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“Logan!” Dick Casablancas, all 6’1” of him encased in a shiny silver suit with skinny pantlegs, emerges from his bedroom and strides to the living room where he stands with his arms outstretched in front of his roommate, waiting for comment. When none is forthcoming, Dick crosses his feet and does a quick Michael Jackson style spin before shooting finger guns at the ceiling. “What do you think, man? Will chicks dig the D?”
Logan Echolls looks up from the Texas Hold’Em tournament playing on the television to scan his friend’s outfit. “Really, Dick? The belt flask?”
Dick reaches down and pats the tiny silver flask embedded in his belt buckle. “Hey man, this little baby has gotten me many a hook up.”
“Dude, I’m pretty sure that there will be a bar at the reunion and that all of the ‘chicks’ there will be old enough to get their own drinks. You do know that everyone there is going to be our age?” Dick looks blank. “Because it’s our high school reunion…” Dick scratches his ear. “And they graduated with us. There won’t be any of your usual jailbait there.”
Dick scoffs. “Duh, man. This is just, like, for old times sake. Plus, it gives me an excuse to thrust my pelvis at the ladies.” He demonstrates the maneuver enthusiastically.
“I wasn’t aware you needed an excuse.”
Dick abruptly drops the stoner surfer boy tone, which is not an act so much as it is no longer the sole facet of his personality. “Logan, are you sure you don’t want to come?”
“Yeah.”
“I mean you know these people, it could be—“
“It won’t be. I’m fine. I wouldn’t want to go to the reunion even if all of this stuff wasn’t going on. Everyone from high school who I want to talk to, I talk to.”
“So … me?”
Logan grins. “Pretty much.”
“That is bleak, man.”
“Such is life.”
____________
An hour after Dick leaves in a cloud of aftershave and whiskey fumes, Logan is still stationary on the couch, idly toying with the tasseled edge of a sofa pillow. He glances at the clock; they're probably chin deep in lobster right now, Veronica, Mac and Wallace. Maybe I should have gone. He grimaces. Wallace had never liked him much, although they had settled into an uneasy detente before the ... Piz incident. Mac he had gotten along with better until Parker dumped him, after that he was pretty much persona non grata for their little circle. At the time, it hadn't hurt at all; they weren't his people, really, and all of his emotional head space had been taken up with mourning the loss of Veronica. The more things change…
She will be gone again soon, back to the east coast and her high-powered lawyer job. Yesterday, after he dropped Veronica off from their “long way home” drive, his mood had been buoyant. In the car he had really thought that something was starting; that the door might be open for …possibilities. In the sobering light of day, and away from Veronica’s presence, the doubts are creeping back.
I'll never see her again, most likely. Or ... maybe, if all of this mess gets cleared up—his mouth twists—unlikely, but just say if, I could call—he shakes his head emphatically—No. But the idea won't be dismissed that easily. I have been working so hard to keep this low key, no pressure. But last night, in the car, she seemed...
No. Starting It back up (and whatever “It” is, it definitely deserves a capital letter) would be stupid. They live on opposite coasts. She hasn't even hinted that she'd be interested (yes she has). Just shut it down. Maybe I could call ...
With a growl of irritation, Logan chucks the pillow across the room. He stares at it for a moment, then, with a sigh, he gets up, picks up the pillow and places it carefully back on the couch. Desperate for something other than the messily intertwined problems of his legal life and his love life to focus on, he walks over to the laptop that sits on the kitchen table.
Idly he logs on, not sure exactly what he’s looking for. He’s avoiding his email and he doesn’t have any social media to speak of. World news? Trouble in the Suez? Logan makes a face. He supposes he should check to make sure that no more of those mysterious videos of Carrie have been posted. With a mental shudder, he clicks through to TMZ.com. I hate this site. Vultures. He scrolls through the homepage, scanning for Carrie’s name, trying his best to ignore all of the other celebrity-related filth the site has to offer the weak minded. Nothing… nothing…nothing…toward the bottom of the page, a hyperlinked headline catches his eye. “Sean Friedrich: Watch This Space, More To Come.” He clicks through. Heading the “article” is a candid picture of Carrie, one he hasn’t seen before. She is laughing, lovely, but clearly high as a kite. Logan’s lips compress. He skims the text. Apparently, that morning, Sean had posted the picture of Carrie that headlines the article on Instagram and tagged it #moretocome. Great. There is a link at the bottom of the text, Logan clicks on it and up pops Sean Friedrich's Instagram page.
