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She really hadn't been walking for long before she rounded a tree and spotted the Brooks alongside someone else. Well. At least one of their "friends" had turned up, it seemed. Choosing not to cut across the grass, she continued along the cart track for a little ways until Shiloh spotted her. A reciprocal wave and smile had her doing what she'd just said not to do - cut across the grass to meet him. Well, at least it wasn't wet and the grass wouldn't stick to her shoes. Now she was some way away from the church and the funeral, however, and resultantly away from the horrible thoughts, a large part of her brain was now free to think more... useless thoughts. Sometimes they were productive. Most of the time they weren't, however, and that was when she had bad ideas. So far, though, those ideas had gotten her to... a golf course. To actually play golf, and as a guest of the Brooks family. Which really... was an interesting twist to her ideas. Shiloh whizzed through topics so quickly, though, it took her a slight beat to formulate a reply, even as he took her hand and led her towards the other two. 'Disgustingly in denial.' Atley. Had she heard that name before? Hockey? Penn holding a table... you know what, screw it. Whatever. This is a visual representaion of Valeria's brain for a brief moment;
as she processed the information dump Shiloh gave her. Nonetheless, it only took her a beat too long before she replied. Not that bad of a slip, considering she'd been trained through this as well. Still, though. That was quite a decent chunk of information he'd unloaded. "I'll see what I can do about ensuring your brother doesn't die of embarassment." She gave a slight side-eye at Shiloh. "You'd better be buying snacks later though. I expect a reward of sorts if I'm your partner in crime." A slight smile playing on her lips, she took a second before continuing, the playful smile dropping. "I don't think I've met your friends before, though. Atley and Penn are new names to me." Honestly, Valeria might have read ttheir names in the local paper or something, but they'd never interacted with her, and probablyl ived on the other side of town anyway, and went to all the different places that she didn't go, seeing that she'd not really interacted with Shiloh before tiday anyway. "They can't be as bad as you envisioned, though..." Valeria let that trail off just as Atley - who was apparently the name of the third person that was hanging out with them - shot the ball with what looked like excessive flambuoyancy for no reason other than... simply to show off. Even Valeria, who didn't play golf, could tell that it felt slightly excessive. Maybe Shiloh was right on that count. Hmm. "... never mind. I stand corrected." Valeria picked up from where she'd let off with a bit of a rueful tone and a half-smile in Shiloh's direction. Holding it for a second longer, she proceeded to look away and straighten her back almost imperceptibly as they approached. A slight welcoming smile on her face as she approached the other two of them, another useless but sudden thought struck her, even as her smile didn't waver. What was Shiloh meant to introduce her as? He could hardly say the proper reason why she was here, nor could he really say "we met at a funeral". (Who knew on that count, though. Valeria didn't know him well enough to pass judgement on that.) On that same token she couldn't be introduced as "just a friend", could she? Whatever. It was Shiloh's problem, not hers, and there weren't any cameras to record them bindingly. And they were almost there anyway. Why should she worry? |
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Shiloh’s smile faltered just a little when Valeria didn’t immediately react to the names he’d mentioned: no flicker of recognition, no words of basic knowledge. Just that same polite, tentative smile. He could practically hear the judgmental drawl of his friends if one of them tried to introduce themselves and she admitted she didn’t know who they were. It wasn’t even about fame. It was the principle. Here, you were just expected to know who mattered, and they were arrogant enough to assume they did. So he leaned in a little closer, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial murmur as he tried to give her a crash course. “Um, Penn. Pennington Crowley. His parents are big in the medical field. His mum’s a hotshot surgeon, always in those ‘Top Doctors’ lists.” His tone was a touch hurried, wanting to try to fit in as much as he could before someone else got close enough to overhear. “He’s probably the most dramatic person you’ll ever meet, but you can just let him talk. He’s nicer than he pretends to be. His sister is really sweet. She loves classic lit.” He ran a hand through his hair, brushing the wind-swept blonde strands back out of his face. “Atley. Hockey. He’ll talk about it for hours. Just throw in a comment about a hat trick or a power play, and he’ll handle the rest. Sutton’s...well, Sutton’s Sutton. You know.” The exasperation in his voice was matched only by the affectionate warmth beneath it. As if on cue, he glanced over just in time to watch Sutton all but beam at Atley, giving him an enthusiastic congratulations on his perfect shot. It seemed painfully obvious. The way Sutton leaned a little too close, the way Atley seemed to forget to breathe for half a second every time Sutton spoke. Shiloh’s eyes narrowed, and before he could stop himself, he lobbed his little golf pencil straight at his brother’s head. “Stop flirting in front of me,” he snapped, only half-joking, half-actually-annoyed. “At least pretend you’re here for golf, not each other.” Sutton shot him a look, his cheeks