Chapter 3: Logan
Logan's hand throbbed.
It ached like hell, too, and was already starting to swell, but it had been worth it. Logan
had half a mind to turn the car around, hunt Piz down and kick the fucking dork's ass all the way back to Beaverton.
The memory of Piz's hands and mouth on Veronica burned in his brain. But it was the image of those slender, familiar arms reaching up in response that provoked the sharp pain in Logan's chest.
Remorse and anger had been eating away at Logan since he'd charged out of Veronica's apartment the night of their big fight. He'd hated the way they'd left things so after several days, he'd finally given in and called her. When Veronica didn't return his message, he went looking for her at Wallace's dorm.
How could he have been so stupid? For weeks he'd known something was bugging her, but he never once considered she was sweet on Piz. Fucking. Piz. Logan felt the rage boil up and he slammed his hand violently against the steering wheel.
He needed a drink – badly. Logan jerked the wheel abruptly and tires squealed as the black SUV veered around a sharp corner. Moments later, he pulled up in front of a popular Hearst hangout. He chose a dark, corner booth and proceeded to get rip-roaring drunk.
"Hey, aren't you Aaron Echolls' kid?"
Logan barely glanced up from his shot glass, downing the tequila and ignoring the preppy frat boy in a turquoise polo shirt.
"You are, aren't you? Hey guys, we've got a celebrity in our modest little watering hole." Pretty in Turquoise pulled out a cell phone and aimed it at Logan. "Say, 'cheese.'"
Logan leaped up, tipping over his empty glass, and with his good hand gripped the James Spader wannabe by his artfully turned up collar. "Don't even think about it," Logan hissed, before shoving the guy roughly into a chair. The other fraternity brothers stood and started menacingly towards Logan.
"What seems to be the trouble, boys?"
Shit. Logan groaned to himself. Even through his tequila-induced haze, he immediately recognized the amicably authoritative voice of Keith Mars. He turned towards Veronica's father and raised his hand in a wobbly salute. "Look, it's the Sheriff," he said.
Turquoise Polo Shirt raised his camera phone again, pointing it towards Logan, who moved to hit him. But Keith's arm shot forward effectively blocking Logan. He glanced over his shoulder at the would-be photographer and said, "I wouldn't do that if I were you, son." Then Keith grasped Logan by the arm and hauled him out of the bar.
Outside, Logan dug in his pocket for his keys, which Keith quickly snatched from him. "There's no way I'm letting you drive, Logan," he said, steering the young man towards his sedan. "Get in. I'm taking you home."
If the former sheriff was anything like his daughter, Logan knew it was useless to resist. He slouched down in the front seat, and rested his spinning head on the cold glass window, closing his eyes.
"Do you want to tell me what you were doing at that bar, Logan?" Keith asked, breaking the silence.
"What college guys usually do in bars." Logan paused then added, "I just needed to let off some steam."
"By getting into a fight?"
"Hey, he started it," Logan grumbled. "I was just minding my own business … What were you doing there, anyway? It doesn't exactly strike me as your kind of hangout."
"The owner hired me to find out who's been stealing cash from the till."
They passed the rest of the drive in silence until a few minutes later when Keith pulled up to the Neptune Grande. He held out Logan's keys and turned to him. "A word of advice? Drunken brawls are not the way to Veronica's heart, or mine. I suggest you shape up, or you won't be seeing much of my daughter."
Logan let out a short, mirthless laugh. "The good news? Dreams really do come true, Mr. Mars. Veronica and I broke up," he said, getting out of the car and walking away.
The next morning a ringing phone woke Logan. He sat up and groaned at the pounding in his head, blindly reaching for the phone. He missed and hit his still aching hand on the nightstand. "Shit!" he shouted in the empty suite. He grabbed the phone, punching the talk button.
"What?" he growled.
"A good morning to you, too, Logan. I see you're up bright and early, bushy tail and all." The overly cheerful voice of his attorney Cliff McCormack rang in his ears reminding Logan he had a splitting headache on top of the stinging pain in his hand.
"Sorry. Bad night. What's up, Cliff?"
"We need to talk about your parents' estate. Do you have time later today?"
"I don't get it. What's to talk about? I'm getting checks from both trust funds they set up."
