Lag 6.19 (Draft Preview) (Patreon)

Lag 6.19

                          – o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

Susan Veder couldn’t remember the last time she had a night out like this.

Has it been three years? She felt a frown form on her face at the self-directed question, unable to actually answer it definitively.

Maybe four, if she was being honest.

Back then, nights like these had been a fog of glittering parties, champagne-fueled chatter, and the constant swirl of her ex-husband’s eccentricities. The last part, especially, had left its mark on her memory.

The last year of her marriage had been... hazy, to say the least.

A good amount of alcohol had been involved, really.

Regardless of exactly how long it had actually been, it had been quite a long time since she’d attended an event at all, let alone one as big as this.

A gala.

A swirl of celebrities, wealth, and fancy clothes that seemed to have no end.

A night where even the valets were as pristine as the cars they parked, a detail she had completely let slip her mind until a few minutes ago. Just one of a small mountain of important details about events like these had slipped through the cracks in her memory.

God, Suzy, you’re such an idiot! Idiot! Valets were a given for things like this, she should have remembered that. How did a simple concept like that slip her mind? She hadn’t even given it an ounce of thought until she had already pulled up to the event to see those same valets pulling away with Mercedes and Bentleys from those who had pulled up to the red carpeted entrance.

And her with her simple hatchback — a humble candy blue Nova Pulse. She was lucky Greg had seemed occupied with his phone, because otherwise, she’d have to explain why the red on her face was visible from a distance, she was sure of it. I can’t drive up there with this, she groaned to herself as she fought the urge to introduce her forehead to the steering wheel, feeling like a stupid teenager lost in a world she had long left behind, I’d be a complete joke.

So, she didn’t.

Maneuvering around the block for a few good minutes until she found a suitable garage, Susan parked her car and began making her way down the street. The high-rise buildings of the city cast long shadows in the waning daylight as she and her son, her dear, confusing, bewildering son, walked down the street, the gallery's hulking, asymmetrical form looming in the distance.

Heading towards the gallery with her son on her arm had felt like being transported back in time more than anything else. The towering asymmetrical structure of the Forsberg Gallery in the distance loomed ahead, a twenty-six story architectural marvel surrounded by the bland buildings of Brockton Bay. From a distance, she could see photographers' flashes slicing the dark like miniature lightning, their cameras visible even under the massive flood lights that framed the gallery itself, the collective murmur of the crowd a dull roar, growing louder with each step they took…

This was the sort of nostalgia that was entirely uninvited and still managed to overstay its welcome — the kind that gnawed at her heart and left a bitter aftertaste.

Striding past the initial set of velvet ropes arm-in-arm with her son and still nearly half a block away from the red carpet proper, Susan Veder felt herself recalling her past, the wandering paths that had led her where she was.

From a frightened, depressed, near-suicidal teenager to an unexpected mother, and then suddenly a wife in a rushed marriage, it had been nothing but a whirlwind of events. Life happened so quickly, and she was always playing catch-up. Any potential dreams she might have had for herself died early under the fog of her depression, thickened by the sudden death of both her parents.

Then, like a streak of sunlight piercing through the dense fog, he appeared.

Him.

Her Prince Charming. Her knight in shining armor, complete with blond hair, muscles and a stunning smile that stole her breath away. A chance encounter on a crowded street had led to a whirlwind romance that felt straight out of a fairytale.

Tall, rich, handsome, and with a jawline chiseled from marble, the young man standing in her way that day on the sidewalk didn’t have to do much more than smile at her before she felt her heart skip a beat. With a simple and deep “Hey”, Susan knew she was smitten.

In very little time, she ended up in the arms and then the bed of some rich boy who treated her like a fairytale princess. Her life had transformed overnight. From a struggling lower-middle-class existence to one where she brushed shoulders with the city's elite. It was magical, intoxicating.

For the first time in what felt like the longest time, Susan Marie White had felt happy.

Truly, deeply happy.

But fairy tales don’t last.