tinged pink, and Atley’s laugh came out a little too loud, a little too forced. The two of them exchanged a glance, that awkward, unspoken tension threading between them, and Shiloh resisted the urge to groan out loud. How long could two people pretend not to like each other? “Sorry about them,” he muttered to Valeria, his tone low but fond. “It’s like watching a train crash in slow motion.” But he didn’t let it bother him for too long. His hand slid naturally to the small of her back, a light, steadying touch as he steered her towards the rest of the group. The crisp, sunlit green of the course stretched out around them, and a light breeze teased at the edges of his ridiculous shorts. “Alright, boys,” he announced, a cheerful lilt returning to his voice. “Atley, this is our new friend Valeria. Aubs and I have some business stuff to discuss with her later.” That should handle Atley’s inevitable questions—name, how they knew her, why she was now here. All packaged neatly with the lie of ‘business’ because Atley would never press if he thought it was something formal. Atley turned, and Shiloh noted with amusement the way his gaze seemed to flicker to Sutton first, like a reflex, before it settled on Valeria. He flashed a charming grin, brushing his honey-blonde hair back with one hand. “Nice to meet you, Valeria. You any good at golf, or just here to watch us embarrass ourselves, according to Shiloh?” Shiloh laughed, but he couldn’t help the way his hand instinctively twitched, pulling away from her back. It felt too familiar all of a sudden, and he didn’t want her to think he was being too much. Besides, he’d dragged her here, practically throwing her into the shark tank. He should at least give her a chance to breathe. “Do you have clubs?” he asked, a bit more practically now. “Or do you need to borrow some? We’ve got a few extra in the cart, but they're men's. It's okay if you don't, or if you just want to watch. Watch me crush these losers." Atley snorted, already preparing some chirp about Shiloh’s last sand trap disaster, and Shiloh shot him a mock glare. “Watch it, hockey boy. Some of us don’t get to show off all the time.” He turned his attention back to Valeria, his voice softening just a little. “But really. No pressure. It’s supposed to be fun, in theory." |
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Shiloh's hurried words about his friends was... helpful, at the very least. She'd got one of their last names. That helped. Dr Crowley. That was a name she was familiar with. Her father had definitely done something with them a couple of years ago, if her memory served correctly. Although she'd never picked up they had children, though. As for Atley, the key word "hockey" was enough for Valeria to understand what she'd need to say if confronted with something she didn't know how to handle. It wasn't the first time she'd need to talk to someone only knowing a name and a keyword. "Atley" and "hockey" was probably enough. Although, did her father know his parents? Likely. Valeria couldn't help but stifle a slight laugh, though, as the golf pencil sailed over in a perfect arc and hit Sutton in the head, though. It was definitely something she'd wanted to do before to other people, but oh was it satisfying to watch Sutton and Atley awkwardly try to recover from the brief interlude. Gosh, Valeria had seen them together for about four seconds and she already completely related to Shiloh's comment about the train crashing in slow motion. The hand on her back, though, did suprize her slightly. She left it there, however; if she was being truly honest with heself, it was wierdly comforting. A gesture that few other people had ever shown to her, and her parents were most definitely not on that list. And right now she was going right back into showtime, her mask holding steady. She wasn't really to keen on being truthful with herself, though. There were times where she didn't need to know how little her parents really cared. Briefly making eye contact and smiling as Shiloh introduced her to Atley, she couldn't help but find the 'business stuff' introduction to be slightly amusing. At least, to her it was. Shiloh had no idea how approporiate it was to her to be introduced as 'doing business stuff'. It was the same excuse that she'd grown up with when she was shooed off when someone new came around to the house. "Business stuff." "Nice to meet you too, Atley. I mean... I've never touched a golf club before, but if y'all fall apart, at least I can look good; it's not like I can get any worse." Smiling, she continued, hardly having noiced Shiloh moving his hand away. "Let's just say that if I pick up a golf club today, the goal is to hit the ball without missing. That's a win right there if I can get that to happen." Well, to be fair, the main goal wasn't really to hit the ball today. It was to talk to the Brooks about... the thing. But hitting the golf ball at all was definitely a good side thing too. "I didn't bring clubs, but to be fair I didn't bring any idea of how to play golf either." Valeria glanced up at Shiloh. One eyebrow raised slightly, she continued. "If you're crushing these losers as you claim, though, I can be your cheerleader up to the point where it's more ideal to cheer for someone else." "Deal? I'm here for the fun of it, so don't expect me to swing too many golf clubs. I might later, though - as you said, supposing it's fun, in theory." In theory. In theory. For some wierd reason, that almost made her crack up, but she held it together. She didn't mention the "business" that Shiloh had earlier. They had... what, three hours or so? ... to fulfill that bit. But looking between the three of them, this was going to definitely be entertaining, at the very least. Being here for the fun was definitely a good idea. Even though it wasn't her original plan, now she could watch three guys embarrass themselves for however long it took for them to realize! Wasn't that going to be fun? |
