I bob in the water, waiting for a decent wave, scrabbling with the zip at the base of my neck that keeps itching. My eyes sting from lack of sleep or maybe it's the saltwater. All I know is that sleep, alone in my bed was futile and my mind-racing antics weren't assisting at all.
Keith holds my board with one hand as a wave lumbers beneath us, we float side by side over the crest. The surf today is choppy, green and limp, a strong north-westerly is hampering any chance of feet to wax.
"How was the wedding?" he asks.
"Yeah, it was good."
Keith nods prudently and grins, eyebrows raised, "Good, or I don't want to hear the details good?"
I cringe a little, it's like hearing your Dad talk about sex. "Just regular old good. I promise nothing happened that would scar you for life."
He scrunches up his face but seems a little disappointed.
I've grown quite comfortable with Keith Mars. There is no question that he certainly was never the president of the Logan Echolls Fan Club, but now… maybe he could be the secretary? He met me most mornings at our regular spot. After his accident he used swimming as his physiotherapy, he would swim laps back and forth, rest, chat with me, and then resume his freestyle. It was a companionable relationship that seemed to grow without me realizing it.
We'd bonded over our shared love of the waves, golf and baseball and it had been cemented over cold hot dogs and warm beer in the stands. My heart doesn't let many people in, and those I do, are on a tight leash. I know firsthand that you can have twenty blood relatives and feel little to no connection, but then meet one person and it is as though you have found your family. Sometimes between Keith and Veronica, I feel like an honorary Mars' member.
But, as much as Keith was now my friend, I saw no need to divulge details of late night spooning. I had a strong suspicion that nook-tales and overprotective Dads of the ex-cop variety did not make the most wise combination.
"How were Wallace and Shae?"
"They were great, you know, in love, barely looking away from each other, all the usual stuff."
Keith throws me a speculative, wet side-eye.
"Was anyone else there I know?"
"There were a few old school friends, but no one exciting. Mac was in Amsterdam for a conference and couldn't come." I weed it out, making him wait before providing the information I know he wants. "Alicia looked good," I say casually, waggling my eyebrows at him, "Blue dress, heels… no partner in sight."
"Oh, yeah?"
"She tore up the dancefloor solo."
"Hmmm… interesting," he says before diving under an incoming foamy wave. I float over it on my board and wait for him to reappear. Who says you can't find love (again) over 60?
Keith breaks the surface and runs his hand over his bald head, scraping away the water.
"I'm leaving on Thursday, got the call."
"Ahhh, shit." Keith scrunches up his nose. "How did she take it?" He knows, of course, that Veronica doesn't find my absences particularly easy.
I shrug, still itching my neck, "She seemed okay, I guess. A bit sad, but… I dunno."
"So you're just going to leave, for months, with no resolution?" Keith Mars, ninja kicking through the bullshit since 2003. Well, with his good hip at least.
I scratch at the stubble on my chin and shrug with a resigned sigh.
"Far be it for me to tell you what to do," Keith muses with a wry smirk and I laugh at the irony. He chuckles back, "but maybe things would be easier if you actually talked to her. You know, do it old school. Back in my day, if we liked a girl, we asked her out, we took her out, necked a bit at Henderson's Bluff, you know the rest. Communicate Logan, before it's too late. Sure beats sitting out in the waves with me." Mr. Sage advice, giving sage advice, what a shocker. I had to admit, I didn't hate the idea of necking.
I sigh as we peak over another unbroken wave. "All we do is talk Keith, around everything. I say it's black, she argues, says its purple, she calls me an idiot, threatens to murder me and hide the body, I call her a blonde etcetera, etcetera."
"I've been in the room Logan, please, you don't need to remind me," he pauses, "just be honest."
"What if being honest robs me of my best friend, of everything?" I ask because I genuinely want to know the answer.
Keith shakes his head quickly, "I have a sneaking suspicion it won't."
A glimmer of something (is it hope?) tingles down my spine. "Is your sneaking suspicion based on general speculation or hard facts?"
Has Veronica been talking about me, to her Dad?
"I would never sell out my daughter's trust, Logan."
"Of course," I nod.
