn't get lost, we just ... forgot. So sadly darling, I think you're about as caught up as I am right now."

For all of his bluster and egotism in their youth, Odile has always managed to count on Easton to be protective, and knows him well enough to at least anticipate what the grimace and the gulp of his whiskey means. That instinct is one that she has never denied him with the usual compensatory bluster about being able to take care of herself, and it would be hypocritical when she knows she thinks and feels the same. She also knows better; knowing is at least more boon than bane in this instance. Dreams are unpredictable in Gray Harbor, and the safest bet is to always stack the deck

After another swallow of her whiskey, there's a nod. "I know," she murmurs, regarding Gohl - the true nature of the feud. A hand comes up to rub the side of her face, remembering the slew of disturbing information that her cousin had dropped on her lap upon arrival. "As for condolences, I wonder if we didn't deserve some of it and this was just an upset balance that the Universe was trying to restore." To address decades of murder, sacrifice and conspiracy...and all for what, exactly? The thought makes her down most of her drink and she pushes the glass towards her bartender for a refill.

His next does force her to gird her loins, so to speak, at the idea of returning at a funny time. Something happened in that storm. "What do you mean forgot?" she wonders. "As in...when the storm hit, everyone's memories just vanished? How many days - a week? A couple? Has anyone tried to ask a reader whether they could bridge the gap?" Not that she expects Easton to know, but her profession is one that tends to have her posing questions unabashedly. She cannot operate at full cerebral capacity without information.

As the words leave her mouth, she must realize it belatedly, and her companion would have a clear view of her making such a face at how easy it is to fall back into it. Wondering, questioning, attempting to break down the lunacy of it all to make some sense of it...talking about such things as if this was normal when it isn't.

"No one fucking deserved /that/." Easton's temper flairs briefly at the thought of anyone justifying Gohl's actions. It's not what she means of course and he's quick to relent into a more disgruntled than angry, "And fuck the universe if that's its idea of fairness." He pours her another and refills his own before relenting further, "It was meant to hurt people because /they/ like to hurt people. They just found someone who felt the same and had some personal vendettas."

He takes a slower sip of the whiskey and holds his head back with eyes closed for a moment to try to regain his composure more fully. The switch of subject to the storm helps a little. "I mean we woke up a few days ago thinking it was still July, the morning after the storm. We didn't even realize it was September for a while.." He thinks of him and Bennie's chaos with the baby situation, which in retrospect is funny but then horrifying. "I haven't. Can't get a hold of Clayton. De La Vega is stopping by later to .. well he can try?" Ruiz was supposed to be mentally interrogating the ghost of Tom that suddenly reappeared before the storm. But he hasn't been seen since, hence Easton being all out of sorts about it. Again. He knows it's a button and he loathes that something has the power to reach into his life and just push that whenever the hell they feel like it and watch him flop around.

He catches the look at the end and a small, but genuine smile curves his lips as he licks a bit of the whiskey from his mustache. Yes, they both wish she weren't going to be involved in all this, but it's funny how quickly she falls into it. And Easton knows he should still be annoyed and frustrated that she's putting herself at risk by willingly subjecting herself to whatever horrors this town has in store, but there's also that tiny selfish part of him that is glad to have someone that he knows, that really knows him, here.

His anger washes over her with nary a blink or change in her snow-white countenance, like hellfire blowing over an iceberg. Odile has always nursed a reputation for being mostly unflappable, as if the display of overt emotion was somehow anathema in her branch of the family (and perhaps that is true - Easton would be familiar with her domineering ambitious mother and her strict, severe father), but he would get a sense this is because she knows he doesn't intend to direct the remark at her. Still, she doesn't apologize for it and simply agrees with what he says. "The dolorphages," she tells him quietly. "Has that become better or worse, you think, in the last few years?"

She doesn't know who Clayton is, but de la Vega is at least familiar - if not just because she always performs some degree of due diligence before embarking on a new assignment, having spent the long plane ride from the East Coast to West familiarizing herself with the names and faces of the new authority figures in town who aren't Addingtons. "Do you often have drinks with the acting chief of police?" she wonders with a faint smirk. "I thought your days of hob-nobbing with authority figures are well behind you?" And then, a touch more seriously, she adds, "If he's a reader, you can ask him to try. I haven't practiced recently, at least not yet. Something tells me a cause will come along that will remind me how handy it is sooner rather than later."