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Shiloh was only half-listening by the time Valeria started talking again, his focus fixed on gauging his next shot with the intensity of someone who hated not being in first place. He caught enough of her words to realize she wasn’t all that invested in the golf part of the outing, more interested in the socializing aspect, and honestly? Fair. Most of the group couldn’t golf to save their lives, and this wasn’t exactly the Master's tour. Still, Shiloh had a reputation to maintain, and Atley having any sort of lead on him was just unacceptable. He stole a glance at his brother, only to catch Sutton’s barely concealed grin. Great. His baby brother was clearly thriving off of the fact that Shiloh wasn’t dominating for once. That was fine. That was cute. He’d remember it later, and Sutton would regret it. Thankfully, Sutton was distracted a second later by the arrival of Penn, storming down the green with the dramatics of a royal envoy, hair perfectly tousled despite his irritation. How was everyone managing to look perfect today, on the one day Shiloh hadn't been prepared? “Why aren’t you guys up at the clubhouse yet? I’m starving,” Penn demanded, scandalized. “I was promised food, not a full tournament.” Shiloh let them bicker: Sutton trying to defend their game plan, Penn not having it, as he lined up his shot. The arc was a little off, and he let out a groan of frustration, but it still landed on the green. Barely. He grimaced but handed Penn his club without a word, wanting to see if he could get him to join, just in time for the other boy to take a glorified whack at a ball and send it rocketing into the rough. Penn stared at the trajectory like it had personally insulted him. “This game is rigged,” he declared, then turned his wrath on Sutton for not texting him about the plan to do all eighteen holes before lunch. The next ten minutes were nothing but chaos: raised voices, overlapping arguments, Shiloh mock-gasping like it was so shocking that Penn was being dramatic, Sutton throwing Shiloh's golf pencil at someone’s head, and Atley laughing so hard he had to lean on his putter. Eventually, someone mentioned Margaux was still waiting back at the clubhouse, and Caulfield had finally arrived, so golf was swiftly abandoned in favor of food. The walk back was loud and rowdy, full of the kind of shoving and easy banter that made Shiloh feel happier than he had in weeks. They were a little too loud, a little too obnoxious, but that was kind of the point. This was the closest thing Shiloh had to peace and relaxation most of the time. His friends all in one place, the sun on his back, and the weight of the grief and not knowing drowned out for now. When they got back to the clubhouse, Caulfield was already perched at their reserved table, ordering drinks with the casual flair of someone who’d clearly flirting with the waitress, and was probably going to tell her it was his birthday in hopes of free dessert. “I ordered three rounds,” he said by way of greeting, “because I know you people. Heathens, all of you.” Shiloh snorted. “Did you bring enough attitude for the whole table? Or are you going to order some of that too” Atley, ever the responsible one—probably because of hockey meal plans and conditioning or whatever—made sure everyone had a glass of water in front of them before anyone so much as touched their drinks. Sutton, despite being maybe the youngest but definitely the most stubborn, pouted when Atley handed him a Shirley Temple with zero hesitation, none of the alcohol passing anywhere near him. “I’m not five,” Sutton muttered under his breath. “At least five and a half,” Atley teased, grinning into his water glass. “Don’t encourage him,” Shiloh grumbled, flopping into one of the padded chairs and immediately trying to snag a menu. “He’ll start calling you ‘dad’ again.” “I only did that once!” Sutton shouted, while the rest of the table howled with laughter, and absolutely vile jokes being thrown around. Then came the sacred, ridiculous ritual of choosing seats—aka everyone pretending it was a serious negotiation. It took another five minutes of fake drama, rock-paper-scissors, and Penn offering to Venmo someone to swap, but they finally settled in. Atley ended up next to Sutton (shocking, Shiloh thought, rolling his eyes so hard they practically left orbit), and Caulfield wedged himself between Penn and Shiloh, muttering something about needing insulation from both of their “overwhelming and disgusting hypermasculinity.” The two girls sat at the end, though Shiloh made sure to wave Valeria over with a warm smile, patting the seat right beside him. “You’re with me,” he said lightly. "Trust me, you don't want to be within range when Penn starts oversharing about his last situationship. He's awful” “I wasn’t going to,” Penn said, affronted. “But now I am.” Once she was seated, he passed a menu over, and waved at Margaux, who looked seriously underwhelmed at the female to male ratio. "Sorry. I wouldn't have invited Caulfield if I'd known it would make y'all get pushed to the end of the table." |