Keith responds by raising his eyebrows and nodding at me. His eyes lock with mine as if he's transporting classified information through telepathy, "Just trust me."
"Okay." I respond, my mind racing with this new, completely unconfirmed wordless transaction.
"And, it goes without saying, we never had this conversation."
"What conversation? As if I would paddle around each day with a crusty old PI?"
He chuckles, sculling water, "Exactly, as if I'd hang out with my daughter's washed up ex-boyfriend." He starts to breast-stroke towards the shore. "So no golf on Friday then?"
"Sorry, count me out," I say, disappointed.
"That's a shame, I was really looking forward to beating you … again," he chuckles to himself at the sheer brilliance of the Dad-burn he just dealt.
I rub my shoulder, "It was my bad arm."
"Yeah, it looks really terrible." His arms reach out before him, stretch and pull back in the cool of the pacific ocean.
"Tomorrow?" I call out.
He nods "I want to hear how the talking goes… but only the talking," he calls out and keeps swimming to the shore.
I conceded and threw a couple of pairs of underwear in the duffle bag, hopefully that would keep the grumpy fucker happy for a while.
All the while musing the happenings of the past few days. It seemed that all and sundry had an opinion about how to proceed. Keith thought I should do it, Marla thought I should do it, hell, even Dick thought I should.
Advice from trusted confidants collated and analyzed, it was clear. Get off your ass Logan, be a man, get the girl.
We had gone too far last night (even if it was only digitally), but also not far enough, we were teetering on the edge of something and today was the day to push myself off the precipice.
My empty bed cemented it last night. Something was missing and something had to be done about it.
Fuck it, I only had about nine hours left.
The phone rings, it's about time.
"Mars," I answer.
"Echolls." The sound of her voice cements my plan, "What's up?"
"The usual. Packing, preparations, procrastination." Well, the last one was accurate at least.
"Sounds about right. Did you end up getting any sleep last night?" She asks casually.
"Eventually," I lie, rubbing my eyes, "Did you get your work finished?"
"Yes, thank God! I think I'll even get to finish a bit early today."
Thank fuck for that!
"Great! I'm thinking bar? I need to enjoy some alcoholic beverages before months of deprivation," and to get the courage to actually make this move.
She groans in response. It should be annoying if it wasn't one of my favorite noises from her mouth.
We needed to go out. If I wanted something to change, we had to be out of our comfort zone. If we were firmly planted in our butt grooves on the couch it was easy to get lost in the old friendzone routine.
"Come on… We don't have to stay long. Please? Chicken wings, jalapeno poppers, mozzarella sticks, beer?" Luring Veronica with greasy, spicy food, it's an easy sell.
"Fine," she relents.
"Usual place?"
"Yep. Six?"
"Sounds good, and walk. No cars tonight. We're drinking," I offer.
"OK."
We're quiet for a moment.
"Hey Logan," she asks, like butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, "how was that ice-cream?"
Now it's my turn to groan.
"Fucking delicious," I reply honestly, while visions of sugar drips danced in my head.
Buoyed by the prospect of dinner I make an effort to sort things for my impending departure. Dick rode along as I went for a fresh buzz cut, I readied checks and envelopes for Veronica to pay my bills while I was gone, and I stood toe-to-toe with the cursed duffel bag, and filled it. It felt good, finally crossing it off my list.
I shower and run my fingers across my newly shaved head. I put on cologne, button my shirt, and pep talk myself in the mirror for a full five minutes. I'd spent an inordinate proportion of the day constructing various scenarios of action in my head.
Hey Veronica.
Hey Logan.
Wanna go steady?
Sure thing, you magnificent bastard.
Clearly, the scenarios were a stretch at best and reflected my general lack of creative inspiration.
After intensive internal consultation the final game plan was as follows: Dinner, Drinking, Kiss her.
Seemed simple enough.
I kept getting distracted by the final phase of the plan.
I figured a kiss was the best way to discern her interest levels. I know Keith said I should talk, but honestly, I didn't know what to say...how do you lead with I love you?
