I stare at the clock on the wall, watching the hands scratch by with rasping ticks. Squinting against the harsh fluorescent lights above, making obligatory head nods when I accidentally make eye contact with only other man in the small carrier ward. It's 12 am. Or maybe it's 12 pm? There are no windows so time is dictated by the delivery of meals, and the rotation of staff. Breakfast looks like lunch, which looks like dinner. No wonder I'm confused.
When a gruff man appears beside me in scrubs, I decide it must be 12 pm. Gruff Sam is on day shift rotation.
"How are you feeling?"
Like I want to scream.
"Fine."
He rips the velcro in a harsh snap and wraps the blood pressure cuff around my bicep. More tests, fucking fabulous.
"Have you slept?"
How the hell am I supposed to sleep under fluorescent lights with checks every hour? How am I supposed to sleep when I am supposed to be at home right now?
"A little."
While he pumps up the machine, he looks at the monitor that's taken up permanent residence on my index finger.
"Your oxygen sats are good."
"I feel fine. Can't I leave?" my tone is dry and impatient as I kick and stretch out my legs under the blanket.
He chuckles feebly, the smile doesn't reach his eyes, "No offense, but pilots are my worst patients."
"And here I was thinking I was being reasonably well-behaved today."
"I need to monitor you, Logan. A cut off of oxygen for as much as fifteen seconds can destroy brain cells. It can cause stroke, memory loss, vision problems."
I clench, then unclench my jaw, "I am aware."
"Good, then you are aware that I will not let you out of here until I've tested everything." He holds up a fat stack of papers, "I also need to submit all of this, complete with your test results so they can try to work out what the hell happened to you up there."
I put my head back against the pillow and let the tests continue in sullen silence. After he leaves I finally let my eyes drift close, but I feel a presence beside me and my eyes flick open again.
Josh is standing beside me, he passes me a packet of Cheddar Lays. I groan in delight, ripping the packet and shoveling the potato and faux-cheese heaven into my mouth.
"Once a celebrity, always a celebrity. Gotta always have the attention on you, Echolls, even if you've got to almost crash your plane to do it," he jokes.
"I fucking hate celebrities."
"We all do," he looks around at the surrounding monitors, poking at a button or two before the attendant shoots him a death-stare.
"Man, they're freaking out. They've just made the decision to ground the Hornets."
I want to scream again; I kick harder against the sheets and Josh can see I'm ready to blow.
"Apparently there was a similar incident this week in a Growler. They're going to replace the OBOGS and do some testing. Apparently, there have been over 350 incidents in Hornets alone."
We all know what testing means in the Navy, it can go on forever. I'm frustrated but I can see that this delay means that it's likely Josh will miss the birth of his daughter.
"I'm sorry."
"It wasn't you, relax. I'm just happy you are alive! Fuck! Listening to your traps, listening to you on the radio. I could tell it was bad." He shudders.
"Do you want me to call Veronica or Dick? I could get your phone?"
I shake my head, "No, it's fine."
"You sure?"
I nod.
"But feel free to bring edible food up here anytime. I'm getting the slops from the mess and it's not good."
"Can do."
He leaves with a fist bump and a promise of more chips and I'm left to sit and ponder alone, staring at the clock some more.
When you see your first flagged draped coffin or posthumous decoration it becomes immediately clear, this career is not for the faint-hearted. Mine was in 2013. I didn't know him, I knew nothing about him. But I knew he was working, just like me, and then he wasn't. His three-year-old daughter stood by the coffin, his wife hiding behind dark sunglasses.
But it wasn't me, at least this time.
On the second pass, the black of the Carl Vinson before me, pitched down, heaving in the swell at the last moment. I was clear, I hit the deck. Hard. Banking too far left, catching the second arresting wire on the bounce. It slammed me into the ground, rattling my head against the seat in a fierce jerk. It hurt, it hurt like hell and I've got the black bruises across my chest as proof. But I'm not sure that I ever felt relief like it.
