339 DAYS
He'd returned to Neptune solo. It was easier that way. The minute the plane touched down on the tarmac and cell phone use was allowed, he'd dialed Sean. Oxy and heroin withdrawal was no joke and he had no desire to go through that again, but a little weed and some scotch were still on the menu. And coke. Must not forget about the coke.
Sean promised delivery right to his door. This afternoon.
Dick was gone, the house empty, and Logan had started his search. He checked the obvious places first - the liquor and medicine cabinets. Both were completely cleaned out, not even a fucking aspirin. Lifting the lid of the toilet tank, he looked for the ziploc bag of pot taped to the side. Gone.
His drawers were next. They were rearranged. All of his clothes were clean and neatly folded, stacked in tidy piles. Clearly, this was not Dick's handiwork. Logan went through them anyway, unrolling his socks in search of an emergency cocaine stash. Nothing.
He pulled out all the drawers, turning them over to check the undersides for the taped glassine envelopes. Dropping to his knees, he reached into the bare holes of the dresser, hoping that one of the pretty little packages had come loose and fallen. Logan came up empty-handed.
Rocking back on his heels, he eyed the air vent. Why didn't I have the cab driver stop at the liquor store? This search would be better with a buzz. Getting a screwdriver from the kitchen, he opened the vent and found zilch.
It was time to get more creative. There was no way they could have found all of his hiding spots. He pried the covers off the speakers, but Dick wasn't kidding when he'd said they'd gotten rid of the pills hidden there.
The back of the Playstation, between the pages of 1984, and inside the hollow leg of the coffee table. Empty, empty, empty. What? Did they hire a drug-sniffing DOG to assist with the clean-out? Even his Bic pens were just pens. No coke filling up their barrels.
Logan sprawled on the floor and lit a cigarette. He wasn't even good at being an addict. Too busy using the drugs to save enough for a rainy day.
If he was a better person, he might describe this fruitless and frantic search as sad, pitiful even, and he might wonder at the why of it all, but he was not that guy. He was the lazy, self-indulgent, rich kid who was bored and had too much time on his hands. Oh, and a death wish. Can't forget THAT.
What is she doing right now? It was a thought that surfaced in his brain several times a day, but usually he pushed it away. Four o'clock on a Friday. Working some menial job on campus, he decided.
During one of his psych classes, they'd discussed parents who had lost a child.
Lost, what a stupid fucking euphemism. He didn't lose his mother. She wasn't misplaced. Logan knew exactly where she was - decomposing at the bottom of the San Diego Bay. He took a long pull on his cigarette, letting the ash fall on the floor.
The class concerned the long-term effects of the death and one of the interesting things was how parents always knew where their child would be right now if they were alive. They could tell you their age —he would be eighteen now— and what would be happening in their life —he would be heading off to college now. They marked the time by watching their child's former peers. It wasn't just the physical loss, but of missing out on all the future stuff. No graduations, no weddings, no grandchildren.
Logan had thought of Veronica. When do you not, jackass? He shook his head. Where the fuck was Sean?
He missed her and, like those parents, it wasn't just her presence, but the contemplation of an entire life without her. He'd missed her twentieth birthday and this year she'd turn twenty-one, legal drinking age. There would be no more birthdays. No bow-adorned room key gifts.
He didn't know anything about her summer internship with the FBI or if she was going back this year. He had no clue about her friends. Did she have friends at Stanford? There was no future. No getting together and saying, remember that time we…
They wouldn't grow old together in the same space. It made the idea of even growing old something not worth contemplating. How did Blondie put it? Die young, stay pretty. You gotta live fast 'cause it won't last. So die young, stay pretty.
Knocking.
Halle-fucking-lujah! He jackknifed off the floor, stubbing his cigarette out in a bowl on the coffee table, and went to get the door. "It's about fucking—"
The word time withered on his lips. Boring Brach, not Sean, stood on his doorstep. "Why are you not sitting in my office, Mr. Echolls?"
