Chapter 4 - Monday
Veronica's alarm is buzzing furiously. I have my arms wrapped around her, she is my little spoon. She starts to shuffle away from me, trying to reach it.
I was mildly relieved as it got me out of my situation. Veronica, me, limbs, skin, morning. All of this added up to a painful surge in my nether regions, one that felt as though it had been present for hours. The ache of it permeated through my entire body.
"Hi," I rub my eyes and break the ice with my smooth conversational skills.
"Hi."
There is one thing about snuggles in the night time, but it's rather jarring in the day. It's like the presence of sunlight somehow encourages the addressing of said snuggles. Well, theoretically.
But not us, that wasn't our style.
Awkward glances, stilted conversation, that was more our style
I look around the room for somewhere to hide, but there is nowhere.
My eyes find Veronica's, looking equally as nervous as mine.
"I've gotta go … you know, work," Veronica stutters out, flinging her legs out of the bed. She starts to stretch her arms but seems to stop herself, like stretching is too casual for this questionable situation we find ourselves in. Her hair sticks up in various directions but a curious flat spot remains on one side, I do believe that is the nook spot.
I prop myself on the pillow and place my arms behind my head as if I'm completely unflustered by all these interactions. Of course, this is a complete and total lie. I congratulate myself on being the master of deception via body language.
Veronica leans over in my shorts and shirt and picks up her pile of clothes off the floor and sprints into the bathroom.
The second she leaves the bed I glance at the ruffled sheets beside me, already thinking about tonight. Hoping, praying that somehow the universe would align and this would eventuate again.
I throw on some clothes and tap at the bathroom door before speaking. "Feel free to leave the toothbrush out," I pause, considering the next words, then throw caution to the wind and dare to say them, "you know, for next time."
Baby steps.
Waiting outside the door all I hear is silence before a brief, strained "Okay," in response.
I brew some coffee for her and she appears, dressed in yesterday's clothes.
"How was your stay at Echoll's B&B?" I ask.
"Very satisfactory thank you."
At the Echolls B&B we provide spooning.
"Please be sure to review us online."
And nooks!
She gives me a brief glare while crouching down and lacing up her shoes.
"I've got coffee coming."
All night long.
"I'm going to have to run, I've got to go home and get changed. Pretty sure jeans won't cut it at work."
I nod, almost saying something about a walk of shame but stopping myself. Best to not spook her any further. I pour her coffee into a plastic travel mug and hand it to her.
Veronica looks at it, tilting her head to inspect the writing on the side of the mug, it reads 'I hate being sexy but I'm a fighter pilot so I can't help it.' It was in the ever offensive Comic Sans font, so she was more than welcome to keep the hideous thing. Should I offer it as a momento of evening canoodling?
She stares at the mug, then me, deadpan. A hint of an eye roll lingers.
Probably not.
"It was a gift!" I explain.
It was.
"What, from Logan to Logan?"
I laugh, "You want the coffee or not?"
Veronica takes a sip and decides to leave well enough alone. Apparently, caffeine trumps ridicule.
The kitchen falls quiet again, she takes her coat and bag. Standing, shifting her weight from foot to foot, rocking a little. Like she wants to leave, but also doesn't.
Say something about last night, Logan, do it!
"Ummm… lunch?"
Tremendously articulate, Logan. Great job.
"Yep," she seems clipped and keeps darting her eyes back to the front door.
"Cool. See ya." She starts to walk out the door but pauses, adding, "Thanks … for the clothes and the … okay bye," and she ducks out the door.
We certainly addressed that elephant in the room.
I walk back into my bedroom, looking at the disheveled bed and the borrowed clothes left in a neatly folded stack on the covers.
Another bed of evidence to add to the file.
The duffel still sat in the same spot on the floor as I left it yesterday. I take a wide berth, avoiding it completely only to glance back. The zip and the top flap of the bag seemed to make a face with eyes and a sinister frown, like it was glaring at me.
"What are you looking at motherfucker?" I'll get to you eventually, unfortunately.
It was only Monday and I was yelling at inanimate objects, clearly, things were tense.
I packed absolutely nothing and instead opted to surf with Dick before going downtown to see Marla.
She invites me into her office and I recline on the chaise, it's not until I sit that I realize my boardshorts are still quite damp. I didn't have time to change after the beach.
She positions herself on her swivel chair, notepad in lap, pen in hand, and a familiar wry smile. Motioning for me to begin, she wants me to start the session, so that I'm directing what we discuss each week.
"I'm leaving on Thursday."
Wait for it.
"And how does that make you feel?" Marla asks, voice hoarse and deep.