I was out of that jet and into the medical ward on oxygen before I could fully comprehend what was happening. With a nice shot of pure oxygen, my vitals returned swiftly but I'm forced to stay in this bed until they deem me fit enough for release, or until I complain so much they let me leave.
In those moments, my life didn't flash before my eyes - my future did. The opportunities, the things I could miss, the things I could lose, all because of fear. I didn't realize quite how much I was looking forward to that hug from her on my return until the prospect of it was suddenly ripped away from me.
I know what I want now. I know it with glaring clarity, so much so that the reasoning doesn't bear any further examination. The crux of it is, I need her. I love her. That should be enough. I'd been an idiot. Life was always going to pummel me with curveballs. It did for everyone. I just had to learn to catch them instead of letting them leave me bruised and bloody. One of those curveballs was falling in love with Veronica, again. What's more, she loved me, and it appeared she was willing to take the blows by my side. She was willing to be there, despite it all. Love me, despite it all.
I mentally slapped myself silly, realizing with absolute certainty that I did, in fact, want to live. Very much so, in fact. I valued my life more than Marla, or Veronica, or even I'd given myself credit for. Maybe it was being convinced I was going to slam 47,000 pounds of metal into the stern of a carrier? It really makes you think.
Explosions and death - bad.
Life - actually, pretty damn good.
I want to shout that it's all fine, just a minor glitch, let me get right back in that jet. We were going home. Supposed to be going home. But not anymore. I crunch the chips angrily and seethe in the hospital bed alone.
It's eleven days before we're given the all-clear to return.
Eleven.
Fucking.
Days.
The cause of the hypoxia is never determined, but as far as the Navy is concerned they've replaced enough to deem the problem 'fixed' so we all suit up and climb back in. Jet blast deflector raised, the flight crew attaches the towbar and holdback onto the nose gear. Crew circle the Hornets, final checks complete, the Shooter takes over, signaling full afterburners, all clear. He salutes, I salute in return and place my hand on the canopy. The catapult cylinders fill with high-pressure steam from the ship's reactors. With a hiss and a deafening roar, I'm slung from still to hovering over the blue ocean in seconds. I don't glance back, not even for a second, I'm only focused on moving forward, on going home.
When I finally land on solid ground, take off my flight suit, de-brief, and head for the pick-up zone, I have to stop myself from running. I haven't told Veronica about my pending arrival, mainly because I didn't know the exact details myself. I wanted to call her, but I couldn't. I couldn't lie. I couldn't gloss over that everything was okay, when in fact, it wasn't. So it was easier to just keep quiet. I would be home soon enough, and the day was finally here.
I did tell one person, and he waits for me, board shorts on, beside his silver Porsche. Holding a sign that says 'Echolls' like a private chauffeur. He gives me the obligatory high five and awkward arm-slap-come-hug. Even if this day turns to shit, at least there will always be Dick. He cares, he missed me, even if he won't admit it.
"Did you have a good tour, honey?" He asks, taking the duffel from my hand and throwing it on the back seat.
"It was super, darling!"
I jump into the front seat and he drives off at a speed not dissimilar to top speeds in my Hornet. We're breaking land-speed records from San Diego to Neptune as Dick regales tales of all the 'sick waves' and 'totally stacked' women I've missed out on.
Waving goodbye to Dick with promises of surfing and Call of Duty dates this week, I unlock my apartment door. It's cool inside and has the smell of abandonment. My mail sits opened in a pile and little Post-it notes stick to the letters, showing PAID and notations of the check number associated. A candy bar wrapper sits on the counter. I follow a trail of distinct paw prints across the linoleum tracking to the couch where a fur outline of a medium-size dog has made itself home. Either my apartment had been haunted by Old Yeller or Veronica's newest, furriest sidekick had stopped by.
I call Veronica's assistant, Penny, to find out her schedule for the day, swearing her to secrecy. She was in meetings until noon, but Penny would let the front desk know I was coming.