Within the last hour, a dozen or so new pictures have been uploaded. There is Carrie, long purple hair being held off to the side, doing what are unmistakably lines of cocaine. God damn him. With a fierce, hard look on his face, Logan clicks through to the next picture and the next. Four pictures of Carrie doing coke in all, and a fifth where she can be seen in the background with a bong in her hand. He sits back in his chair with a frustrated exhalation and runs his hands through his hair. Carrie doesn't deserve this. She just doesn't. Everyone already knows Carrie was an addict; this is in no way news. Nonetheless, these pictures will be splashed all over the magazines and tabloids—more fuel to the fire—just like all of the stories of his Mom's prescription pill abuse after she died. Okay then, that's it. Logan pushes up out of the chair, grabs his keys and stalks out the front door. I know exactly where that little asshole is - there's no way Sean would miss a chance to schmooze at the reunion - I'll be in and out before anyone even notices me. We're just going to have a little chat.
______________
Twenty minutes later, Logan wades through the crowd at the reunion, scanning the room for Sean. He feels like he is playing a weird form of “guess who?”—trying to superimpose ten year old memories of eighteen-year-old faces onto grown adults. Some people he’s seen more recently, of course. Over in the corner, huddled over a tablet and smirking viciously are Madison Sinclair and her vapid tool of a boyfriend. Once he’d started dating Carrie, Logan had begun to run into Madison semi-regularly at parties. His interest in her was so minimal that he couldn’t remember what she did or even what her boyfriend’s name was, but she was some sort of Hollywood hanger-on. Like you, with Carrie?
Others in the room are sizing Logan up as well. He catches the glances that start as disapproval at his casual attire and then become shock and even outrage as his identity registers. This crowd only needs an old Victorian lady clutching at her pearls and saying “Well I never!” to complete the welcoming ambience. Logan pushes further into the room, still searching. Jilly Ho. Steve Wacker. Enbom. He nods cautiously at the last face in greeting, but Enbom’s eyebrows pull down and his head turns away sharply. Better get this over with and get out of here quickly. Logan spots Dick through the crowd. Dick’s back is turned and he is facing the wall, one hand splayed casually high up as he does an aggressive lean in to the slender brunette—Alexis Link?—who is facing him. Logan quickly turns and cuts the other way; the last thing he needs is Dick, with his casually oblivious brand of chivalrous loyalty, trying to drag him into the festivities.
As Logan crosses towards the bar—because what more logical place to find Sean?—his eyes drift across an achingly familiar figure. Low cut black shirt, tight black pants, hot black boots (God, I love those boots). Veronica. She spots him at nearly the same moment. The air is suddenly charged and Logan swears by all that is holy that something electric actually leaps across the room between them. There is shock, but also an air of inevitability around the moment. ‘Vowed to skip it,’ eh Veronica? He raises his eyebrows and gives her a knowing smirk. Such a softy. Dragged here by Wallace, I bet. Her eyes rake him; she is off balance and quickly turns back to—Weevil? Damn. There’s a blast from the past—to recover. Logan, against all instinct, keeps moving past her. Find Sean now. Get out of here. Call Veronica later.
Up on stage, Madison is gathering the crowd’s attention. As the masses shift their focus in a single direction and the milling around lessens, Logan suddenly spots Sean, tucked into a banquet next to the bar (Surprise!).
Logan works his way over to Sean, pushing past Shelly Pomroy—another hanger-on—and her steroidal bohunk boyfriend who are running the presentation tablet. Sad music plays from the projector screen as he approaches Sean, unseen, from the side. Get in, make your point, get out. Short and sweet.