The knowing smile gets the flattest look imaginable, before the ex-ballerina swallows another gulp of her refill. "Ugh, arretez. You know if I could cut it out of me, I would. But you know what they say about blood and it being thicker than water - and better to have it than not, if someone is trapped here." After a moment, she gives him a curious look. "You know, you never did tell me why here. You could have gone anywhere, Easy, even after your discharge from the corps."

Somehow her non-reaction comes as a chastisement of sorts. That coolness and control that one should have, that Easton willfully pushes back with every too loud proclamation of things we don't talk about. But from Odile, he accepts it. In this case there is no reason to get all worked up about anything. The /dolorphages/ .. really that's caught on? Easton grunts and says, "The tiny bitch-dicks." Giving them any title or name that suggest they are imposing is anathema to him. He considers the question though, raising his glass and holding it pensively. "Hard to say, when I was kid here.. it felt like a spooky game. And then I'd leave and convince myself I was just fuckin' around, pretending to believe in the boogey-men to scare the others." He shakes his head and says, "Tobin's mom. Magnolia's dad... it's not like people didn't go missing back then." He hesitates and admits, "I was over there for a while.. earlier this year." A while. It was months.

Easton sputters on his drink and coughs, not quite a spit take but certainly something caught him by surprise. "Hob- cough nobbing?" He's smiling through the coughing, obvioulsy amused. "You'll have to meet the Chief to understand why that's so funny. I don't think I can imagine Javier De La Vega /hob-nobbing/" Of course Easton also laughing because he's wondering if getting drunk in the woods, beating the shit out of one another and then having sex counts as 'hob-nobbing'. With that smile still at the corner of his lips he recovers to say, "He is a reader. One of the strongest right now. And a little prickly, but he grows on you."

"Why here? I think it's my deep-seated sadomasochistic fatalistic tendency." Easton continues the smile and takes a sip. It'd be plenty to put off most people but he knows it's not going to be enough of an answer here. He looks a way for a brief second and says, "I woke up from the accident haunted." He considers elaborating but keeps it surface-y for now. "And I needed some answers. I figured this spooky little town was the best place to find 'em." And then a genuine smile breaks out, "And then I met someone and well, here I am." Obviously he's talking about Geoff. (Okay fiiiiine and Bennie).

Tobin, Magnolia - names that are familiar, but ones that Odile dismisses if not just because she only has so much emotional bandwidth to spare for passing acquaintances; she recognizes, however, that the man before her has relatively close ties to both, and so she isn't as callous as expected, indicative by the subtle softening of those imperious, almost regal features. But it is the news that Easton was over there for a while that widens her eyes, fingers suddenly nerveless against her glass. "Wait, you were Lost?" The slight emphasis to the word means something especially different in their world in comparison to its usual meaning. "For how long?" A critical once over follows - is that the reason why he looks so tired?

"Yes. Hobnobbing. It's a word, it's present in different dictio-- why are you laughing?!" A query that's only probably guaranteed to make Easton laugh harder, but she can't help but chuckle softly after; the sound is infectious, she can't help but be carried along with it. "And prickly too, is he? One might almost suspect that you have a type." A long, significant look directed from a pair of pale blue eyes over the tumbler in her hand, Mona Lisa smile hidden behind its crystalline rim, before taking another swallow of her whiskey. Another reader, and one of the strongest. Stronger than Cinthy, perhaps?

There's a faint sniff regarding his sadomasochistic and fatalistic tendencies, because that's not exactly wrong in Easton's case, but reminder of the accident hardens her pale face; like sculpted out of marble all of a sudden, as if to prevent any emotions or softer sentiments to bleed out. "I'm glad to see you recovered from it. I wish I was able to visit you more often in the aftermath, but I had to be elsewhere." She had been tense, worn, in those hospital visits - haunted by the near loss of him and the shadows of another tragedy weighing down her heart and spirit, but she tried to be a good friend. She, however, had never told him why. But she deviates, for a moment, by wondering, "You're not talking about Geoff, are you? Or someone else? Better than Kitty, I hope?"

Easton just nods, brushing off her concern over the fact that we was among the Lost for a time. "A few weeks .. in uh real time? Hard to say for me, it was ... different. All wonky Dream time that felt very long then but now seems like a bad night's sleep." Easton of course looks tired. Perpetually. Sure there are times when he gets the insomnia under-control, usually when he has a better handle on the drinking. But now really isn't one of those times, and as such he has sunken eyes and dark circles that make him look a good deal older than his actual thirty-odd years.