Throwing the duffel onto my bed, I unpack it in seconds and put it back onto the shelf in my closet. We were friends again, that duffel and I, for the moment anyway. I head directly for the shower, the water extra hot as I rub my body with gratuitous amounts of soap, as if purging the ship from my pores. As I do, I recall the last shower I had in here, Veronica doing the rubbing for me. I take deep, steadying breaths, readying myself to see her after such a long interval.
I dry, slipping on civilian clothes and reveling in the simple softness of a designer shirt. A quick glance around makes me realize I missed nothing about this apartment. Everything I bought for this apartment is bought based on necessity. Couch. Basic. Bed. Basic. My life had been graced with such gratuitous opulence that I'd become numb to the lure of material possessions. I liked nice things, sure. I still drive an BMW and have a penchant for Tommy shirts, but I wanted something more, something permanent. Everything about it seemed temporary, like it was a whistle-stop on the way to another destination. I just hadn't zeroed in on that destination.
Until now.
It came into my focus, starting in the periphery and moving into full view. Geoff, my accountant, had confirmed that the house was well within the means of my current salary, add Veronica into the mix, and it was a shoo-in. This knowledge ticked another box in my mind. I just need to talk to Veronica now. Talking about things that really mattered was not my strong point. But I'd resolved that that was going to change. I was going to change.
Veronica and the house were just the starting point.
When I arrive at Veronica's offices, I show my ID and sign in. The bored receptionist points to the elevators, but I opt to take the stairs two at a time. I am back in peak physical condition. Without Veronica's late-night snacking temptations, my body-fat-ratio was back on-point. I need to expel some of this energy pulsing through me, the nervous excitement that threatens to burst from my veins.
When I arrive at her level, Penny is waiting by the elevator doors. She's all bouncy and young, perfect brown hair in a perfect little brown bun. I appear behind her, tapping her on the shoulder. I sweep my hand from behind my back and pass her the bouquet of daisies. There is no other word for it, she swoons.
"Penny, I've missed you," I bat my eyelashes, and she swats at me playfully.
"Oh, Logan, when did you get home?"
I glance at my watch, "three-ish hours ago."
"O.M.G. Veronica is going to F.L.I.P!" Penny loves to spell out words, I'm well aware this grates on Veronica's last nerve. I had no doubt she dotted her i's with love hearts too. She's young, she's fun, let her spell out the words if she wants. I learned early on that if I wanted unimpeded access to Veronica's office, then making friends with her assistant was my best bet.
"It will be nice seeing your face around here again for lunches each day; will you come to the Christmas Party?"
"Hopefully."
We walk over to Veronica's desk and I lean against it, looking at the paper strewn about the keyboard, two empty coffee mugs, one of which reads: I hate being sexy but I'm a fighter pilot so I can't help it. Her chair, her pen, all of her things. They're probably still warm.
"She should be out of the meeting any minute, I'll go get a vase," Penny waves the flowers about and collects Veronica's dirty mugs, straightening up her desk one-handed, "Thanks again, Logan!"
Veronica rounds the corner with an attractive male. I enjoy the vantage point of being able to observe her, moments before her eyes find mine. The casual way she's ignoring him talking, the way she's looking around the room instead, her body language speaking volumes. Her eyes land on me and she pauses mid-step, I take a sharp intake of breath and a smile spreads across my cheeks unhindered. Something changes instantly in her demeanor, her pink lips curl and she stares at me transfixed.
One look at her and it reinforces that my universe begins and ends with us.
I walk over to her, eight steps, maybe ten, my gait wide and quick, like I'm floating but also like I need to get to her as quickly as possible, without running.
I want to run.
I hold my breath, struck by the sudden fear that this vision of her would suddenly disappear on my exhale. It didn't. She's still here, before me, a vision in a pale pink blouse.
She takes a step forward, head cocked to the side, like she can't quite believe that I'm here, in front of her. She is so close I can see the blue strands in her eyes, flecks of green. We meet in the middle and I wrap my arms around her. Squeezing her so tight that her little heels come off the ground.