Logan takes a seat next to Sean and leans in, expression intense and menacing but tone low and steady. “Hey Sean, how you doing man?” Sean’s eyes are wide and red, pupils dilated. He flinches a bit, not meeting Logan’s stare. Rage bubbles up in Logan. He works hard to keep it suppressed and keep his tone even. “Saw some pretty interesting pictures in your feed.” Logan reaches over and squeezes Sean’s shoulder, visions of Carrie fueling the red behind his eyes. “You think that’s funny?” Sean’s head is still down, eyes fixed on the floor. He seems to be taking the classic prey approach of ‘if I don’t move, it won’t see me.’ Too late, buddy. You’re in my sights. “If I were you, I would pull out your phone, now—” Logan gives Sean a small shake “—and take those pictures of Carrie down immediately.” Sean’s hand moves slowly to the pocket of his pants. He pulls out his phone and taps on the Instagram app. Logan rises, his point made. Better not linger over this happy reunion. “It would be in your best interest if nothing like that ever appears in your feed again.”
Sean is a coward and follower at heart; Logan walks away from him without a backward glance. Mission accomplished.
He makes a beeline for the exit, glancing instinctively to the spot where he last saw Veronica. She’s not there anymore. The name “Rhonda Landers” spoken solemnly out loud over the PA system penetrates his consciousness briefly. The girl from the bus crash? He belatedly realizes that the sad music means they must be at the “march of the dead Survivors” part of the reunion program. Uh oh.
Sure enough, the next name splits the room like a crack of thunder. “Carrie Bishop.” Logan’s lips tighten and he quickens his pace. Behind him, someone shouts, “Murderer!” He freezes, caught in the center of a circle of bodies that seems to have formed out of nowhere. Whispers escalate as people point in gleeful shock. “Look at him.” “The fucking nerve…” “Bold faced.” “How dare…” Cameras circle him, their greedy maws sucking in his reaction to this moment. On the cloud in a minute, “Carrie Bishop’s Murderer at Carrie Bishop’s Reunion.” The moment seems to stretch out unnaturally, as though suspended in crystal. He meets Veronica’s gaze. Veronica. He hadn’t seen her until right now. She is sitting with Wallace and a small, dolled up, punk haired girl who Logan doesn’t immediately recognize. In Veronica’s face he can see frustration—for him instead of with him as he is used to seeing from her—and empathy. It is enough to spur Logan forward and out of the circle of the crowd. He heads briskly toward the exit, unable to even stop and acknowledge Veronica with more than a look. Go home. Go home and call her later.
Outside in the alleyway, Logan strides toward the valet stand, struggling to regulate his heightened breathing. Not that bad. It could have been worse. It’s been worse. He hears boots clopping on the sidewalk behind him. “Logan!” Veronica runs up behind him and touches his arm. As he turns to face her, his brain offers, dazedly, that’s the first time she’s touched me since the airport. Veronica’s breathing is a little harsh from running after him, her face is fixed in the determined expression he thinks of as “detective face.” This isn’t personal. She dives right in. “Serendipity. Carrie’s new tattoo? It was the name of the boat they were on the night Carrie’s best friend drowned.” She is totally focused on laying out her theory and doesn’t notice his lips twitch in amusement. “Carrie’s new album, Confessional? ‘Try drowning all our memories tonight?’ Something happened on that boat.”
He is amused and a little disbelieving. “Yeah? You sound like Ruby.”
“Carrie couldn’t keep the secret anymore, she was unraveling…” Carrie was definitely unraveling. “…and whoever killed Carrie did it to shut her up. So who else was on the boat that night?”
Logan, still off balance from the unexpected topic, searches his memory. “It was Carrie, Stu Cobbler, Dick.”
“Dick?” She seems incredulous. What is that about?
“Yeah, Dick. Gia Goodman, Luke Haldeman, that crowd.”
“Did you ever talk about what happened that night with Carrie?”
He grimaces at the memory. “Yeah, once. She curled up into a fetal position and she didn’t speak for the rest of the night.”
“And you don’t think that could be significant?”
“I guess. I mean, it seems far fetched to me, but I trust your instincts Veronica.” Her gaze softens. “I’ll pass the tip along to my lawyer. I decided to go with Jackson Fredrick, like you suggested.” She smiles, slightly.
“Logan, I know it sounds stupid but I just … I know there’s something there. All of my spidey senses are tingling.”
“I promise I’ll check it out. Do you want me to… I could…” He drifts off, rubbing his hand across the back of his neck, the words “call you and let you know how it goes” are stuck on his tongue.
Veronica seems to sense the potential landmine and jumps in with. “So what brought you here tonight?”