I walk to the bar in the balmy July dusk. Suffice to say there was a spring in my step, a determination that left me both terrified and excited. I was going to seize the day, get the girl, carpe diem and all that other bullshit.
The friendzone could get fucked.
I press open the door to the bar and scan the crowd for my favorite face. There it is, perched on a barstool, with her hair in those amazing waves, a pale shirt and her skinny jeans with heels.
Stunning.
But then my gaze turns to a man sitting beside her, he's laughing, she is laughing.
He is making Veronica Mars laugh, and not in that ironic hate-you-die laugh, it's her flirting I-might-just-sleep-with-you laugh. I stand, frozen, watching it play out like a shitty B-grade horror movie. He reaches over and touches her leg, hand lingering on her thigh to emphasize his apparently hilarious joke.
She doesn't even tase him.
Fuck.
It feels like all the air is punched out of my chest. I was about to lose everything, before I even had it.
I consider turning away, storming out and leaving her with Fuckface. But then I remember, nine hours.
My throat constricts and I move towards them at the bar.
As I walk Fuckface is handing her a napkin with a number and she's taking it.
Logan, remember, stabbing people is wrong.
I'm unwittingly being sucked back into the friendzone. Just when I thought it was time to break out.
I was clearly mistaken.
Veronica sees me and her eyes dart around, panicked. Fuckface smiles smugly and extends his hand out, "Nice to meet you, I'm Chris."
The audacity!
It takes every muscle in my body to will my hand to his. "Logan," somehow exits my mouth and not the fire that I want to spit on him. His handshake is sweaty and after the release I wipe my hand on my jeans, making a mental note to burn them later.
I notice up close that Fuckface looks a bit like Piz. Interesting. A face perfect for punching. I ball my fists at my side unconsciously.
Apparently my compulsion for bloody knuckles over Veronica Mars doesn't fade over time. Unsurprising.
"Can I get you a beer, Logan?" Oh God, he even sounds like Piz.
I blatantly ignore him, deciding not to engage with Fuckface any longer, ignore the problem and it will go away. Fingers crossed.
I gesture to the bartender and order two whiskeys. One for me and one for Veronica. Or maybe two for me if she ditches me for Fuckface.
Stoic, I focus on the wood grain of the bar, forcing the air of indifference on the outside. On the inside, however, I hear the distinct sound of static cracking in my ears and feel myself ready to go full Hulk, veins popping in my arms and neck. Sometimes it takes you seeing it, in the flesh, to make you realize the true scope of your feelings and I did not like what I saw.
Plans thwarted. I was clearly in the friendzone for a reason, that's all I was to her, a friend. We could play texties like teenagers late into the night, nook multiple times and then she flirts with Fuckface at the bar like it's all nothing.
"No worries guys. Enjoy. I hope to hear from you, Veronica," he finally finishes talking and then dares to fucking wink goodbye. When Veronica looks away Not-Piz locks his gaze with mine, green and intense, like he wants to stab me a little bit too.
Ripping eyeballs from heads is also wrong, Logan.
He leaves. Veronica exhales a relieved breath and she levels her eyes at me, eyebrows furrowed, glaring.
"Who's your friend?" I ask through gritted teeth and take a long swig of whiskey.
"No one, I just met him."
"But you took his number," I point to her back pocket, horrified that his number was planted against her delicious backside. Backside distractions aside, thoughts nibble at my insides. She is not yours Logan, you have no claim here.
"I was just being nice," she offers, almost apologetically and I instantly feel gutted, embarrassed at my behavior.
"Hmmm, Veronica Mars being nice to strangers?… well, I guess miracles do happen," but I was still angry and I let my venom spit out.
"Shut up," Veronica nudges against me. She knows it, she knows that even the slightest touch from her can calm me, ebb my white-hot rage.
Damn, it was working too.
"Are you going to call him when I'm gone?" I ask and it physically hurts to say, because I don't really want to hear the answer.
She shakes her head, "No." She rips up the napkin and hands it to the bartender. I feel a little better.
A little.
But, all the same, my plans, my excitement, were all gone, dead in the water.
"You won't be needing it anyway," I shoot over my shoulder as I walk to the booth.
Of course, this display proved that while our friendship seemed strong, things were decidedly fragile.