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(Massive apologies for being so late >.>) Welcome to the golf clubhouse! There's one of the most expensive public bathrooms tucked away in the corner that Valeria had ever seen, all the gentrified eating lunch, and a cult occuring at a table that was unobtrusively drawing the glances of everyone in the room. The cult in question? It was the religious ceremony taking place in front of Valeria, who looked on in slight amused exasperation from her spot perching on a chair from a nearby table. How hard could it possibly be to pick seats? Valeria's amusement stemmed from the fact that it was extraodinarily funny to be watching them feud over - seats - and exasperation from after getting to the clubhouse, she'd already watched a bit, gone to the bathroom, come back, and they were still at it. She could have sworn she heard a mention of garlic bread amongst the five boys more than once. Which gave her an indication that this wasn't just about seats, this was about their personal pride, wealth, and... garlic bread. She couldn't figure out where the garlic bread came into the religious ceremony or the battle of the egos, but it was something to keep thought of as the five boys kept at it. She glanced at her watch briefly. It had been about... eight minutes... since the ritual had started. While it hadn't involved a lot of praying, it had definitely involved a bit of chanting and arm-waving and sacrifices. Valeria sighed, and looked away. "Idiots. Bunch of idiots," she muttered with a bit of a smile. Exasperated or not, it was extremely entertaining to watch them have a religious ceremony over... seat choosing. In fact, she would wager her money on if she asked any of them, they'd say they were having a serious, important, calm discussion, and it'd only take a few minutes. Her watch told her otherwise, and she watched on with slight bemusement. "I couldn't agree more." A light female voice to her left had her straightening her spine and looking over in slight suprize. She hadn't noticed her. Shorter than her - about 150, maybe 160, perhaps? - and with shoulderblade-length strawberry blonde hair, she was looking on at the five of them with a much similar expression to what Valeria had been a second ago - slightly amusing, but getting a bit tiring. Sensing her curious gaze, she looked away and studied her for a bit, much like she had just done. "I don't think I've seen you around before," she said with a hint of suprize in her voice. Valeria tamped down the brief feeling that it evoked as she gave a slight smile to her. "Valeria. Shiloh invited me here to discuss business, but given what's going on over there, I'm not too sure how much we'll be able to get done before he gets distracted, honestly." Her voice didn't betray any of the mixed feelings she had about that. The strawbery blonde chuckled slightly, before replying in kind. "Margaux. Welcome to the chaos of five boys who verbally duke it out to figure out who has the biggest mouth." Her gaze flicked back to the five of them, religious ceremony beginning to wind down, and Valeria briefly caught her gaze fixed on one of them for a split second longer than necessary - but before she could trace it and figure it out, it was gone, and she was back to smiling at Valeria. It took her a beat to register he outstretched hand, and she shook it gratefully as her attention turned back to the congregation of boys that were finally no longer shouting and attracting the curious glances of everyone nearby. There weren't that many people nearby, thankfully. Valeria glanced sidelong at Margaux as their attention turned back to the boys. "Good to see that I'm not going to be the only female at the table. I was beginning to worry slightly," she said with a bit of a smile. Truly, it was something that was good. Margaux looked a bit miffed at that statement, contrary to what Valeria had been expecting. "You're right, honestly. There's five of them... and two of us." She didn't need to elaborate on what us and them meant either, and Valeria understood her point. She didn't get to reply, though, as the scraping of chairs and disbanding of the religious ceremony indicated that the ritual was over and they'd properrly decided. Standing up and pushing the chair she'd been sitting on back in, Shiloh waved her over, pating the seat next to her, and after briefly glancing at the rest of them, she made her way over. Glancing at Shiloh and Penn as she sat down, she briefly ensured her ponytail wasn't coming loose before replying to the two of them. "No offence, Penn, but I like my lunch without emotional trauma as the side. It's usually got too much salt in it." Grinning slightly at him to ensure that her words weren't taken too seriously, she looked at Margaux to her right, who still looked at bit miffed at the point she'd raised a minute or so ago. Margaux waved Shiloh's comment off with a slight hand gesture. "No biggie." But even Valeria could tell that she was more miffed than that. She wondered why that could be the case. Whatever it was, it likely wasn't her business, but... whatever. Briefly sharing a glance with Shiloh, she turned away and looked back at the menu in front of her. "What's something that you'd recommend?" She honestly didn't really care what exactly she was eating, if she was being truthful with heself, and experience with some of the places told her to always ask for what do other people think was good. Never again chicken and blackcurrant turnover at that cafe where she'd gone with- God damn it, couldn't she just not think about Izzy for once? Despite that was her whole purpouse here, to discuss theories, right now she didn't exactly want to be assaulted by that memory in particular where they both learnt that chicken and blackcurrant turnovers were not a good idea. Not wanting for anything to change, she squashed the memory as quickly as she was able to, while waiting for Shiloh's reply as he looked at the menu. She just - couldn't - lose it right now. Hr mask didn't slip in that brief moment, but then she was left slightly rattled by it. Would there be a time where she wouldn't be at every mention of her dead friend? Maybe. If there was something beyond what had happened. She didn't know. Ugh. |