He volleys back, glad to step away from the edge. “I was going to ask you the same.”
“I was kidnapped. You?” Her arms are crossed under her bust, her eyes locked on his flirtatiously.
Ooh, fess up time. She’s not going to be happy about this. “Pictures of Carrie doing lines of coke showed up on Sean Friedrich’s Instagram feed today. I knew he’d be here tonight. I just…” Veronica’s hands go to her forehead in frustration. “I just explained to him that it would be best for him if those came down and no more appeared.”
She is exasperated. Adorable. “Logan, you are suspected of murder. You have to be smart.”
He starts to respond, touched by her concern, but needing to deflect it, when the punk-haired girl from earlier runs up. He registers that it is Mac. Jeez. She looks different. Mac seems upset. “Veronica! You need to get back inside now.”
He glances at Veronica, then at Mac. Something is up. As Veronica turns toward Mac, he briefly weighs his options and then, as always, his protective instincts outweigh his self-protective instincts and Logan heads briskly past the girls and back into the reunion. Daniel; meet lions.
______________
It’s the tape, of course. That. Fucking. Tape. Fucking of course it is. Logan pushes through the crowd, a near snarl on his face. Who did this?
Everyone in the room is agog. Some are snickering, some pointing, many are taking pictures of the screen. Who did this? Over by the bar, Logan sees Madison’s Vapid Tool and Shelly’s Steroidal Bohunk, both openly guffawing, high five each other. Kelvin Moore, a neanderthal to the extreme in high school, leans over, slaps Bohunk on the back and mouths “Nice going, bro!” Tool starts to suggestively grind the air with his pelvis. Okay. It’s on.
Logan has locked in on his targets. Black spots swim before his eyes and everything he’s felt in the last hour—sorrow and the ever present guilt for Carrie; suppressed rage at Sean; disgust and a hint of fear at the crowd’s reaction; Veronica’s touch on his arm—it all explodes out of him. He throws himself forward at Tool and Bohunk. His last coherent thought before the heat of battle descends is, Veronica is going to be so pissed at me.
Logan is barely aware of his surroundings in fight mode, he registers—and deflects—threats, blurs of motion slow down cartoon-style as they approach him, but outside of the immediate range of his fists the world is a void. He stretches into the fight, throwing his whole weight behind his punches, savage joy coursing through him in a deeply remembered fashion. This isn’t just a fight; it’s a righteous fight. Vengeance. And it feels good.
He is aware that his opponents seem to have increased; more people are piling into the melee and some of them, strangely, seem to be on his side. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices a blur of silver and blonde. Dick. That makes sense at least. Vapid Tool is on the floor and doesn’t appear to be getting up anytime soon. Steroidal Bohunk is a few feet away, bent over, desperately clutching his gut and dry heaving. Original opponents vanquished, Logan has now become a target. Two other comers are trying to take him down. Someone unseen behind him peels an attacker off of Logan’s back as he gets ready to hurl a punch at some jackass in a fuchsia dress shirt. Logan’s lips curl in a snarl and he is cocking his fist back when suddenly the heavens open up. No, wait. He shakes his head. We’re inside. So what the fu—Logic finally penetrates the adrenaline fogging his brain and Logan raises his arms in a futile attempt to fend off the foul smelling water cascading from the sprinklers. Someone has stopped the tape, at least, he becomes aware. And set off the fire sprinklers. Veronica.
The fight is broken up and the spectators are fleeing. Next to him, Dick flings off one last jackass, ostentatiously dusting off his hands and bothered not at all by the water. Logan takes stock of those who remain standing with him by the bar. Wallace—Expected. Their eyes meet and he gives a slight nod. Wallace glares at him. Whoa. Okay then. Dick, now bouncing on the balls of his feet, his hands held in classic boxer stance. Weevil, who Logan’s mind notes in a detached manner, looks rather more dapper than he used to. And… who the hell is that guy? The mystery co-combatant is turned slightly away from him, angled toward Wallace. A friend of Wallace’s? The guy puts a hand up to his eye, where he has obviously taken a blow, and winces at the sting. The gesture is oddly familiar to Logan. Almost like… The stranger turns around and it’s not a stranger, it’s Piz; minus a lot of hair, but definitely Piz. Logan’s eyes widen and the room reels slightly around him. There is no reason for him to be here. None. None. Unless—Logan’s mind scrambles desperately—he could be dating Mac, or, or, what the hell, Wallace, even. Veronica hasn’t given you any reason to think she is seeing anyone, let alone…
Wallace claps Piz on the shoulder and raises his voice slightly, “C’mon man, let’s go find V. Let your lady take care of that eye.” He gives Logan a pointed look over Piz’s shoulder and drags the other man away with him. Logan stands stock still under the still-spitting sprinklers. (“Falling in love with love is falling for make believe…” trills his brain, inconsequentially.)