Restraint. I'm summoning restraint in droves, in reserves I didn't know I possessed when I release her from my arms and place her back down on solid ground.
"Hi," she speaks with a wisp of disbelief. I squint, looking at her unbelieving, like I was suddenly seeing in technicolor after months of black and white. Was she always this beautiful?
Yes, she was.
"Hi."
"You're back."
"I'm back."
I was sure she would scold me that the protocol in these situations would be to call first, not just appear at her desk after a five-month absence. She didn't like surprises. Which, like anything, made me want to surprise her all the more.
"Are you playing copycat?"
I laugh, "I don't know, are you playing copycat?"
Her eyes roll, "Wanna get lunch?"
"Yes!"
After breaking our embrace, I slide my hands into my pockets to stop me from reaching out and touching her. They keep trying to come back out, so I shove them back in harder.
She walks to her desk, grabs her handbag, and is back beside me in seconds. I let my hand win and one drifts to her lower back as we walk towards the elevators.
"When did you get in?"
"Flew in a few hours ago; I went home and showered, hung up my cape, changed into my human clothes."
"So, did you save the world?" she nudges against me playfully as we wait for the doors to open. She wants to touch me just as badly as I want to touch her. I considered counting the touches, but thought that might be weird. I steal a glance at her in the mirrored reflection of the elevator doors. I see my relief, reflected in her eyes. She looks down shyly.
"You're standing here, aren't you?"
A slow smile crosses her lips, "How was Japan?" she asks.
I glance at her out of the corner of my eye. I'm not surprised in the least, this is Veronica Mars we're talking about. I wouldn't have been at all surprised if I'd found a tracking device stitched into a false bottom of my duffel.
"Serves me right, underestimating the youngest registered PI in Californian history."
"Yes, it does."
"Of course, I refuse to either confirm or deny that assumption," I stare at her, eyebrows raised.
"I wouldn't expect you to." I laugh at her response.
"Wherever I was, it was a good tour, reasonably low stakes, lots of good flying time."
It's true, except for the minor incident, which we will get to, eventually.
We order lunch, medium-well rib eye for me, rare for Veronica with an extra side order of baked potatoes to share. Veronica gets us a bottle of Merlot. She makes small talk, touching her cutlery repeatedly, sliding it back and forth. I feel it too. The nervousness of being with someone after such a long absence, the air heavy between us, so much riding on my return.
She tells tales of her latest cases and I listen to every word enraptured. The bottle suddenly empty, the plates cleared. How does time pass in a carrier in extended hours, like I'm walking through molasses, then I'm back here with her and suddenly, a click of the finger and it's over?
"Logan Echolls," she looks at me over the rim of her glass like she can't quite believe that I'm sitting before her. "You're very sneaky just showing up here, after weeks of nothing," she points at me, her wine glass sloshing dangerously.
"I like the element of surprise."
"That do you," she sweeps her hair back over her shoulder like a scarf.
"How's your new man going?" I ask.
She looks at me, eyebrow cocked, momentarily confused.
Subtext: Is there actually a new man on the scene?
"And you brought him to my apartment too!"
She laughs, taking a long sip of her wine, "Oh, you're referring to my four-legged new man?"
I nod.
How can it be that what should be the most exciting part of my life, fast jets, new countries, new faces, all just seemed ordinary? How Veronica's smile, the way it breaks into a soft laugh, fills me with more joy in three seconds than my last five months combined?
"Hollow is good, you know, a typical male, likes to mark his territory, has separation anxiety, and steals my underwear each time I leave them out to dry." I already feel like Hollow and I are going to be great friends.
"Is he toilet trained?"
"Yes."
"Does he drool?"
"Yes."
"Does he sleep in your bed?"
She smiles, "I plead the fifth."
"Hmm," I reply with a devious smirk.
She takes a deep breath and another sip of wine. Her lips hover on the glass for a moment and I'm unreasonably jealous of stemware.
"You sure ask a lot of questions. Am I being cross-examined?"