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Shiloh was doing his best to juggle about four different conversations at once, which wasn’t entirely unusual; this was the kind of chaos he was built for. Penn, of course, had latched onto his favorite subject of himself, and was unfortunately recounting the sordid highs and lows of his last situationship with a dramatist’s flair, latching onto anyone who didn’t look actively engaged in another conversation. Caulfield was leaned in toward Atley, debating something that sounded vaguely philosophical, while Atley was also half-listening to Sutton, who was whispering something in that low, indignant voice he always used when trying to prove a point. Margaux, never one to be left out, was attempting to steer things back to herself, and Shiloh patted Penn on the shoulder with a distracted, “That sounds so tragic, babe,” and nodded vaguely in Margaux’s direction before being mercifully saved by the arrival of the waiter. Menus were passed around like holy relics, and Shiloh kicked Sutton under the table with a flash of a grin, delighting in the scowl he got back. With the waiter retreating to give them time to decide, the table buzzed with overlapping chatter. Shiloh scanned the menu, sipping his rapidly disappearing drink. Normally he’d go for a steak—something bloody and steaming, but the heat had him reconsidering. The idea of something hot and heavy felt like a mistake, so he reluctantly landed on a cold salad with grilled chicken, hoping the greens would be crisp and the dressing sharp. Meanwhile, the brandy was going down far too easily. That was the problem with this group: half of them had dysfunctional family trees and the other half had already acquired tastes far too adult for their ages. The end result was a table full of guys who drank like they’d already lived two lives. He drained the last of his glass with a low hum of approval, nudging it into the middle of the table to make room. When he looked up again, the conversations had shifted. Penn had gone ominously silent, always a dangerous omen, and was furiously texting someone. Sutton and Atley had gotten louder, which meant the whispering had probably turned into a full-on debate, likely about something idiotic like the merits of Easton vs. CCM sticks, or whether Atley could, in fact, bench press Sutton. So Shiloh turned his attention to Caulfield, who was always a dependable conversation partner: sharp, a little acerbic, and never boring. They dove into a friendly argument about Catholicism versus Lutheranism, naturally. Shiloh threw out half-remembered facts from his early Confirmation daays, while Caulfield, smug and unbothered, countered every point with confidence and a sip of his Manhattan. The conversation devolved into a rapid-fire match of obscure patron saint trivia Did Shiloh make up a St. Jason of Martyrdome? Possibly. Did Caulfield challenge it anyway? No, because he was almost impressed, so it didn't even matter. When Caulfield excused himself to the bathroom, Shiloh leaned over toward the girls, propping his chin on his hand with an easy grin. “Having fun yet, or are we exhausting you?” he teased, his tone light. “Margaux, how’s college hunting? You still looking at BC? I hear the hockey team’s got a couple of heartbreakers this year.” The conversation flowed effortlessly after that, at least in his opinion, and Shiloh was more than happy to keep the attention turned toward them. He liked listening, liked making people feel like they mattered. He didn’t always know what to say, but he was good at nodding at the right times at least. The waiter returned for orders, and a brief scramble followed: faux panic over what to get, someone dramatically declaring they were gluten-free this week, and at least two people trying to trade side dishes. Shiloh only half-registered what everyone ordered; he got another drink, this time something citrusy and cold, and took a slow sip as the conversation lulled just enough for him to slip something else in. “I heard you’re looking for a date to the debutante ball this Friday,” he said offhandedly to Margaux, eyes flicking toward Valeria next. “Are you going, Valeria?” The question was casual, but it landed with that subtle weight Shiloh was good at, just a little bait, a little opening into something more interesting. The debutante ball was one of those ridiculous yet inescapable social events in their world: a legacy thing, more performative than anything else, but still rooted in centuries of the old money tradition. An evening of champagne fountains, string quartets, designer gowns, and young men and women pretending they weren’t being auctioned off for networking purposes. It was where debutantes—girls from the “right” families—were formally introduced to society, escorted by boys in tailored tuxedos who were expected to look sharp, dance well, and know when to disappear. Last year, Shiloh had gone with someone forgettable and polished, mostly because it had been expected. This year? He wasn’t sure yet. Technically it was Sutton's year anyway. “It’s basically a coming-out party,” he clarified for a returning Caulfield, swirling his drink. “For people who never really got to come out. High society’s way of saying, ‘Here’s our next crop of perfect daughters.' Not adorable, but whatever.” He grinned, lazy and charming. “But hey. Free food, free champagne, and way too much gossip. I think I had fun last year. I don't really remember.” |