The room is clearing rapidly. Dick bounces up and drives into him with a shoulder bump. “Logan, man! That was epic!” Logan’s brain stutters at the word (“…falling in love with love is playing the fool…”) “I mean, I knew having Ronnie around was going to be a pain in the ass, but I should have known there’d be some classic mayhem too. That chick is a drama magnet in the worst way.”
Logan is busy mentally reviewing every interaction he and Veronica have had over the past week, searching for some hint that she wasn’t single. She was open. She flirted—I know she did. I flirted. She let me flirt, damn it. The word “flirt” is beginning to lose all meaning in his mind.
Dick grasps his shoulder and steers him to an alcove under the stairs. Just as they get there, the water overhead shuts off. That is a fast acting building supervisor. “If I were you I’d get out of here quick, man; before you get fingered for starting the fight. I’m so hyped right now there’s no way I’m going home. Wanna hit an after party with me? Gia’s! You like Gia.”
Logan, exasperated, shakes his head, drops of water flying in every direction. “Dick, man, Gia thinks I killed Carrie. She said so on national TV. Someone in this crowd yelled ‘murderer’ at me. They trashed Veronica—again—and I just got into an ‘epic’ brawl that I’m pretty sure resulted in a concussion for the class president’s boyfriend. What about that says to you that I’d like to hit an after party?”
“Um, all of it?” Dick shakes his head. “No imagination man. You could be a legend.” Logan stares at him, steely eyed. “All right, bro. Have it your way. Slink off to sit in your dark room alone, crying into Ronnie’s discarded panties, for all I care. Lick your wounds in private.” He leers. “I’ll be collecting the sympathy of hot chicks while I get my dance on. Don’t wait up.” He saunters off. Logan exhales through his nose. Exit, Dick Casablancas.
Dick is right about one thing, though, he should clear out. No need to stick around for another fun encounter with Neptune’s friendly local law enforcement. As Logan leaves the alcove and turns the corner, he sees Vice Principal Clemmons heading across the room, phone pressed to his ear. Could this night get any more surreal? With a mental sigh,Logan changes directions to intercept Clemmons.
He steps into Clemmons’ line of vision just as the administrator angrily punches the “end call” button on the cordless phone he is clutching. Clemmons stops short and blinks. “Mr. Echolls. I suppose this isn’t a surprise, but I don’t recall seeing you on the RSVP list.”
“I’m sorry to interrupt, sir.” Clemmons blinks again, his head rearing back slightly. Naval habits die hard. “I’m sort of responsible for this.” Logan waves a hand around at the room, his expression carefully neutral. Puddles decorate the hardwood floors. Furniture is smelly and squishy from sprinkler water. “I’d like to cover the damages as well as any money the school district might be out from a deposit.”
Clemmons rocks back slightly on his heels and stares at Logan, his lips pursed and gaze assessing. “I doubt you’re solely responsible for this, Mr. Echolls. I intend to have a strong word with Ms. Sinclair over some of the evening’s—” he coughs “—entertainment.” He nods his head sharply. “Nevertheless, I…appreciate your offer. The school district will take you up on it. I will put you in touch with the building’s management and I will tell the police that there is no need to press charges against anyone.” Logan nods and fishes his business agent’s card out of his wallet, silently offering it to Clemmons. He holds the man’s gaze.
Clemmons takes the card. “Thank you, Mr. Echolls.” Logan nods again, then turns around and doubles back to head up the large stairway and out to the parking lot.
As he approaches the top of the stairs he can see (oh goody!) Piz sitting on a bench in an alcove on the landing. Veronica is bent over him, holding a bag of ice and inspecting his eye.