"Not the trust funds, their estate. As in their homes in Neptune, L.A., Lake Tahoe - need I go on? I've been getting inquiries about your old house and apparently someone's interested in buying the Tahoe property, too. There's also a little matter of the storage facility with your mother's belongings and everything salvaged from the fire," Cliff paused. "It's been almost a year, Logan."
Sighing, Logan rubbed his head and agreed to meet Cliff. They spent two hours going over the lengthy list of property and assets that were the sum total of his parents' marriage. In the nearly 20 years they'd been together, Aaron and Lynn Echolls had accumulated pages of priceless paintings, multi-million dollar homes and expensive luxury cars. They'd had everything a young couple could possibly want - except love. Logan grimly wondered if his parents had ever been happy.
As he flipped page after page, Logan's anger mounted until he finally shoved the documents away, scattering papers across the long conference table. He stood and, gesturing to his parents' file, said, "Sell it all. I don't care."
"What about your mother's things?" Cliff asked.
"I'll deal with that later."
Cliff studied his brooding client. "Do you know if there are any personal belongings left at the Tahoe house? I'll have to get someone to clear everything out before we can sell it."
Logan nodded. "I'll take care of it," he said, considering for a moment. "Actually, hold off on selling the cabin for now. I might want to keep it. I'll let you know soon, one way or another."
Ever since he'd woken up that morning, Logan had wondered what his next move would be. He desperately wanted to get out of Neptune, dreading the thought of running into Veronica, or worse, seeing her with Piz. His mom had always loved the house along Lake Tahoe's shores: It had been her haven from the hectic pace of living in the Hollywood spotlight. Now, Logan figured it would be his haven, too.
He left Cliff's office and headed back to the hotel to pack. He was nearly finished when he opened a dresser drawer and saw the corner of a neatly wrapped jeweler's box, peeking out from under a pile of shirts where he'd hidden it. Logan swore under his breath, picking up the box and fingering the white, satin ribbon. It was the anniversary present he'd bought for Veronica on an impulse weeks ago, back when he thought they'd actually make it to their one-year milestone.
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The day after his library study date with Veronica, he'd met Trina in San Diego, where they'd eaten lunch in a swanky Solano Beach bistro. Afterwards, she'd made him wait while she ducked into some trendy, ultra-pricey boutique. He'd been leaning against the storefront window, bored out of his mind, when the necklace caught his eye.
It was a simple, white gold disk, roughly the size of a nickel, dangling from a delicate chain. Three tiny diamonds bordered a hand-etched crescent moon and the light glinted off the gems, making them look like twinkling stars.
Logan had instantly thought of Veronica. It was just like her – beautiful and whimsical, but not garish or over-the-top. He'd known she would love it, so he quickly shelled out a small fortune for what the gushing sales clerk swore was a one-of-a-kind piece.
He'd left the store chuckling to himself about rodents and romance.
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Logan's heart twisted at the memory and he tossed the box back the drawer, slamming it shut. Twenty minutes later, his bag packed and loaded into the SUV, he was on his way to Hearst. He had one last paper to drop off before he could leave town, giving him the entire summer to decide his future. As he strode across the nearly deserted campus he noticed the assistant dean, a statuesque older woman, standing near a construction site. Earlier that year, crews had razed an old classroom building and now they were beginning to grade the land.
Morgan Kennedy had overlooked Logan's lukewarm high school grades, helping him to enroll at Hearst. He'd suspected hopes of a hefty donation from the Echolls trust fund had more to do with it than the kindness of her heart, but she had yet to approach him. Logan nodded in greeting as he passed her, but she didn't seem to notice as she watched a bulldozer scraping the ground.
He bumped into one other person before he left Hearst that day. Logan, eager to hit the road, was rushing out of the psychology building when he collided with Mac. "Oh shit. Sorry, Mac," he said, holding out a hand to steady her. He peered at Veronica's friend and noticed the girl's reddened, downcast eyes. "Are you okay?" he asked, as they moved to a nearby bench.
"Yeah, just having a bad day," Mac said. "Boy troubles."
"That guy Brian? He seemed cool."
"He is. He actually is. It's not him, it's me. I'm totally fucked up," she said, miserably.
"Hm, I don't know anyone who isn't."
Mac laughed. "That's actually kind of comforting. Sad, but comforting."