"I've been gone a long time, I've got lots to catch up on."
"Hate to tell you Logan, not much happens around here anymore, especially when you're gone."
"I doubt that."
"So, you didn't meet any new people?" I ask, emphasis on the new, eyes locked with hers.
Read the subtext, Veronica: Is there anyone else?
Veronica gives me a bemused grin, "Why would I want to meet new people?"
I chuckle.
"Wait! I went to Wallace and Shae's Halloween party!" she adds excitedly, as if I will bestow bonus points on her tally for effort.
"I drank Bitches Brew and ate Halloweeno Jalapeno Poppers," she says with raised eyebrows. Shae's Halloween parties really were something else.
"Did this Bitches Brew contain actual bitches?"
"I'm pretty sure it was vodka and cranberry juice with floating eyeballs." She looks down at the table before adding under long, batting eyelashes, "I wore a costume..." She lays the bait.
"What kind of costume?" I gobble it up.
"Catwoman."
"Black, latex suit?"
She nods and I swallow, hard.
"Cat ears?"
She nods again, grinning.
"Tail?"
Another nod. I bite my knuckles, fucking deployment. I need to change the subject before I ask for photographic evidence.
"So, in the absence of meeting new people, general socializing, which we all know isn't your style... you had plenty of time to reflect, right?"
Read the subtext, Veronica: Have you made up your mind?
"By reflect, you mean, sitting around and watching countless episodes of Unsolved Mysteries and Forensic Files, right?"
"Of course."
"Then, I can confirm, I reflected plenty."
I lean back against my chair, "No further questions, your honor."
She smiles, "Permission to cross examine my witness?"
I nod as she leans closer; I join her, our faces inches apart.
"What about you?" She turns the tables, "Did you meet any new people?" she asks before suddenly shying away from eye contact, instead focusing on her napkin, folding it one way, then another. When I don't answer immediately, it forces her to look at me, blue eyes floating back to mine.
"No. No new people," I reply, and she bites back a grin.
Subtext: It's always been you, Veronica. Only you.
Of course, speaking in subtext never got me anywhere. But it was a marathon, not a race. I wasn't ready just yet, and neither was she. We needed to warm up a little before the hard topics came out. And if I know anything about Veronica Mars, it's that she likes to run, far, far away from hard topics. So instead, we're taking a gentle amble to what we really want to say.
Veronica's phone rings. We'd gotten lost in the time and Penny was giving her an extra-perky reminder that she had an appointment in court this afternoon. She hangs up, disappointed.
I pay the bill and we walk back to her office, our typical slow wander with the dusting of an occasional arm brush. I left her in the peak of summer, vacationers galore, never-ending sunny skies and the humid air floating up from the Sea of Cortez. It's nearly Christmas now, and while it's cooler, it's barely enough to warrant the use of a jacket. The stores are decorated, tinsel and lights adorn every storefront.
We finally arrive, standing outside the elevators, hovering. Veronica doesn't press the button. I don't press the button.
"Come to mine for dinner tonight?" she asks.
"Sure."
She gives me the world's most awkward thumbs up. Veronica Mars, decorated lawyer, expert in criminal law, presenting deft arguments to judges, juries … is so lost for words she gives me a thumbs up.
More awkwardness tingles between us. Would it be weird to give her another hug?
"Oh wait, I've got dinner at Dad's tonight. Come along?"
"Are you sure?" No, no no! It's not supposed to happen this way. I love Keith, I really do, but this wasn't the evening I had planned by any means.
"Yes, Dad would love to see you. I'll call him and let him know."
Great.
"Okay, see you later," she pats my arm and throws me a final glance. When she looks at me I feel a strange ache in my stomach, like I've been kissed and punched at the same time.
"Later."
I arrive at Veronica's apartment a little early. My hand runs across the top of the frame, finding her spare key in the dust and I unlock the door. I'm excitedly greeted by a boisterous Boxer, who attempts to climb up me like he's waited his whole doggy life for this moment. In his elation, his tail thumps back and forth, clearing the coffee table of all of its contents in one fell swoop. I drop to my knees and allow him a closer inspection. Hollow sniffs my hands, legs, shoes, circling me multiple times.