The conversation in the booth was stressed and staggered and focused solely on the selection of menu items before us. I couldn't get past Fuckface any more than I could get past Veronica's reaction to him, or my own.
I order a burger and Veronica orders ribs from a nervous waitress who most certainly can read the room. She scurries away as quickly as possible.
Marla would have a fucking field-day about my possessive aggression. I made a mental note to keep this little slip from her and take another gulp of whiskey.
But she was right. Protective Logan needed to pull his head in.
You can't control everything Logan.
Veronica reaches into her bag and retrieves a pen, pulls a napkin from the dispenser, covers her hand while scribbling something. She finishes, folding the napkin into four and slides it across the table to me.
Despite my outburst, Veronica's eyes are calm, patient and forgiving.
I stare at the paper for a moment, before opening it to a picture of a smiley-faced stick figure holding up a middle finger.
I laugh, the breath that expels when I do instantly calms me. Like it forced all the negative air from my body.
"I'm sorry, I was being a fuckface," I apologize, looking into her blue eyes, awaiting my penance.
She nods pertinently, "Yes you were."
I feel mild relief and I force out a smile. I'm still angry though, not at her, at the situation, at myself, at the disappointment. Of course, it is all of my own making and I internally berate myself for getting to this point in the first place.
"I like that I can make you happy again," her voice is light and dare I say it, flirty.
Yes, you can, and you can also destroy me in one conversation with a stranger.
But I say, "I'm always happy when we're together," and I do mean it, mostly.
Her blue eyes flicker and her expression is a soothing calm, an unspoken forgiveness. Of course she knows I'm an idiot, that's nothing new, I just hope she thinks of me as her idiot.
I couldn't blame her for being drawn into the concept of something new, no baggage, no history, no angst, no psychotic silent rages in bars at total strangers. Something simple.
"So… am I not allowed to take men's numbers?"
Here it comes.
As much as she's forgiven me, she's also not one to take it lying down. Now, it appears, it's time for my penance. Friends don't let friends act like bonehead neanderthals without ensuring they get maximum traction to chastise them for it.
I would expect nothing less.
"Of course you are."
"Really? Didn't seem that way."
"I was just trying to protect you."
"Oh, really?"
"That passive-aggressive behavior back there… wait, no, that aggressive behavior, that was protective was it?" she points her finger towards me, holding her glass.
"You didn't pick up on that?"
"I did not."
"Friends don't let friends date idiots, I was doing you a service. You should be thanking me," l need to keep this light, going too deep might just show the cards I just retracted back to my chest.
"Is that so?" her head cocks to the side and she takes a sip of the whiskey she's been swirling. I catch the briefest glance at her pink tongue.
"It is."
"How do you know he was an idiot?"
"I've had a lifetime of experience with them, I can spot them a mile off."
"Interesting… I was unaware of your so-called idiot radar. Is this the time I get to list all the idiots you've dated, radar boy?" her eyebrows raise in the ultimate Veronica challenge. To be honest, it was a little bit scary, but mostly adorable.
"It is not."
After Veronica had returned to Neptune and the whole friends thing was still new, there were some girls. Mandy, Courtney and Taylor moved in the orbit of my apartment, and Kate, a fellow pilot who occasionally warmed my bed while I was deployed. But, none of them stuck, mainly because I didn't want them to.
"Now Ms. Mars, if you start listing idiots … then, I start listing idiots, and you know that I will win." I cough out the word Piz and she laughs, a full head back laugh.
"Like an idiot competition?"
"Yeah."
"Well, then you will most definitely be crowned the supreme leader," Veronica bows in subjugation to her new idiot-king.
"Do I get a crown?"
"No, this isn't Chuck E. Cheese," she says exasperated and giggles. In that giggle, I think I hear the humble beginnings of her I-might-just-sleep-with-you laugh leveled directly at me.
"You're a shit, you know that right?"
"I think I have heard that somewhere before."
I pause, the banter overtook the seriousness of the conversation again. Our waitress comes and deposits our meals on the table. Silence befalls us and I stare at my plate, then back to her.