"Hmm, perhaps because I'm not an uptight educator who likes to harass former students?"
"Former?" Obviously, the woman did NOT appreciate his sarcastic wit. She looked at his eyes. Not in his eyes. This wasn't eye-contact; she was inspecting them, checking his pupils and sclera for dilation and redness.
"Don't fret, I'm not stoned."
Nodding, she took in his appearance —bare chest and boardshorts—and said, "It's Friday."
"Thanks for the update." He started to close the door and she smacked her palm against it, holding it open, and pushing her way inside. Logan stepped back. "Gee, this is kinda forward of you, but… I've got an hour to kill." Shutting the door with his fingertips, he twirled around to face her, and leaned a hip against the wall. "Are we going to role play? If so, I think I should be the professor- stretch my acting chops."
Frowning disapproval, Brach put a hand on her hip, and, with the other, bounced her briefcase on her leg. "I have the grades from your extra credit papers."
"Bully for you." Logan swirled his finger in the air. Woopty-fucking-doo. Sighing, Lorraine sat on the edge of the sofa. He waved a hand across the couch. "By all means, please make yourself at home."
Ignoring him, she set her briefcase on the coffee table, and withdrew his six papers. She dealt them face-up across the table. Six papers: three A's, two B's, and one B minus. The last on his research paper about child abuse, assigned by Professor Montgomery - the dick who wanted him to fail. "You're now in good standing in all your classes and on track to pass this semester."
She stared at him, waiting, and Logan returned the stare. He didn't know what she expected. Joy? Gratitude? This didn't mean anything to him. Sure, he could continue his education, put in another two years at Hearst for a degree. Or, he could finish the semester and reverse transfer to a community school, get his associate's degree. But they were both just pieces of paper. What was he really going to do with either of them?
Logan blinked first, dropping into the chair across from her. "Was that it? Or were you waiting for me to serve afternoon tea?"
"Why did you enroll in college, Logan?"
Complicated.
To be near Veronica was the simple answer. Trying to measure up and prove he was worthy of her was getting closer to the truth. Wanting something more —an accomplishment that he earned, a life for himself, a future— was both the longing and the fear. Longing because he wanted to find worth in his sorry excuse for an existence and fear because he would discover he had none.
"To get an education of course."
At his flippant answer, her lips thinned. "What do you want out of life?"
God, she was persistent and annoying. "You to leave my house." She remained perched on his sofa, immovable and unfazed by his rudeness. Composed. Fuck. "You're wasting your time, you know; I'm never going to amount to anything."
"I don't think that's true."
"Then you're not paying attention."
Three loud knocks rattled the front door. Logan's eyes darted to it and then back to Lorraine. Door, Lorraine, door. Fuck it. Popping out of his chair, he went to greet Sean.
Shoulders hunched, head ducked and shifting his weight from one foot to the other, Sean looked like he was being watched by the cops or was a nervous teenager about to lose his virginity. "Uh, Dick's not home is he?"
"No," Logan said, pulling the cash from his pocket.
Sean relaxed. "Guy's an asshole." He withdrew two ziploc bags from his hoodie. "An ounce of each, right?"
Logan took the bags, handed him the wad of hundreds, and shut the door on Sean's offer of oxy. Carrying them inside, he set the coke and weed atop his graded papers on the coffee table in front of Lorraine. A challenge. She barely glanced at them. "Do you want to die, Logan?"
"No," he barked. And there it was. Someone had finally asked the question out loud. Dropping into the chair, he tilted his head back to stare at the ceiling. "I just… I don't want to be here."
To her credit, she didn't ask him to clarify 'here'; she understood here meant all of it- this room, Neptune, his life.
"Then you have a choice to make." Lorraine slid the papers from beneath the drugs, tapped them together and put them in a pile on one side of the coffee table. She pushed the coke and pot toward the opposite end. "I had your absence this week excused due to illness." Picking up her briefcase, she stood. "I hope to see you in class on Monday, but if I don't, I'll know your decision."