"Hey Buddy," I come face to face with him as he settles.
He looks at me, wide brown eyes with dark brown rings, a thin white line running down his face chasing down either side of his hanging jowls. He's suddenly stoic, leveled breathing and calm, assessing me at close range as I inspect him. I rub my face against his and laugh as he bounds back up again, energy returning, and I scratch my hands across his fawn torso.
I look around her apartment. Nothing has changed, except for the dog bed and the lead hanging by the door. It's a little disheveled, paperwork covers the dining table, Chinese take-out boxes forming a precarious tower in the trash. I steal a glance at her bedroom like it's forbidden territory and I see it, sitting on the edge of her bed. My t-shirt. The Calvin she wore the morning I left. It sits worn, inside out on the bed.
Can a shirt give you hope?
I place the little box with a yellow ribbon on the edge of the kitchen counter and flop down on the couch. Hollow joins me, paws perched across my legs. I thumb through a magazine, killing time, my eyes constantly flicking to the door, waiting for her.
"So, I hear you've been keeping her company?" I ask Hollow, his head pops up from my lap with attention.
"Do you like it here? I bet you get plenty of attention, walks, overfeeding?" his tail starts to flicker.
"You moving in on my girl?" He looks at me, head tilted to the side.
"You better not be…" I make finger eyes at him. "I waited almost six months for this day. You better not have been sleeping in her bed."
"I saw a photo of you… your head was in her lap," I rub behind his ears as I talk, he warbles with pleasure.
"I'm going to ask you one more time, have you been sleeping in her bed?"
He licks my hand. I think that's a yes.
"Have you? I'm being serious?" I look at him in the eyes. He takes a protracted blink, jowls trembling, the beginnings of drool glistening from his mouth.
"Did she tell you about me?"
Just then the door opens and Veronica appears, interrupting my interrogation, somewhat surprised to see me on her couch with her furry associate.
"Hey! Stop snuggling my man on the couch!"
It appears that we're both harboring a jealous streak in relation to the dog. "Are you talking to me? Or him?" I ask.
"Now I'm not sure," she replies as Hollow propels himself off the couch and into her waiting arms.
Yep, I'm jealous of a dog.
"You know, he's been a bit nervous around men, it's lucky he didn't maul you, just wandering in here."
"He was perfectly gentlemanly. He greeted me at the door, licked me, showed me to all your hidden possessions," I stand to join her, Hollow looks between us, torn, like he's not sure who he wants to pat him more.
She rubs him behind the ears, "You make a terrible guard dog, letting all the riff-raff in."
"What's with his name?"
"No idea, he already had it at the shelter."
She escapes to her bedroom to change for dinner, reappearing in jeans and a sweater, poking at the box I left on her kitchen counter.
"What's this?"
"It's a souvenir," I motion to it like a prize on The Price is Right.
She rips the paper, opening the box and pulling out the empty snow globe, then stares at me, a wry smirk upon her lips.
"Get it?"
"Oh, I get it."
"It practically covers me now forever for souvenir gifts while I'm on tour, right?" She holds it up, playing with it, tipping it upside down, letting the snow settle, then tipping it again. White flakes drift and float like confetti in unseen currents. Her pink lips, bottom one drawn into her mouth as she bites it, distorted from behind the clear plastic.
"Thank you," she puts it back down on the counter but keeps looking at it with a smile. That smile is doing things to my insides, scrambling them up like eggs.
"You're welcome."
"Do you mind if we take Hollow for a quick beach run? Just five or ten minutes before dinner, try to tucker him out?"
Hollow must have heard his name and 'run' in the same sentence, and he stands by the door expectantly, nudging his hanging leash with his wide, square shoulders.
