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These are the facts: She sleeps well. Wakes up refreshed.
She exercises regularly, mostly running and yoga. No eating after 7:30 p.m. Long, fragrant baths. A single glass of Syrah every once in a blue moon. No more late night TV sci-fi. Too intense. She DVRs everything. This way when she finally indulges in that much deserved sick day, she isn’t stuck watching a “When Women Snap!” marathon on the Murder Channel because frankly, half the time, she doesn’t blame them for snapping. She sticks to light reading, political biographies mostly. She meditates. She keeps her cool. This last one is tough. She works at it.
Nine years have passed since Veronica Mars quit the PI biz but old habits die hard. It’s been five years since she anonymously sent grainy but unmistakable cell phone photos of her philandering professor in flagrante to the woman’s stay at home Mr. Mom-of-three husband. Two since she impulsively tailed a couple on the subway. The man wore a wedding band, which shined with a dull glint as he slowly rubbed the back of a girl young enough to be his teenage daughter. She’d watched him get down on one knee in the Williamsburg restaurant she'd followed them to, presenting signed divorce papers tied with a red ribbon, an engagement ring looped in the bow. The girl had squealed with delight. Veronica threw in the towel after that. Cold turkey. She remembers her promises and sticks to them doggedly. She is now a pro at walking away from things that are dangerous, things that come naturally. The most danger she’s seen since Hearst was the month in ‘06 when she thought that her apartment had bedbugs.
She sleeps fine. She wakes sunny side up.
Lately though, as of Christmas, he’s been showing up in her dreams with an alarming regularity. She has come to accept it, welcome it even. He doesn't look any different than the last time she saw him. He looks... young. This detail aches a bit since the dream Veronica is the current model: laugh lines, new scars, fuller figure and all. He doesn’t comment on the difference. She touches him and he lets her. His wary, sad eyes follow her fingers as they travel up from his hands, to his forearms, his elbows. They slide up to his shoulders and across his wide swimmer's back, to his neck. She reaches up to his face and gently tugs him down to her, peppering his cheeks with small kisses, closing her eyes when she feels his hands settle lightly on her waist in that old, familiar way. Sometimes she cries because she hasn't in years. Because she knows this is a dream and it's safe to. When she does, he leans down and puts his forehead against hers, bringing his hands up, those too-long sleeves framing the sides of her face.
"Of the two of us, I don't know who cries more," he whispers.
She laughs in response, the kind of laugh that sounds like a cough, a hiccup, a sob.
"That's not inspirational," she manages.
"It's not a quote,” he replies.
There’s no obvious reason for his return to her subconscious. She’s happy, there’s no need for nostalgia. In fact, she is, as someone else she once loved used to say, fabulous. The mealy ole Big Apple suits her. Her particular combination of sass, sunshine and grit works here. People get her sense of humor. Her tenaciousness is an asset. Plus, now that she is nearing her 6th year in the city, she has finally gotten to the point where she feels like a real New Yorker, complete with preferential treatment at the local roach coach and an encyclopedic knowledge of the best dumpling spots on the Lower East Side, Sunset Park and Flushing. She loves her tiny but well located Prospect Heights apartment. It’s too small for a dog so she borrows her neighbor’s terrier, Buster, once a week on Fridays. Walks him on tree lined, brownstone dotted streets, sometimes the dog park if it’s nice out. She's not alone, she's not lonely. She keeps her nose clean.
Truth is, she doesn’t think of him much. But every now and then, something triggers it, and he pops up in her head, giving her a shock.
When she was in law school she used to go to her local laundromat to study. The sounds of the dryers and washers smudged out the sounds of the city and made the perfect soundtrack for analyzing information. One night she caught a whiff of someone’s deodorant and the familiar smell sent a sudden heat straight to her crotch. She stood and stared at the culprit: a man picking up dry cleaning, dark hair, tall, rolled up sleeves. He felt her stare and turned around, small quizzical expression in his eyes. Which were blue. Nope. Wrong color. She snapped to. A big, wide smile took over her face as she shook her head, grabbed her things and hightailed it outta there before she wound up following this stranger back to his apartment and fucking him stupid. How do you say, in one night stand, I want that scent, I want it all over me, please don’t talk, just go with it? She was never very good at languages, that was mostly his thing. It was a secret he’d accidentally let out when he re-translated a line from Pan’s Labyrinth, which she’d dragged him to and he’d loved.