In her case, it hadn’t even lasted a full year.

All of a sudden, she was pregnant and her Prince Charming was suddenly a completely different man than the storybook prince he had been in her eyes. He was a brat, spoiled, entitled, violent, a man-child wrapped in the veneer of adulthood. Yet she couldn't shake off the memories of him—the memory of what he had promised her.

It didn’t even last a full year.

Either way, she did her best to hold onto the feeling but her old Prince Charming continued to prove that what she thought she had was only a fantasy and in his place, he left a spoiled brat of a man that never had to grow up.

Even though it had been quite some time since she had seen her old Prince Charming, let alone heard his voice, sometimes she couldn’t help but think back to when she first met him.

Years after their separation, memories of their time together would sneak up on her. She was reminded of it most recently when she looked at her son, more often than not. Especially now, as he led her towards the bustling gala.

As they passed the snaking line of uninvited attendees waiting for their turn to enter, an irritated voice pierced through the clamor. "Excuse me?" The protest came from a balding man in a well-tailored navy blue suit as mother and son walked past him on the sidewalk, displeasure clear on his pinched face.

"You're excused," came the nonchalant reply from her son as he turned around to casually dismiss the man. He wore a look that rang with bored indifference — a polite, albeit vacant, smile — but it wasn’t enough to hide the slight hint of amusement in his eyes. Susan recognized that expression.

She knew it all too well.

Rowan wore it often whenever he saw a potential opportunity to kick sand in someone’s face, sometimes literally.

The older man stepped forward, bristling at Greg's dismissive response. He pointed to the queue behind him, the single-breasted jacket of his worn suit straining at the action. "What do you think you're doing, young man? There's a line,” he huffed, gesturing at the people waiting patiently.

Susan glanced up and down said line, making eye contact with some familiar faces as she was met with a slight nod and a smile. While those she recognized chose to say nothing, many more unfamiliar individuals kept quiet all the same, clearly interested but keen to steer clear of any drama.

She glanced back to see her son’s smile rise slightly, his bored look gaining a hint of playfulness as he turned around properly and let go of her arm. Greg reached into the inner pocket of his luxurious jacket, the dark blue stripes on top of white fabric embellishing the suitcoat. "We have tickets... sir."

"Son, we've all purchased tickets," the man reiterated, the depth of his frown increasing. His robust, grey mustache quivered with ill-concealed annoyance, his hand clenching around his own white ticket. "The line exists for that reason," he made a sweeping motion with his hand, indicating the multitude of people obediently queued on either side of him.

"Exactly, you bought tickets," Greg's words rang clear, a mocking smile making his intentions clear as he pulled his hand from his jacket pocket. Held loosely between his fingers was a sleek booklet of black cardstock, the embossed silver letters glinting in the artificial light. A ticket, equally dark, was nestled within it. “That’s why you’re behind the line and I’m not. Mind your hairline before you mind my business, gramps.”

With a casual roll of his eyes, Greg scoffed at the stunned man, turning on his heels to stride confidently towards the relentless strobe of camera flashes.

For the first time in at least four years, Susan experienced a familiar sense of embarrassment, raising her hands in a conciliatory gesture towards the line of disgruntled guests, Greg’s words apparently not sitting well with some of them. The balding man himself stood aghast, his mouth moving soundlessly as he gripped his expensive ticket as though it were his last lifeline. "I am genuinely sorry," she offered him and everyone else an apologetic smile, the words rolling off her tongue with well-practiced ease, her voice carrying the sincerity of past experiences. “About all of that. Honestly, I am.”

“Mom!” His call came loud and sharp, Susan flinching slightly at the call.

"He's not usually this… rough," she stumbled over the words, trying to ease the older man's injured pride as best she could. "He's a good boy, it's just...adolescence and…"

“Mom!” Greg's voice reverberated through the night air once more, a clear note of impatience edging his tone. "Get a move on, already!”

“Coming, Greggie!” A glance behind her had her chuckling nervously. “Again… a good boy.”