"Glad to be of help." Logan paused, then added, "Your boy troubles – they don't have anything to do with Cassidy, do they?" When Mac didn't say anything, Logan sat back and sighed.
"For what it's worth, Brian seemed to really like you, Mac. So if you have the chance to be happy with someone, why not go for it?" he said. Mac stared at Logan and he squirmed, realizing how movie-of-the-week his little speech sounded. "Then again, what the hell do I know? Trust me, I'm the last person you want to take relationship advice from."
"No," Mac said. "That was really – sweet. And helpful, actually … I have to go." She stood and picked up her bag, before turning back to him. "Thanks, Logan."
He nodded and gave a small smile as she hurried away. At least someone has a shot at a happy ending, he thought as he pointed his SUV north, heading for Lake Tahoe. Two hours later, Logan was creeping through L.A. traffic when his cell phone rang and Veronica's name popped up on the caller id screen. He turned the phone off, lobbing it onto the passenger's seat.
All day long his thoughts had careened from one extreme to the next. Everything had been going so well he couldn't understand how it had fallen apart so quickly and right under his nose. He hadn't even been aware it was happening until it was all over. Logan groaned remembering how he'd laid his heart on the line, declaring his love for Veronica right there on her front porch for all the world to see and hear.
She never loved me, he realized. All those months, he'd been blissfully falling in love with her, not even noticing she wasn't taking the plunge along with him. Was I just a placeholder until someone better came along, he wondered. What the hell do I care? If she wants Duncan's dweebie clone, fine by me.
Logan swiped his eyes with his sleeve and eased the SUV off the freeway, pulling into a gas station.
After stopping at a grocery store for food and supplies, it was well past midnight by the time Logan turned into the long, wooded driveway of his family's lakeside vacation home. Exhausted, he dumped his bag by the door and went to the kitchen to heat a can of soup. He soon fell into a dreamless sleep on the living room couch.
The next morning, his muscles still aching from the long drive, Logan decided to take a swim in the lake to clear his head and work out the kinks in his body. But he'd forgotten how chilling the water was after years of living in southern California, where the ocean was considerably warmer than the melted snow that ran into Lake Tahoe. Logan emerged sputtering from the emerald waters, his extremities numb and tinged a slight blue. He quickly wrapped himself in a towel and sat on the patio deck overlooking the lake. It occurred to him that he'd seen his mom lounging peacefully in the exact same spot on countless occasions.
Aaron had seldom joined them at the lake. Despite the casinos and nightclubs all along the Nevada shore, Tahoe lacked the glitz and glamour of Vegas and unlike Beverly Hills or Hollywood there weren't any paparazzi to immortalize his image.
Logan hadn't been to the Craftsman-style lake house in years and it was here that he felt his mother's presence for the first time since her death. Although he'd always liked the cozy bungalow situated between a forest of evergreens and the icy, blue-green lake, he usually preferred being close to the ocean. There was something about the wild rhythm of the surf crashing onto land that appealed to him. But now, like his mother, Logan found solace in the sound of water lapping gently against the shore.
He spent several days going through each room, sifting through his family's belongings. He unearthed Trina's abandoned Boys II Men CDs, fashion magazines from the late '90s and a dozen or so cheesy, teenage romance novels. When he stumbled on a box of his old X-Men comic books, Logan passed a lazy afternoon stretched out on the deck getting reacquainted with his boyhood heroes. The next day, however, he discovered that while his ancient Nintendo games still worked, they just weren't much fun anymore.
He tackled his parents' room last and was surprised to find how much his mother had kept at their vacation home. Her closets were filled with clothes that he carefully folded and boxed. There were also books and photo albums, along with several filled sketchpads. He'd forgotten his mom used to draw.
His mother's little touches were apparent throughout the room, a stark contrast to their fashionable home in Neptune, which had been all glass and sharp angles. Here at the lake house, a worn afghan lay across the wooden rocking chair that she'd loved to sit and read in. Family photos, not stylized publicity shots, sat in frames decorating her vanity table and shelves.
The room even smelled of her favorite perfume and as he inhaled his mother's scent, Logan was filled with longing for something he wasn't sure he'd ever had. Wearily, he wrapped himself in the afghan and fell asleep curled on her side of the bed.