And yes, Easton does laugh harder at her confusion and protestations. "Oh no, first of all that's not a /thing/" Easton says of Ruiz possibly being a type for him. "And I don't know if you could be more wrong about my type if you tried." He grins and adds, "At least now. Maaaybe there was a time when beautiful emotionally unavailable hard as fuck ladies were a thing." He teases her gently about their non-starter of a fling. "But yeah, there is someone else who has all but erased the memory of Katherine Kennedy." He takes a sip and adds, "You should meet her. She's a local. Not really part of your family's set ... at all." The thought of Bennie Oakes at an Addington garden party particularly when they were younger causes his smile to widen even farther. "Her name's Bennie, Oakes."

The comments about visiting him in the hospital are glossed over with an understanding nod.

"You came though. I appreciate it."

Now he does. Then, Easton was so hard-core focused on recovery and building a new life, completely apart from either of his two very distinct former lives that any visitors were almost a distraction, a nuisance. He knew how to work them with assuring them that he was a fighter and going to come through this just fine, but he had no interest in leaning on anyone or taking any comfort in their support. He forcefully shoved Katherine from his life, the most tenacious of the would-be support team and glad-handed his way through the others with enough bullshit inspirational phrases to convince them their efforts weren't needed. It turns out being raised to put on a good appearance can come in handy sometimes.

The frown present on Odile's features is a mighty one. "If you want to talk about it, you know I'll listen. Just give me a dollar and I'll be able to say that anything you ever say to me is protected by attorney-client privilege," she replies - an offer that's really only half a joke considering the expression Easton flashes at her. "Mon dieu, but you do look tired. Not that I would ever presume to tell you what to do with your life, but you are in desperate need of a spa day, darling."

Mention of beautiful, emotionally unavailable and hard-as-fuck women gets a faint smile; it looks almost preening, mischief and pride dancing on that elusive, crimson mouth. "I would argue that there were plenty of available emotions then," she remarks primly, because of course she would opt for the technically correct clarification. "But I regret nothing - the incident left our friendship on more solid footing and your presence in my life has vastly outlasted the others I deigned to see socially." Apparently dating is a word missing in the Parisian transplant's vocabulary; she's no longer a teenager, for god's sake. That and as Easton would suspect accurately - even if there were such bodies, the numbers are extremely few, and not just because the woman has impossible standards.

"The fact that she's not part of my family's set might be more a tick in her favor than not, Easy," she points out with a sudden laugh. "But yes, I'm happy to meet your newest commitment." Easing away from discussions on his hospital stay, she sighs and glances down at her tumbler. "In truth, I'm not quite certain how much longer I would have managed to keep together that year, so it's just as well that you recovered as well as you did." She pushes the glass away as she stands up from her chair. "A mine took Ari's jeep while he was on tour. Like you, he wasn't...whole...afterwards."

With an exhale, she waves a hand to the side, as if to banish both the memories of Easton and the only man she could ever claim to love lying broken on their hospital beds. "I better head back," she tells him, before fishing out a card and sliding the immaculately engraved, ivory thing across the counter to him. "My current information, call me if you ever need anything I can assist you with - that hasn't changed, oui? We can catch up later once you're better rested. Spa day, Easy. I know I can count on your mademoiselle to rub you in all the ways you need rubbing, but I think your body presently needs the sort of deep tissue treatment that requires trained and certified elbows."

"I appreciate it O." Easton genuinely means it, even if he has no intention of opening up to her about that right now. The only one he's even filled in on any of what happened over there is Geoff, he's asked Bennie to just let it go and she's been happy to honor that. It's something Easton's putting behind him and he has a lot of practice in doing that, sometimes even successfully. The crack about a spa day though pulls his mouth into a smile, at the thought of 'spa day' is so far from his mind.

"Ah, yeah well I won't bring up your moment of weakness if you don't." Easton shakes his head as she brings up her emotional state, which he is always good about not teasing her about. "Agreed. And I hate to think of where that might have gone otherwise." Easton knows he would have hurt her too if she had been by his side after the accident. It wouldn't have mattered. She was too much apart of his old life for it to have had any shot, not that either of them knew that at the time. But the talk of Ari causes him to wince. He could have been more supportive. Hell, he should have been. Beyond some pleasantries, it's not like he actually did much, he was in full on spiral mode at that point.

He slides his hand over the rich thick card and picks it up to examine. He raises his eyebrows at her looking over the card, "No, /that/ hasn't changed." Almost everything else? Yes.

"Oh yes, spa day." He agrees with a touch of posh accent, having no real intention of doing something that frivolous, but it's fun to play along for the moment.