I suspect she either did, or still does, have a standing date with a pack of Marlboro Reds.
Marla is my therapist and has been for almost two years now. She's in her early sixties and dresses like an artist, willowy and eclectic with yellow glasses perched at the end of her nose. I'm pretty sure her dress today is made from black plastic bags and pipe cleaners. She doesn't look like a therapist, she looks like someone who sells her paintings made from the juice of dried, foraged berries on the sidewalk. Eccentric, and then some. Strangely enough, Veronica had recommended her, she used to be one of her professors at Stanford and had since gone back into private practice.
Despite my early reservations of divulging my deepest and darkest to a sidewalk crackpot, she had proved herself to be a perceptive and sharp-witted woman, whose only flaw was suffering from questionable dress sense. She had a habit of indulging my bullshit for a while, just to the point I thought I was getting away with it, then merrily and savagely calling me out on it.
Just like someone else I know.
I can't get away with anything around here.
When I'd first given Marla the once-over on the Echoll's family history and subsequent nightmare that was Neptune itself, she silently scoffed in disbelief. We laughed about it later, but, she was right, you couldn't write this stuff if you wanted to. My life was a soap-opera come horror movie and now I'd entered some kind of weird, quiet, middle ground.
But today, like every Monday, she's asking how it makes me feel.
I think about it, trying to turn my thoughts and feelings into words that truly encapsulate them is one of the hardest challenges of therapy for me. The thoughts are there, but sometimes I feel like I can't reach them.
"Fucking mad."
"Why does it make you mad?"
"Because I don't want to leave."
"The entire basis of your career is being absent Logan, this is not new information."
"I am aware of that."
"So what's different this time?"
"Everything. Nothing." I pick at a stray thread hanging from my shorts.
"Because of Veronica?" she pulls her pen back and hesitates, waiting for my answer.
I shrug.
Hit the nail on the head first go. That's why I pay you the big bucks.
She doesn't speak, instead rocking her pen back and forth between her fingers as she waits for me to elaborate.
"Leaving's always difficult, but, at the same time I have work to look forward to, and I normally love it, I really do. But, I don't know... This time things seem different, unfinished."
"And that makes you mad?"
I nod, "I'm mad at myself for having to leave, choosing this career. Mad at myself for not telling her how I feel, mad at myself for everything really. I hate leaving. What if something happens to her – she's drawn to danger. What if things change between us? What if she finds someone else?"
"That's a lot of what-ifs, Logan."
"There are more if you want them?"
The corners of her mouth almost crack into a smile but she nods, eyebrows raised at me like a petulant child. She's quickly learned to ignore the snark that I throw back at her. We discussed the snark for nearly a whole month, it was a riveting deep-dive to be sure. Why do you feel the need to respond to questions directed at you with mocking irreverence Logan?
Good times.
"The list of things you just gave me, how many of those things do you have control over? Maybe it's time to surrender to those things you can't control and change the things you can?" She pushes her glasses back up her nose and squints at me through the thick glass.
"So, by that, you mean telling Veronica?"
"You said it, not me," she replies, her eyebrows raising at me in that smug knowing, you-just-healed-yourself kind of way.
I chuckle and shuffle in my seat, tapping my feet on the floor. I don't respond, just letting myself think about what Marla has said. The feeling of dread starts to creep down my throat into my stomach.
"Okay, so you know what you can control, let's talk about the things you can't control. You're not responsible for anyone's wellbeing or actions while you're here or when you're deployed. I understand you feel the need to be overprotective because you didn't feel like you could control or protect anything in your youth. You didn't feel like you could protect yourself, your mother, Veronica from her rape, Lilly from her murder and the list goes on," her attention to my life story is fastidious. Names, dates, events - she remembers it all.
"You bear the whole world on your shoulders, Logan but you are just one man. One strong and competent man, yes, but a man who doesn't need to live with the burdens he puts upon himself. The biggest part of healing, the hardest part of healing is letting go, being okay with the world, okay to just live, to be. Relinquish the need for control over everything and you will find that your anger at the world may just abate."
I stay silent, the air grows a little heavier. Again, I'm struggling to find words.
"Tell me, when you are away, do you worry about your own life? For your safety when you, yourself, are doing the most dangerous thing of all the people you're most concerned about?"
I chuckle, "No." then I think for a minute, "I guess I worry about the fallout if something happened to me, but I'm not really worried about myself. Just everyone at home, how that would affect them."
"That's going to need to change Logan."
"I can try," I shrug.
"You must try. Therapy is about overcoming your past but also valuing your future. In some sense, you wouldn't be here, with me today, if you didn't see a future for yourself, an opportunity to better yourself. So I think, without you realizing it, you're slowly coming to value your own life, even if you can't see it yet."