In the end, most of the stuff he found Logan threw in boxes and hauled to a Salvation Army thrift store, while arranging to donate his mother's clothes to a women's shelter. But he kept the comics, photo albums and Lynn's sketches.
Over the next month-and-a-half, Logan fell into an easy routine. His days were spent swimming or boating on the lake, a couple of times he'd even gone fishing. At night, he drove into town and gambled or hung out in clubs, staying out until the early morning hours. He became restless in the evenings and didn't like spending them alone at the lake house because it gave him too much time to think about Veronica.
Of course, he thought of her constantly, anyway.
She called a few more times, but he ignored the buzzing cell phone. Later, fortified by alcohol, he listened to her messages over and over again, simply because he missed the sound of her voice. Once, he nearly dialed Veronica's number, but hesitated when it began to feel all too familiar. Logan had always gone crawling back to Lilly, no matter what she'd done.
In a fit of rage, he threw the phone across the room, shattering the flimsy plastic. It was his own fault, really, Logan thought. He'd pinned far too many hopes on Veronica, daring to think she could love him when he should've remembered who he was. It was, after all, a lesson her best friend had taught him years ago.
He picked up the pieces of his broken phone and threw them in the trash. That afternoon he bought a new one, changed his number and resolved to quit moping over Veronica. He'd gotten over her once before, he could do it again.
Then one day late in July, Logan found something that brought an unexpected comfort.
He was searching for a blanket when he noticed the window seat in his parents' room was also a storage bench. He lifted the lid and, peering inside, found more photos, a scrapbook, loose papers and what looked like an antique, wooden writing chest.
The box was filled with childish drawings, cards made of fading construction paper and at the bottom there was a clay impression of a small hand. Startled, Logan realized the crayon illustrations were his. As he stared, memories of proudly presenting them to his mom began to resurface. He also recognized the handprint as his own – a souvenir from a kindergarten class project.
Logan had long ago accepted that his childhood had been far from normal. While the other kids he knew were busy with Little League games and Cub Scout den meetings, he'd been paraded from one celebrity event to another. The endless galas, movie premiers and red carpet award ceremonies had made him the envy of his friends, but Logan knew better.
The night before Aaron won his first Golden Globe, Logan had accidentally spilled grape juice on the engraved, ivory invitation. That little spill had earned him a brutal whipping that ended only when he passed out.
When People magazine came to do a cover story on Hollywood's golden couple, he'd unknowingly run through the living room, with Duncan following close behind, the two of them screaming at the tops of their lungs. He still had scars from that moment of boyish exuberance.
Through it all, Logan had smiled for the cameras while hiding his injuries and biting back cries of pain. His classmates had oohed and ahhed over his famous parents, but he'd think of the beatings and secretly wish he was the one going to some boring piano recital. Gradually, he'd learned to harden his heart to useless sentimentality and had buried the memories.
But now, Logan felt something inside him break as he scanned his drawings – all childish depictions of their non-existent perfect family. He never knew his mom had so carefully preserved his artwork and the long-ago gestures of love reached out through time, taking hold of Logan's heart. As tears slipped down his cheeks, it slowly dawned on Logan that despite all the anguish his existence has caused, his mother had loved him.
Later, Logan closed the chest, picking up the scrapbook of press clippings from Aaron's early career, before the breakthrough movie that made him a star. As Logan packed everything into a box, a photo slipped out of the album and he bent to pick it up.
It was a picture of Aaron with several people Logan didn't recognize, but they were standing in front of a Spanish-style building that was very familiar to him – the Hearst library. In the photo, Aaron appeared to be around Logan's age now. Puzzled, Logan couldn't remember his father ever talking about going to college, let alone being a student at Hearst.
He started to look through the other photos, when his ringing phone interrupted him.
"Congratulations, Logan," Cliff said when he answered. "The houses in Neptune and L.A. have buyers. One of them is interested in the Tahoe place, too. Have you decided if you're going to sell it?"
Logan paused, gazing out the window onto the shimmering lake before appraising the room that bore so much of his mother's mark. "I'm keeping it," he said.
"Well, there are papers for you to sign. How soon can you be back?"
He hung up a few minutes later and began to pack, carefully adding the writing chest and scrapbook to the rest of the mementos he'd saved. The next morning, he woke up and took one last swim in the freezing lake waters before getting in the SUV and reluctantly heading back home to Neptune.