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What a leading question. Was she going to the debutante ball? It wasn't exactly the questions she'd expected, and for a moment she wracked he brains, attempting to figure out if she'd heard of it before. Well, it wasn't like her parents were exactly proactive in actually being part of her life. They were too busy off in their award-winning law firm or whatever to actually care. Most of the social activities she'd been invited to, or gone to... she hadn't learnt them off her parents. They didn't know about it because they never checked up on her - hell, even if they knew they usually didn't care or they'd forget to tell her. She pretty much had learnt them all from Izzy and her parents. Valeria's own parents paid for it, true, but then she had had to take the initiative and learn it from Izzy and her parents. And Izzy had known. She knew every aspect of Valeria's life, and that included being excluded from all these talks because her parents literally could not be bothered. And now they weren't here anymore to tell her that this was happening. "I..." It was a bitter pill to swallow - that her main source of all the external events that her parents failed to inform her about about it. She could almost visualize the conversation she'd have with them later - "You know the debutante ball?" "Oh, yeah, we wondered if you'd want to go to that but we just hadn't asked you yet." Or worse, "What's that? Oh... that thing. We didn't think you'd want to go." Not for the first time, she wished she'd had who focussed less on working and the business and actually cared more than what they did right now. She didn't want to disclose any of that to these people, though. And they were still waiting for her reply. "Well, yeah, I'm likely going to go - I hadn't exactly figured it out yet, though." Gone was the doubt that she'd inwardly wrestled with a moment ago, and the hatred of not knowing, god damn it couldn't she have seen it too- ... she probably had had it in her emails. Then marked it read and forgot about it too. Riiiight. Nonetheless, she continued under her own steam. "Finding a date this close to the time is going to be... tricky." She'd had prior experience of that - usually by this time, they'd either all already figured it out, and if not, their parents had. Unlike hers. "So, I mean..." she paused for a moment before briefly sighing and pulling a bit of a face. "I might? I'll see what I can scrounge up before Friday." She'd had to figure out the details somehow - maybe she could ask her parents to actually check and inform her? - but the idea of the debutante ball sounded... not bad. "... yeah. It's slipped my mind a bit, if I'm being honest - I haven't been actively looking too far yet - so... I guess I'm paying the price for that on Friday." A rueful smile accompanied the statement as she briefly thought it through. At least, she'd more or less be obliged to have to go. Everyone'd expect her to go, at least from her loose clique. So the answer was a very roundabout yes - she'd need to figure everything out herself, but she'd be damned if she didn't. "How about you peoples?" She honestly did not care that the grammar was wrong in that sentence. She just needed a few seconds - damn, maybe a bit more - to think it over and figure out how exactly she was going to do this. And letting them speak was a good way to do exactly that, she supposed. She picked up her drink - whatever had been placed in front of her, really, she wasn't that picky in terms of drinking - and took a sip from it before her eyes flicked over to Shiloh, silently adding a question mark behind her final statement. It wasn't the smoothest way she'd figured to stop talking and have a second to figure out what the hell this was and why hadn't she been informed of it earlier, but it worked well enough. |
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Darkseeker
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Shiloh leaned his elbow on the table, chin in hand as Valeria thoughtfully weighed her options aloud, debating the pros and cons of attending the upcoming debutante ball. He nodded like a therapist who charged by the hour, eyes bright and interested. “I think you should go,” he said decisively, voice just on the edge of persuasive. “It’s supposed to be *actually* fun if you let it be. Plus, it's basically a networking goldmine with champagne flutes. Doesn't your dad run a company or something? You and Margaux could totally go shopping for your little fancy white dresses together—live your Eloise at the Plaza moment or whatever the theme is this year. Snow angels in couture.” He turned slightly to glance down the table, smirking as he continued. “And don’t act like you’re not sitting with five eligible bachelors who’d fall all over themselves to escort you. Okay, wait. Maybe *not* Penn,” he amended, side-eyeing Penn, who was still sulking over his golf swing and texting like his life depended on it. “So, like, two great guys, one emotionally unavailable intellectual, and Atley, who will look great in pictures but might ghost halfway through the waltz because the Bruins are playing, and he's got to see Pastrňák score a goal.” He grinned, now very invested in the whole convincing her to attend, until Atley piped up with a pointed question about who had actually been winning at golf. Shiloh snapped upright like a man wrongly accused. “No. *No.