“You've been holding out on me, hombre,” she’d said, narrowing her eyes.
“Oh, you know. The expected consequences of Spanish speaking nannies,” he mumbled. “Don’t tell anyone.” Then quieter, with a tiny, upward quirk of the lips, “But especially Weevs.”
He’d taken her hand then and spun her around like a ballerina in a music box, her breathless laughter echoing in the parking lot. Three days after that they’d broken up for good.
A new week and new prospects. She’s been interviewing at law firms for an associate’s position because she needs to make a change, a course correction. After wrapping up law school, she’d put her dreams of prosecuting criminals on pause to focus on making enough money to pay off student loans. She wound up taking a dull but lucrative position doing contract work at a big firm. Just her, lots of coffee, a team of fellow law school miscreants, going through document review after document review. Endless mouse-clicks, eye strain and the occasional giant stack of paper. It was strangely zen. Boring as fuck. But zen. She loves her crew. They formed a bocce ball team and play weekend tournaments as ‘The Lizzies’. They are terrible but they always have a blast.
Later, in her apartment, after another tournament loss and some inexcusably crappy Thai, she is greeted by a fancy square cut envelope waiting in the mail pile. It was forwarded from her father, a single “Ahem” written in cursive on the seam. She opens it. Neptune High 10 Year Reunion! Calling all Pirates! RSVP, Yea or Nay! Her stomach does an uneasy flop. She blames the Dancing Squid.
He visits that night, The Boy, after she’s fallen asleep. They are in his suite at The Grand, an abandoned video game's music plays on repeat. She sits on the couch while he kneels in front of her, fucking her with his wide swath of a tongue, her right boot-clad foot slung over his shoulder, his hand circling her ankle. He flexes and flutters his fingers in response to her moans, as if conducting music. When he raises his eyes to look at her, she senses his smile, that lopsided grin, feels it down there, like a sharp, pleasurable tug and comes, for what seems like forever, an endless radiant wave.
She wakes up thirsty, her throat an arid husk, goes into her kitchenette and downs two glasses of water, one after the other, the liquid running out of the sides of her mouth, down her neck, pooling into her faded t-shirt. She still aches. With him, she was used to more. Without thinking, she slides her index finger into her underwear, and begins to move her wrist, first in slow circles, then frantically, with purpose. She stands on her toes, her ass pressed against the edge of the counter as she raises her hips to meet the pressure. She conjures up the image of his eyes, unblinking, the whites underneath his irises, that hidden smile and almost says his name, tongue poised on the roof of her mouth and comes again.
She’s never looked him up. Even though it goes against her every natural impulse to know, know, know, to be on top of it, to acquire and construct, like the busiest of busy beavers, she just can’t. She has all the resources, as well as some well-connected sleazoid acquaintances who would think nothing of getting her his number, his address, his email, his social, but she resists. She isn't superstitious, hasn't become a superstitious person, but somehow, in this case, she just knows that to say his name out loud was to risk having him appear. On a street corner downtown, his reflection in a shop’s window, across from her on the subway or worse, him waiting outside her door. Just leaning there, following her wordlessly inside. He wouldn't even have to say anything, she’d be dunzo. Finished.
Even with someone else sharing her bed, she’d still let him in. If she was home and he found her, then she was meant to be found.
Until then, no name, no direct mention of him, not out loud. It’s not always a hardship, it’s mostly easy to forget. She’s wanted to talk about him though, came close to it once, after a long post-work margarita happy hour with some of her old friends from Columbia. Ladies swapping stories that got progressively racier, tongues loosened by booze and underwhelming boyfriends. A hook up in the Caribbean with a Yogi here, a bondage loving college boyfriend turned pastor there, a dual romp with a visiting men’s soccer team from Uruguay, head on the stone steps of a church in Europe. All the racy stories people trot out to impress others with their wildness, to compensate for their current settled adulthoods.