I offer more silence, which I can see frustrates her.
"Can I ask a question?" she asks.
"Isn't that what I'm paying you for?"
"Why are you more scared of telling a woman that you love her than risking your own life?"
I chuckle at the summation of my predicament.
"I don't know if I'd necessarily put it in those terms, but, I guess you might be correct."
I don't say it out loud, but of course, Marla knows it. She's trained to. Everyone knows it, it seems, everyone except Veronica.
A life without her is no life at all. I've tried it before, I know it first hand.
"You're a brave guy Logan, you do brave things each day for your country. Now it's time to be brave for you, take the leap, control the things you can."
I screw up my face, skeptically, finding that stray thread on my shorts again and pulling it out.
"I think, if you do, you won't be quite so mad anymore."
I hope she's right.
"You look like a beach boys song," Veronica muses as she reaches across the plastic table to dust some sand from my hair, it falls and freckles the table.
We both stare at it for a moment before resuming our taco lunch.
"What are you doing this afternoon?" she asks.
I pick up some pieces of fallen taco innards and pop them into my mouth, "packing," I say quietly, because I don't want to think about it. The duffel still sits empty on my floor, the evil fucker.
She doesn't respond and we resume eating in silence. My eyes keep finding ways to float back to her face, like I want to absorb it, to remember all its soft curves and gentle lines before it's robbed from me for months.
"Do you know where you are going?" she asks tentatively.
"Yes," I'd gotten my further orders this morning. It was irrelevant anyway, wherever it was, it wasn't here.
"Can you tell me?"
"No."
"Why."
"You know I can't, Veronica."
The gentle lines turn into dark crevices as she scrunches up her face at me in anger, like she might scare me into telling her.
"Is it far?"
I chuckle and reply, "It's always far."
"Is it somewhere dangerous?" she asks, concern etched in her brow.
Doesn't she realize that sitting here with her, two feet away from this incredible woman is far more dangerous to me than a war zone could ever be?
I don't answer.
We trek the few blocks back to Veronica's office, bellies full and walking considerably slower away from lunch, it seemed, than we walked to it. Veronica was setting the pace, which seemed to slow more and more as we continued.
Fourteen hours left.
I wonder if her decreasing speed is related to a desire to avoid work, or an effort to prolong our time together. I hope for the latter.
As fellow pedestrians pass by, I move left to let them bypass, each time my bare arm grazes Veronica's bare arm. I tell myself it's an inadvertent touch, a happy accident, but, at this point, who am I kidding?
Lies.
I'm not ashamed to say I want arm touching and will find any excuse to execute it. Each time it happens it's warm and brief and makes me feel alive. Veronica also seems to have a positive response, on our last touch her eyes flutter closed for just a moment and she touches at that spot on her arm briefly. I look down and see goosebumps freckling the contact point.
She feels it too.
My cheeks crack into a grin and I marvel at the sensation of falling in love with the same girl, over and over again.
"How was therapy?" Veronica asks, knowing about my standing Monday appointment.
"It was … challenging."
"Good, it's supposed to be."
"You know the territory, the old Echolls psyche who knows what kind of sick and twisted wonders lurk within?"
She raises her eyebrows and shakes her head at me.
"Come on, would you want to crack open this coconut and look inside?" I ask.
"Oh, it's not that bad," Veronica brushes her hand in the air.
"Have we met?"
She chuckles and as her building comes into eyesight I definitely feel her gait slow again, there is a distinct possibility that we may actually be walking in reverse. Fine with me, I'm just going to go with the flow. I could make this walk take all day long if need be…
"Logan," she hesitates, "I never suggested therapy because I thought you were broken. I hope you don't think that?"
"It's fine, really."
She remains unconvinced, "I just want you to feel like you deserve life. You deserve love…" As the word exits her mouth she seems to panic, her eyes dart, she is looking to backtrack. "You're my best friend. I just want you to be happy."
Love. Her word, not mine.
"I am happy," with you.
She seems satisfied with my answer, at least on the surface, "What was Marla wearing today?"
"I want to say garbage bag chic? Black plastic, some kind multi-colored craft items on top?"
Veronica chuckles, "I know the one. She likes to recycle."
"That she does."
"Did you tell her about the wedding?" she asks very casually with zero eye contact.
"Yeah, she asked," I reply, equally as casually.
"Cool, cool."
I laugh, "Yep, cool."
Veronica is fishing to see if I told Marla about things that happened.
Nook things.