We take Veronica's car, parking on the beachfront, letting him bound out the second the door opens and hitting the sand with abandon. Sulky moonlight ripples across the waves as we walk in silence. Veronica is keeping a distance from me, which I take as a direct sign that now is not the time to discuss us. It makes sense, with Keith's dinner looming. Confessions over a family dinner were never wise.
So we quietly watch Hollow, expelling at least a little of his energy in flailing gallops down the beach, in and out of the waves, walking side by side.
"I have to admit Dad, I thought we wouldn't be the only ones at the table tonight," Veronica waggles her eyebrows at him over garlic bread, a streak of amusement hitting her mouth.
"We're having a night off, this is family night, Logan's back, we're focusing on Logan." He points to me, and I sit back, confused.
"Am I missing something here?" I look between them.
"Dad's got a lover," she enunciates the word slowly and dramatically, baiting him.
"Keith! Good job, didn't know you had it in you old man," I join in the baiting and raise a glass to him.
"You two, you act like I've got one foot in the grave. I'll have you know I've still got lots of staying power, both in and out of the bedroom!"
"No, just no," she says, shaking her head.
Keith chuckles, satisfied that he's disgusted us sufficiently.
"So who is it?" I ask, curious.
"Alicia," Veronica answers for him.
A broad smile crosses my face, "Well, well, well."
"It's not a big thing, we're just taking things slow." He looks at me, pointedly, "Not as slow as some, but still slow."
Keith stands and moves away from the table with the speed of Veronica avoiding a tough conversation. It must be a Mars' thing.
When he comes back depositing a large hot dish of manicotti onto the table all is forgotten or forgiven, I can't even remember where anything started with the presence of real home-cooked food before me.
Somewhere after seconds, or maybe thirds, father and daughter battle back and forth about the choice of dinner. I had inadvertently sided with Keith over Veronica and now she threatens me, delicate index finger pointing at my chest in some kind of challenge.
"You better watch yourself, Lieutenant Echolls," she winks.
"I think you mean Lieutenant Commander Echolls," I reply without missing a beat.
The response is immediate. Veronica stops moving, eyes lock with mine. They warp into a broad grin, sparkling at me. Her blue depths momentarily unguarded and filled with something surprisingly pure.
"Really?"
I nod and she leans across and punches me on the arm for keeping this secret from her. Then she rubs her knuckles.
"Got my epaulettes last week."
"You're a sneaky shit," she chastises me and I wink back at her. I would be a sneaky shit every day of my life if she looked at me like that again. Pride, her eyes are filled with pride, and it hits me so hard I could fall off my chair. She says nothing else, just stares at me with a far off grin.
Keith rummages in the liquor cabinet searching for a celebratory drink. "Excellent news Logan, we need to celebrate."
Veronica nudges my leg under the table, I nudge it back.
"Okay, we've got an option of scotch or an eight-dollar bottle of Merlot from Chile?" He holds up both bottles.
"Scotch," we answer.
He opens it, pours three glasses, and we chink in cheers.
"To Lieutenant Commander Echolls," she says.
I drink my scotch, eyes locked with Veronica while Keith grins somewhere in my peripheral vision.
She rolls up her sleeves with purpose, squirts in the dishwashing liquid, and blasts hot water from the faucet. Veronica tosses a dishrag to me and deposits a dripping plate onto the dish rack. Keith sits at the table, still enjoying the scotch after catching me up on all the baseball games I'd missed and his current golf handicap.
"Are we doing a Secret Santa this year?" Veronica asks.
"If we are, I want Logan," Keith replies.
"You don't get to choose," I add.
Veronica shoots me a look, "Yes you do! I want Dad."
I shrug, just happy to be included at all, "He's all yours."
"Dad, I'm your Secret Santa and I'm getting you a dishwasher."
"Um, I think you might be missing the key concept of a secret Santa?" I add.
"I don't need a dishwasher. I have the Veronica 3000. She's a slight upgrade on the previous model, she cleans just as well with only slight complaining."
"You just set feminism back 50 years, old man."
"Feminism sheminism."
I sit this one out.