She wasn’t drinking, she usually doesn’t. When it was her turn to share a “sex on the job” story, she tried to pass, wide smile in place. They teased her. For being the lone holdout. For being a wuss. For having an unimaginative sex life. She laughed. She has a nice roster of workplace stories but only one kept flashing in her brain and she didn’t know where to start. “A long time ago, when I used to work at the campus library, a nineteen year-old boy made me climax by whispering his plans for me as he unzipped and lowered my jeans over my hips, brushing his knuckles against me just so. Then he slipped two long fingers in, twisted his wrist and I came again. I stood on a portable step, my back held tightly to his chest. My cheek pressed forward against a row of dusty books, fingers gripping thick spines and shelving, anything, while he kept talking softly into the small of my back. The hot push of his breath forming a nonstop stream of words: one-more-time-for-me-please-please-please-please-Veronica-now-now-now-now-there. Afterwards, he zipped me back up, kissed me on the cheek, took me back to his room and did it all over again, this time with his mouth and his cock. Oh and he was in love with me too. He’d loved me. Another round? Anyone?”
Too bitchy. Too many details. Keep it simple Mars. Keep it clean. Keep the voice steady. Otherwise they’ll think you’re lying.
So she’d shrugged and said, finger to her temple as if she was remembering something elusive, “910 point something? Travel, I think? The shelves weren't very sturdy.” She paused, smiled again, wickedly this time and took a sip of her virgin Colada, “Don’t ask for more. I’m much too sober to share and you know what? I wouldn't, even if I wasn’t.”
Her friend Jenny Pasha, always the best at puzzles, had narrowed her eyes at her, saying “Did you fuck in the library, Veronica Mars? Because that place is disgusting and I’M SO PROUD OF YOU”, capping it with a fervent slow clap. They all shouted out names of classmates, guys that she’d slept with, girls from Barnard, but she just kept smiling, her mouth numb from all that crushed ice.
She went home, still buzzed from the memory, fired up her laptop and managed to type L-O-G-A into the Google taskbar before it autofilled his name. Of course it did. Her hand hovered over, not selecting, in full pause. Then she remembered her promise and closed out the screen. Brushed her teeth. Took off her clothes. Went to bed. Dreamed that she was cleaning out a house she’d never seen before and found his suede jacket in a box marked Bedroom - Closet in someone else’s handwriting. Not hers. Not his. She remembered that jacket. He’d lent it to her once on the beach when she was cold and she hadn't given it back. He’d never asked for it anyway. It was back in Neptune, hanging in the spare closet her dad used to store some of the things she’d left behind.
He doesn’t show that night in her dreams. Sometimes he doesn’t. But when she wakes up to the smell of bacon, she’s half expecting him to be there.
She’s in the middle of composing her weekly to-do list when she gets a call from Wallace, always and forever her brother from another (almost step) mother.
“You sound beat, Veronica Mars.”
“I am.” She yawns grandly. “I haven’t been sleeping.”
“No rest for the wicked, huh?”
“You know me!” she chirps as she flattens a wall-scurrying centipede with a piece of paper from her notepad. Monsters must die.
“The Neptune High reunion is happening soon, soon, soon. Did you get the invite? We gotsta start planning, girl. Make a weekend of it.”
“Oh god no.”
“You can go see your dad. You can bring sunglasses, you know those things you use to block out the sun…”
“Ha ha ha. Terrible. Terrible effort. The sun shines in the dirty city too, Jethro.”
“You can see your handsome BFF.”
“Oh? Who is that?” She's smiling before she even gets to the end of her sentence.
“Me, of course.”
“Oh right. Wait, I thought you said handsome. Don’t you mean compact and cuddly?”
Ignoring her, “And your old friend who you haven’t seen in waaay too long, a certain fly lady with a sense of style nearly equal to my own.”
“Mac’s going? And are things really still ‘fly’? Is that something we say?”
“Yup. Yes. And always.”
“Humph. Well. I have questions. Namely… Did you both get amnesia? Matching lobotomies? Do you remember what high school was like? It was HORRIBLE. Nevermind the murder and mayhem, what about the mystery meat? What about that really mean old French lady, whatshername, the one who refused to retire and just sat there in the teacher’s lounge, looking like a mummified Edith Piaf? Or, oh my god, Polly the parrot?"