I didn't. It felt like verbalizing it, to someone outside our little duo, would taint it somehow. It was our secret, and I kept it that way. Anyway, I'm not sure what I would say anyway. Oh, you know, we've just started spooning at night and not addressing it. No big deal.
That would most certainly lead to a therapy black hole into why and I wasn't ready to explore that just yet.
"So… Do I need to make a reservation at Hotel Echolls or can I just stop by and see if there is a vacancy?" she asks with a wink as we pause outside the revolving doors to her firm.
Holy shit. YES!
"It's actually a B&B," I reply.
Shut up, Logan.
"You're all about the details, aren't you?"
"It's not me, it's the tax laws. Ownership of a hotel charges much higher state tax for operation, legalities, public liability insurance…"
Why can I not shut up?
She blinks, unmoving, "How have I not murdered you yet?"
I wink back and shrug. "No reservations are required, at the B&B, that is," I reply.
"Okay, catch you later?"
"Bye."
Veronica wiggles her fingers in a wave, turns and wanders back into the building like a breeze of warm summer air.
If it wasn't completely unmanly, I would have skipped all the way home.
I changed and put on my special blue t-shirt. It's just plain dark blue with a v neck, but it runs a little on the tighter side. It's fast becoming my favorite because I like the way Veronica's face smirks and her gaze lingers when she sees it. I have a sneaking suspicion it might be her favorite too.
I haven't eaten dinner, as I'm waiting for Veronica. She often would get caught up late at work, so I wasn't particularly concerned. But time was passing by, it was now well past eight. We were on a time crunch here and this delay was seriously cutting into my allotted Veronica allowance.
I curse the judicial system.
When I put my third beer to my lips, the phone finally pings.
8.45pm – From Veronica: Stuck in office, deposition all night. Raincheck for tomorrow?
No, you can't cancel your reservation at Echolls' B&B!
8.45pm – From Logan: Really?
8.45pm – from Veronica: Really…
Fucking fuck!
8.46pm – from Logan: What am I going to do with the three-course meal I prepared?
8.46pm – From Veronica: Ha-ha
8.46pm – From Logan: Do I watch movie solo, or wait?
8.47pm – From Veronica: Which movie?
8.47pm – From Logan: Big Lebowski
8.47pm – from Veronica: You WAIT!
8.48pm – From Logan: Message Received.
Of course, I would never watch the movie without her, I had no desire for homicide tonight. I flick aimlessly through the channels and settle on something Veronica would most definitely hate.
I was so damn disappointed, hours were being robbed from me along with the possibility of nook.
FUCK!
Now I had to think about finding some sustenance. I get up from the couch and poke around my bare cupboards, because why would you re-stock when you're about to leave?
I should be eating grilled chicken and broccoli but I settle with a half-stale piece of bread with cheese and a bag of mini peanut butter cups. I was too far gone now. I'd made friends with carbs again, despite my best efforts to avoid them. I was ready to die on my bread and potato cross.
I wash all of this down with more beer, because maybe I'm drowning my sorrows, maybe because I'm acting like a stood-up character from a 90's rom-com.
Picking up the phone again, I stare at it.
What to write? What to write?
I'm feeling the need to seek out some clarity on the bed sharing that's transpired of late. There is a sense of safety hiding behind text messages. She can't see me, she can't read my eyes, I can avoid her gaze.
Fuck it, I write the message.
9.36pm – from Logan: But seriously, what am I going to do? Who will I cuddle with tonight?
I put the phone screen side down on the coffee table, lest I be tempted to check it as I await her reply.
I distract myself by making a bowl of ice-cream and throw a few more peanut butter cups on top for good measure. Yes, I'm definitely living in a 90's rom-com.
9.39pm – From Veronica: I do not know what you are talking about.
Classic deflection. Veronica Mars 101. Books could be written about this shit. Trilogies!
9.39pm – From Logan: Fine, deny it.
9.40pm – From Veronica: Do I need to go over the rules? We DO NOT TALK ABOUT IT.
I chuckle and continue to stir the pot.
9.41pm – from Logan: WE ARE NOT TALKING (technically)
9.43pm – from Veronica: I'm very busy and important. Leave me alone.
9.43pm – From Logan: Yeah yeah. Still haven't solved my cuddle dilemma…
I take another mouthful of my dessert. As the spoon crosses my lips I'm transported back to last night, her lips licking ice cream off a spoon just like this one. I ponder if it is, in fact, the same spoon.
Somehow, the next bite tastes even better.
Cutlery related hard-ons were a new and troubling development.
9.45pm – From Logan: I'm eating ice cream.
9.46pm – From Veronica: I'm working… or at least attempting to. Keep. Getting. Interrupted.