It would be satisfying, if not terribly adult, to stalk by with nothing but a fulminating glare. Alas, for the days when I could give in to the whims of drama. As Piz responds to something Veronica says, Logan takes a second to compose his features and his voice.
He puts his hands in the back pockets of his jeans to keep from flexing his fists and, just as Veronica notices him, breaks in to their conversation. “Hey, I think I’ll skedaddle.”
Veronica jumps back from Piz slightly and turns away, focusing her gaze over Piz’s head and not meeting Logan’s eyes. Her hands are on her hips defensively, mirroring Logan’s stance. “Probably wise.”
Logan resists the urge to roll his eyes. Veronica Mars 3.0; avoidance mode still comes standard. He needs to get out of here before he says something stupid. “Thanks for jumping in, Piz.” He puts on a burst of speed and moves rapidly away. He can hear Piz behind his back in his classic passive aggressive manner. “Oh, sure. Sure.” Sounds like we’re both having a great evening.
______________
Logan pulls his BMW convertible into Dick’s driveway, throws it into park, and kills the power. He lets his head drop forward to rest on the steering wheel between his hands. Right at this very moment, he wants nothing more than to go inside and sit in the dark getting stinking drunk on rotgut tequila. What, Logan? While listening to Elvis Costello’s “She” on repeat? Pull up, man.
He sighs and pushes back from the steering wheel. The Southern California night is cool, but not unpleasantly so. Dick’s neighbors all adhere to a light ordinance, so the sky above reveals more stars than is usual for nighttime in the city. Logan can hear the familiar and soothing sound of the breakers crashing on the beach. He leaves the car and walks around to the back of Dick’s bungalow, using the side gate and bypassing the house—and its liquor cabinet—entirely. He’s pretty fond of his job and the navy frowns on getting blackout drunk, even while on suspension and awaiting murder charges. Plus, watching Carrie’s repeated downward spirals has taken some of the romanticism out of starting his own.
On the back patio, Logan kicks off his shoes and socks before hopping over the low wall that separates Dick’s property from the beach. He pads down the dry sand, feet sinking in with each step. When he hits the tide line, where loose dry sand transitions to packed damp, he throws himself down to sit on the ground, uncaring of his jeans. His toes dig in pleasantly, creating a divot into which a squelchy half-sand, half water mixture flows. Off to Logan’s left is a beached strand of kelp. He snags the plant with one hand, running the slightly slimy leaves through his fingers and playing with the bladders. Of all of the colossal fuckups you have made with Veronica, this is not the worst. He pops a kelp bladder. Hell, this isn’t even on the list. Pop. Okay, so you may have thought the two of you were on the same page (pop) when it turns out you weren’t even reading the same book. Pop. So what? It doesn’t change that she came out here. It doesn’t change that you got to see her for the first time in nine years. Pop. He looks down. The kelp is out of poppable bladders. He tosses the sea plant away and leans back on his hands. It doesn’t change that she is still the best friend you’ve ever had and that she came when you needed her. He shakes his head. “Always Wanting Too Much” should be the official motto of the Echolls family. I’m sure it sounds less pathetic in the original Latin.
Logan lies back to stare at the sky, lacing his hands behind his head. Somewhere up there, somewhere around the world, some pilot is doing night maneuvers. If he were to fly over here right now, he wouldn’t see a thing. Not me. Not my bruised knuckles. Not the aching mess that is Veronica Mars in my life again. All he would see is the black ocean. Somehow, the thought is comforting. There is a world beyond Veronica Mars.
Get some sleep. Call her when you’re less pissed off. He snorts. So, in another nine years? Far overhead, a commercial airliner cuts across the night, its wing lights blinking steadily. Ask her about it calmly. She’ll explain. Be Stable. Be Adult.
He sits up, futilely attempting to dust the sand out of his hair. As he trudges back to the house, he glances at his BMW sitting in the driveway, the paint glinting darkly in the moonlight. In his mind, a vision forms of Veronica as she looked yesterday in his car; a dreamy expression on her face, her hair blowing in the breeze and filling the car with her light scent. The vision turns to him and smiles her enigmatic smile. As he unlocks the patio door, Logan laughs, low and with resignation.
Stable and adult, my ass.