* I was *definitely* winning,” he insisted, gesturing wildly with his now-empty glass. “Sutton whiffed it so hard on that last swing he nearly fell over. Yeah, bud, we all saw that. And no one even knows what Atley scored because he didn’t write anything down and then tried to help someone’s cart out of a bush or whatever. I’m not saying I’m the Tiger Woods of our generation, but I’m definitely, like, his cousin or something.” Sutton shot back with a loud protest, while Atley laughed and tried to interject with something about being “on par,” which was so awful that Caulfield immediately told him to shut up. The volume at the table climbed with alarming speed—good-natured bickering, dramatic reenactments of golf fails, fake statistics being thrown around like confetti. That is, until a woman at the table behind them gave the group a glare so sharp it could cut glass. Shiloh made the mistake of meeting her eyes and immediately looked away, suddenly interested in the condensation dripping down his glass. Sure enough, not two minutes later, a waiter appeared with the dreaded polite-smile-of-doom. “Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” the waiter said, glancing around the table like a substitute teacher trying not to cry. “We’ve had a request from another party to lower the volume just a bit. You’re more than welcome to continue enjoying yourselves, just...maybe a little more quietly?” There was a beat of stunned silence, followed by a halfhearted chorus of apologies, and the energy deflated just enough for people to sink into their seats with sheepish expressions. With their group now officially Too Loud For Public Spaces, conversations splintered off again into smaller pockets. Shiloh leaned toward Caulfield, expression brightening like he’d just come up with a conspiracy. “Alright, we’re pivoting,” he said in a stage whisper. “New plan. Covert drinking game. During the meal, any time someone brings up family trauma, we take a shot.” Caulfield raised an eyebrow. “You’re going to have alcohol poisoning by the appetizers.” “Wrong,” Shiloh muttered, now seriously amused with the whole idea. “Why would you say that? This is fun.” He turned to the girls, voice still low but laced with mischief. “You in? Bonus points if it’s vague and repressed. We’ll die before dessert otherwise. Of boredom.” Margaux blinked, then deadpanned, “Do we get extra points if someone cries?” Shiloh gasped. “Absolutely. Tears are like wildcards. You cry, we take two shots.” He leaned back in his chair like a mastermind, already eyeing the room for a waiter to wave down for more drinks. Somewhere at the other end of the table, Sutton muttered something about needing a new family entirely, and Shiloh raised an invisible tally mark in the air. “One already!” |
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Neutral
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The mention of "little fancy white dresses" had Valeria shooting a glance at Margaux to her other side, who only shrugged in response. So no help from her. "Little fancy white dresses"? Seriously? Wiping it away quickly, she turned back as Shiloh kept going. "It’s more of a law firm than a business." The amount of legal issues that y’all have here are something else entirely. "And are you counting yourself as one of those 'great guys'?" A slight challenge accompanied by a smirk. Yet as the table slowly dissolved back into… who had been winning at golf - seriously, sometimes they could take a break over arguing in the middle of a fancy clubhouse, right? - Valeria turned back to Margaux, who had the exact same good-natured, reluctantly tolerant and amused expression that she undoubtedly had. "They’re always like this?" Amusement softened her features and words as she indicated towards the five boys discussing - well, it was already significantly louder than "discussing" - golf. No, wait, she heard a mention of tissues. So… so she gave up listening and looked at Margaux, who nodded with a bit of a smile. "Always like this. Sometimes I wonder why I allow myself to get dragged into this," she indicated ruefully, scanning the five boys again - and this time Valeria could have sworn that it paused on one of them longer than the others again. The boys might not have noticed, but Valeria had been brought up with noticing these small details amongst her friends. She shelved it away for future thought. Valeria chuckled along with Margaux slightly as the volume behind her continued rising. "Well, it’s entertaining to watch," she commented as she glanced at them briefly. "Have they gotten kicked out of places before after being too loud?" She’d be surprised if they hadn’t. That surprise came true, however, as Margaux shook her head slightly. "They haven’t been kicked out per se, but… they’ve been informed they’re too loud a few times." She paused, cocking her head slightly as if considering, before continuing. "Twenty dollars say they last five minutes before someone comes up and tells them to respectfully shut up." Her eyes flicked to Valeria, a slight challenge in them. Valeria smiled and gladly obliged. "You’re on. Forty says someone comes up in less than five." It was a fancy clubhouse with fancy people who probably had enough self-esteem to think that shouting was illegal or whatnot, she reasoned. Surely there’d be someone… The five boys continued… discussing… in their loudest voices, not seeming to notice or care about the two girls at the end of their table now placing bets on when would someone tell them to shut up. Valeia turned to watch the spectacle, slowly counting the seconds in hope that someone would actually make her win the bet. And there! Four minutes in, just when Valeria was beginning to lose hope, the somewhat elderly woman sitting on the table next to them gave them a death stare. While the stare was incredibly brutal, Valeria shot Margaux a triumphant glance. "Four minutes!" Margaux, however, shook her head. "No-one’s told them to shut up yet, no?" It took two minutes for the waiter to come up and pop the boys’ energy balloon, however, and this time it was Margaux who shot