Keith excuses himself to take a phone call, and we're suddenly alone for the first time in hours, cleaning and stacking away dish after dish.
"Watercooler gossip tells me you bought my Assistant flowers…"
"How else was I supposed to get up to your office without alerting you directly?" I ask.
"I'm sure you have your ways. Now she is definitely in L.O.V.E with you," she spells it out, just like Penny. I chuckle while drying a glass and placing it into the cupboard.
"So, what, no presents for me?"
"Aren't I present enough?"
She grins and looks out the window in the darkness.
"What about the snow globe?" I ask, close to her ear as I reach behind her to stack a plate, my torso grazing her back.
"I love that snow globe," she whispers low, and a delicious tension starts to hum in the air between us.
Veronica passes me a saucepan in silence, and I glance at my blurred reflection in the metal pan. It hits me that I'm suddenly ready to do this, ready to talk to her, it's time to get this all out in the open, if only we weren't standing in her dad's kitchen, him in the next room.
Veronica has a red checkered tea towel slung over her shoulder. She uses the back of her wet wrist to swipe at the hair falling in her face as she scrubs. Without hesitation, I put the pan down on the counter and stand behind her tucking her hair behind her ears.
Her body goes rigid for a moment, before her shoulders fall and she relaxes. I slide my hands around her waist, under her arms, plunging them into the water. Scrubbing ceased, I seek out her fingers by touch. When I find them I run my finger down her thumb, then intertwine them with my own. They lay buried together beneath a blanket of bubbles.
I want to make pancakes for you every morning.
I place my chin into the crook of her shoulder, cheek to cheek, and we both stare down into the suds. I lift her hand, take a sponge, and together we slowly scrub at the pot. Round and round, at the same time I'm massaging her hand, breathing in time with her. Veronica leans back against me, into my cheek, into me, and I inhale her like a promise, unopened.
I want to kiss you before bed each night.
It feels like for a moment; the earth stops revolving. The slosh of the water is the only sound I hear, and us. Together, touching after months apart. The wandering lost feeling I'd had for five months disappeared. I'm suddenly here, with her, and the universe is right again because it's our universe. I don't want to think about what happened before, or what might come, all that matters is her back, pressing into my chest right now. It makes me feel alive.
"Can we go soon, please?" I growl into her ear, while caressing her in the hot, soapy water.
"Yes," Veronica replies.
I pull my hand from the water, tracking it up the side of her torso, up her arm, resting it with a feather touch against her clavicle. Little bubbles trail all the way there, I ghost my lips against her neck, rubbing them back and forth lost in the softness of her skin. I can see her nipples peaked against her shirt, straining against the fabric, I too, am straining against fabric. I want to kiss her, but not here. Everything has a time and place, and the time and place is not Keith Mars' kitchen.
The proximity of her reminded me of one hundred and fifty eight days that I hadn't had her in my arms. Now she was here, with me and I'm holding onto these delicious morsels of time, hoping, praying that at the end of the day her answer is yes. With my lips at her neck, she groans into my ear. It was at that moment that my trickle of hope became a flood, one that our hands are submerged within.
"That is going to be the cleanest pot in all of Balboa County!" Keith's voice comes from behind and startled, I pull back abruptly, untangling our digits.
Suddenly, I'm sixteen again. I chuckle, picking up the pot and not-so-casually resume my drying while Veronica blushes crimson and stares into the water. Keith looks at me with a creased grin, beaming at what he'd just witnessed, or the reaction that it produced.
"I love having you back, Logan, don't get me wrong, but it's late, I'm going to turn into a pumpkin, I think it's time you two went home, let me get my beauty sleep."
He's giving us an out and I'm going to take it.
We collect our coats, and say our goodbyes in a sudden, hurried scramble. Keith walks us to the door, Hollow follows.
"You know, Dad, I've changed my mind. Logan can have you for the secret Santa, I don't think you need a dishwasher."
Keith belly laughs, holding his chest.
"Goodnight kids!"
.