"I'm sorry, won't happen again," and I mean it.
Veronica smiles, raises her shoulder saying "bygones," before delving excitedly into the ribs.
The bone she picks up slips from her fingers and dances all the way down her beige shirt. Dark BBQ sauce leaves a trail of stains in its wake. She takes a deep sigh, collects the rib, lifts up the shirt, and licks it to remove the stain.
"Wow, you are one classy lady," I watch in horrified and strangely turned on awe.
"This, right here, is why I can't be taken out in public."
"Yes, you appear to be barely housetrained."
"I knew it," she scolds, finally taking the bite she first missed.
"You knew what?"
"That we shouldn't go out. You, almost gouging out Chris's eyes back there, me unable to make food contact with my mouth. We should be staying home, in the shadows, where we belong."
I pick up a fry and pop it into my mouth, "Fine, after dinner, back to the Batcave?"
"Yes Robin,"
"Ummm…?"
"If you think you're Batman you're wrong," she adds earnestly and I chuckle, knowing she's right.
As soon as dinner is finished, I am ready to leave the bar. Suddenly overcome by the desire to be alone with her.
I start shuffling out of the booth and she follows, I want to hold her hand, I want to feel her palm pressed against mine. It comes at me with force and I don't know how to explain it.
Why was it that I could launch an F-A/18 Superhornet from 0 to 165 miles per hour off a 300-foot floating runway into enemy territory, but I couldn't decide whether to hold Veronica Mars' hand? The logistics baffled me.
I'm going to do it.
My whole arm tingles in anticipation as I reach over to her and pull her from the booth. Then, ever so casually, link her fingers with mine. Veronica responds by giving my hand a tiny squeeze and the shadow of a smile.
We walk in silence back to Veronica's apartment.
Our fingers finally loosen as we reach the narrow stairs to Veronica's front door, she releases her grip to search her handbag for keys. My hand, reeling from the lost contact, gets shoved into my pocket, hiding itself away.
I notice that her apartment is uncharacteristically neat and organized. I drop onto the couch and take off my loafers, getting the movie ready. Veronica makes us some drinks before she sits beside me, handing me one. Back in our comfortable routine, back in our cave.
I find myself looking at the BBQ sauce stain on her right breast, then tearing my eyes away.
She snuggles deeper into the cushions and rearranges herself laying down, placing her head onto my lap. She pops the button on her jeans. It's all familiar and confusing and disturbingly erotic, melded into one.
As the movie plays she drifts to sleep quickly, head still resting in my lap. I turn off the television and sit for a while, content to just be here, with her. The fan of lashes over her cheek, a cascade of blonde hair resting on my jeans. So much spark, brilliance and life encapsulated in this tiny form.
Perfection.
I should have let her take the number. She is a grown woman free to make her own choices. I don't own her, she is more than adept at making her own decisions in life. Certainly far better than I am.
Her decision to take the number should have been a sign enough. What I thought might of been there, between us, was not. And that was okay.
I trace my fingers through her hair, playing with the silky strands. Something comes with loving someone so much you cease to recognize yourself and your behavior. She purses her lips a little and moves her head to rearrange in a more comfortable position.
Pulling myself out from under her I lift and carry her into the bedroom, still sleeping, silently tucking her under the covers. I remove my shirt and jeans and slip in beside her. Because while I'm resigned to let this all go, I selfishly need just one more night with her.
I lean over and kiss the corner of her mouth, fleeting and light, purposefully so. Just in case she rouses from her slumber and punches me square in the jaw. The room is pitch black so I can't see her at all, but I could have sworn that her eyelashes fluttered, I felt the tiniest breath of air shift.
I tell myself that it was a goodbye kiss, saying goodbye to the prospect of us and just being happy with the friendship. What I felt for her was love, plain and simple, and with that, comes wanting the absolute best for her, and it's clearly not me.
My back to the sheets, Veronica turns, curling her body around mine. Her hand resting against my bare chest.
You are not enough.
It echoes around in my head and bangs against my skull like a rubber ball.
You will never be enough.
As I lay there, Veronica nuzzled into my chest, I try to push all those friendzone walls right back up again, where they belong.