Valeria the triumphant look. "Six minutes and thirty seconds. They lasted more than five minutes," Margaux shot at Valeria with a smile. Forty dollars wasn’t much, but Valeria would fight for it anyway. “The woman shot the death glare at four minutes, though. Surely that counts.” It did shut them up slightly, she reasoned. With the two of them now deep in discussion on whether the woman’s glare counted as a "shut up" enough, she almost missed Shiloh’s invitation. Raising one eyebrow at Margaux, she silently questioned the motives behind this, even as she pivoted over to face Shiloh. "I’m in," she nodded. "But I’m going to need a lot more drinks to stomach listening to y’all’s family trauma. Or even make it through the meal." God, she was walking a dangerous line with that. Caulfield was right. They’d be getting alcohol poisoning before the appetizers, or at least be getting very, very drunk before two o’clock. She sighed before sitting back in her chair with her drink, eyeing the rest of the table and waiting for the mentions. This is a horrible idea, she reasoned to herself. But it’s fun. And she’d need those drinks so she wouldn’t have to clean her ears with bleach after hearing their family trauma. Not that she’d ever, ever say anything about her own. Father’s business contracts. |
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Darkseeker
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The meal had passed with a miraculous lack of catastrophe, not counting the drinking game, which had quickly devolved into a one-man spiral once Penn decided to relive every vaguely traumatic thing his dad had ever said on a yacht. Shiloh had tapped out early, dramatically tossing his shot glass to the center of the table like he was retiring from a long, grueling war. A faint flush painted the high points of his cheeks, the only evidence of his brief, ill-fated stint. He sat back with a lazy grin, full and pleasantly buzzed, basking in the easy lull of conversation as people slowly picked at the last bites of their meals. The lull didn’t last long. As soon as he noticed Valeria chewing, fork halfway to her plate, he leaned toward her with his most obnoxiously charming smile. “Say you’ll go,” he coaxed, sing-song and shameless. “Come on. It’s fun. Atley, back me up, tell her how much fun *you* had at the Deb last year.” Atley, ever the honest one, made a face like he’d bitten into something sour and muttered something noncommittal about stiff tuxedos and too many minor politicians in one room. Shiloh groaned dramatically. “Useless,” he muttered, swatting Atley’s arm before turning back. “Okay, okay—Margaux knows the theme, right? What is it this year, Mags? Something tragically aesthetic, like Midnight in Monte Carlo or something dumb like that. Last year it was ‘A Night in Paris,’ and I swear they just brought in, like, five Eiffel Tower statues and called it a day.” Margaux didn’t look up, but confirmed the theme in a tone that said she knew she was enabling him. That was all the green light Shiloh needed. “See?” he beamed. “You’re basically halfway to the Met Gala already. Caulfield’ll take you, won’t you, buddy?” Caulfield, without looking up from his water glass, replied, “I’m taking my girlfriend.” Shiloh rolled his eyes so hard he nearly saw stars. “Rude. Okay, fine. I don’t count myself among the fine gentlemen, obviously—I’m a liability. Penn’s worse. Caulfield’s off the market. Margaux, you got a date?” She didn’t answer fast enough for his taste. “No? Alright, don’t worry—I’ve got a friend who could take you. Or I can,” he added generously, like he was offering a kidney. He didn’t get to keep steamrolling the conversation the way he wanted to, because Atley was peeling himself away from Sutton, clearly off to hockey practice or some other sport-coded disappearance, and Shiloh immediately shifted gears to wave him off with a chorus of good-luck wishes. Atley’s departure triggered a slow unraveling. Caulfield ghosted back to the charity gala he had allegedly only stepped away from to use the bathroom—now a solid 90 minutes into that "brief interlude." Sutton made a comment about how his alibi wouldn’t hold up in court. Penn and Margaux lingered a little longer, Penn deep in some kind of boring college talk with Sutton while Margaux politely dodged Shiloh’s renewed campaign for Deb attendance. Eventually, even they peeled away, Penn dragging Margaux with him. Shiloh saluted their retreat like a soldier seeing comrades off to war. That left just the three of them: Shiloh, Sutton, and Valeria. Shiloh leaned forward, still chasing his bit like it owed him money. “Okay, *now* for your date,” he said brightly. “I’ve got this friend. He’s great. Aubs, do you have any pictures of Leno? Like, the one where he’s wearing that suit and kind of looks like James Dean? Do you know how to waltz?" Sutton shot him a withering look that immediately shut him down. “Alright, alright, I get it,” Shiloh muttered, throwing up his hands. “I’ll behave.” Sutton, smoothly reclaiming the reins, turned to Valeria with a shift in tone so clean it could’ve been rehearsed. “So,” he said, already in strategist mode, “I was doing some research during lunch. Very few details about Iz’s case have been made public—some conflicting reports, barely any confirmed witness statements. So I think our first step should be figuring out what we want out of this. Do we want to clear her name? Figure out what really happened? Both? Once we know that, we can start identifying the people she interacted with that night—where she was, who she talked to, and who might’ve had something to gain from her whole...thing.” |
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Spring Month: 2 
Night 
Flood Moon: 