Do it, Logan, see what happens. Throw caution to the wind! Dare to divulge your spoon related fantasies.
9.46pm – From Logan: I'm thinking about your spoon last night…
As soon as I press send, I panic. Bad idea, don't scare her. I throw the phone on the couch well away from me. I can't be trusted to send text messages.
I'm going to go out on a limb and blame the peanut butter cups for that one… that's my excuse and I'm sticking with it. Sugar, ice cream and nonsensical thoughts run through me, all giving me a light nudge to make direct sexual referrals. Dangerous territory.
And of course, talking about the spoon, makes me think about the spoon… a lot.
I stretch out, adjusting my pants to accommodate.
But Veronica doesn't reply, no pings come from the corner of the couch. She's referring back to evasion. Of course, she could actually be working, but somehow that doesn't cross my mind.
I press play and continue watching Tidying Up with Marie Kondo, because having my t-shirts folded in color order really does spark joy.
When Netflix rudely asks me if I'm still watching, I collect the phone again.
10.25pm – From Logan: Fine, ignore me
10.27pm – From Logan: Veronica?
10.33pm – From Logan: …..?
She has read all of the messages but hasn't responded. I turn off the television and resign to go to bed.
11.17pm – From Logan: Going to bed now. All alone.
11.19pm –From Veronica: Are you trying to make me think about you in bed?
Yes! Now she's playing the game. About fucking time.
11.20pm – From Logan: Maybe … Is it working?
11.20pm – from Veronica: Maybe
Deep breaths Logan. In and out.
I take off all my clothes, leaving only my boxer shorts on and slip into the lonely sheets. I try to will myself some patience, staring at the blue light of my screen illuminating the bedroom.
I message again.
11.27pm – From Logan: Okay I'm in bed now
11.28pm – From Veronica: What are you wearing?
11.28pm – From Veronica: Sorry, typo. Ignore.
I snort, ungracefully. The thought of Veronica asking me that in bed stirs me in ways I don't want to address, alone.
She is slowly but surely joining me on the dark side.
11.28pm – From Logan: Interesting typo?
11.29pm – From Veronica: Goodnight Logan
11.29pm – From Logan: Goodnight Veronica X.
Friends in the friendzone can finish messages with an X, right? I think I read that somewhere.
I flick off the lamp and lay in the blackness. Tossing and turning, muscles tense, a torrent of thoughts stream through my consciousness. Overthinking. Over analyzing. Pondering the wonders of the universe. But really, why don'toctopuses get tangled in their own tentacles? Or is it octopi?
Riveting stuff.
All because I'm once again alone. Ridiculous really, considering I've been flying solo in the sheets for the better part of two years. Then suddenly, two nights with Veronica and I'm like a drug addict, dependence on her beside me comes swiftly.
I wonder if she's still awake?
12.41am – From Logan: I can't sleep
12.43am – From Veronica: Have a glass of milk. Count sheep?
12.44am – From Logan: Not working.
12.44am – From Logan: Have been conditioned to be held to sleep.
12.45am – From Veronica: Good News, in 3 days you'll have a whole shipload of friends to cuddle you to sleep.
12.46am – From Logan: Not. Funny.
It's really not.
12.46am – From Logan: Are you seriously STILL WORKING? Or are you just avoiding me?
12.47am – From Veronica: Still working… clearly not avoiding you…
12.47am – From Logan: When you finish, feel free to come by. You know where the spare key is.
Please come, Veronica.
Please.
12.48am – From Veronica: Goodnight Logan. X
I stare at the little X and decide that a reciprocated X is most definitely a friendzone wall destroyer.
I was tense and it appears there would be no nook tonight to soothe my ache.
I lay in the sheets and think of that emerald dress, it's etched in my brain. I let my mind unzip it and it falls to the floor. Of course, she's wearing nothing underneath. A groan escapes my lips. I'm already hard, painfully so. It's been that way all night. From the texting, from the ice cream…
I need to relieve the tension, if she enters my bed when I'm like this our spoons can't be disguised as anywhere near platonic.
I think of the time when Veronica was mine and she ran her cool fingers down my chest, snaking her fingertips through the patch of hair below my navel and taking me in her hands. My hand wraps as hers did around my length and finds its rhythm. Slowly, achingly, the skin moves back and forth. My body arches to the touch in the darkness. Eyes squeezed shut to envision her face, my breath growing increasingly ragged, the rate increases. My release is rapid and strained, aimed to relieve the tension, but, in reality, relieves none at all. I wipe the evidence away and listen for the key in the lock.
The sound never comes.