“Speak for yourself, girl. I was a basketball star, had hot girlfriends, and wild adventures with gang members and sexy private investigators.”
“Is this your way of telling me you had a threesome with Weevil and Vinnie Van Lowe? Cause if so, I’d have to cut through my usual support of you with a well timed ‘Ew’.” She's only half-kidding. The visual is... off-putting.
“You know... I took psychology too, V-Mars and what you’re doing is called diverting attention.”
“No. Isn't that a magic term? And no.”
“No?” Wallace echoes.
“No. I’ve gotten past my obsessive tendencies, thank you very much. This is more of a garden variety obfuscation.”
“Exactly. Thank you for clarifying.”
She tightens her mouth into a peeved circle.
“What? You said it,” he says, responding to her silence.
“When little brothers grow up: a cautionary tale.”
“Tell you what. Let’s drop it for now. But I expect you to seriously consider saying yes to chillin’ in beautiful Neptune with some of your closest friends. And Weevil.”
“Was that a burn?” she says, tapping her chin.
“Yeah, well, let’s just say I have a long memory.”
“Remind me not to get on your shit list.”
“Like you haven’t been on it?”
“Ah, yes. How could I forget?” She pauses a moment. “I’d love to see Eli actually.”
“SO. Changing the subject... how’s the job search? You worried?”
“Nope, that’s all looking peachy keen. I’ve got a few things lined up. I’ll give you more details once I have something solid but things are looking good.”
“Cool. Cool. Listen V, I’ve gotta run to the store and buy some milk before they close. Think about what we talked about.”
“Your love of motorcycle toughs?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll call you on Tuesday.”
She feels more unsettled than she sounds. She looks down and sees vertical scratches on the paper she’d been writing on, her hand still poised, claw-like, over the white page.
Three day weekend. She goes with some friends to Shelter Island. She loves being by the water and enters a pleasant sort of fugue state as she watches the sandpipers scurrying through the sand. It’s not quite California but the sound of the waves has the same effect. A soft lull, a safe haven. It stays in her head, the sound. She laughs along with everyone, she helps flip the burgers, she takes a midnight swim in the pool. All the stuff that others do. It’s fun, it really is, but the satisfaction never settles. It keeps washing out, like the tide, removing any good feelings she’s managed to build.
Back home on Tuesday, she rifles through her closet until she finds the box, neatly marked “Neptune” and goes through it, taking deep, unsteady breaths. She has some ridiculous candids of Wallace that she definitely has to scan and post to Facebook or something, making sure to tag his mom and Darrell so they can help her spread the love. There’s Mac and her dimples. Veronica never really kept track of Mac’s hair color changes back then but she’s had a few, hasn't she? Then at the very bottom, under a couple of yearbooks, the old foursome smiling from a simple frame, the glass cracked on the side in the pattern of a splintered branch. A beautiful girl, a handsome boy, a gangly jackass and a perky prep. The perfect pair of siblings and the idiots who adored them. They weren't faking it, those two sad kids, as they grinned like fools for the camera. They were so happy to be there, they had no idea. She touches his face unthinkingly, tries to slide the picture out from the frame and gives a little shout of pain when her fingertip catches on the glass. She grabs a bunch of Kleenex and dabs at herself and the photo.
“Way to go, Veronica Mars. That is what we learned folk like to call a hoary metaphor.”
“Funny, that’s what I call shoddy housekeeping. And I can’t believe you didn’t do more with ‘hoary’, you’re getting soft.”
He gives her a slow grin, his eyes shining and in response, she beams helplessly at him. He steps in a little closer, ducking his head down bashfully and looking up at her, his forehead wrinkling. That sly fucker. She drops her smile then, suddenly serious. “I don’t know why I kept that frame. It’s broken.”
“For. The. Significance,” he says, punctuating each word with a jab in the air.
She rolls her eyes. He kicks the front of her shoe softly, a nervous middle school habit of his that used to drive her crazy. Back when he had braces and a skateboard and loved Duncan more than her or Lilly combined. Tap. Tap. Tap. She is filled with a rush of affection and it neutralizes the lust momentarily. It wasn’t always sex, though that had blinded her. He’d been her friend first. Her friend.
“I’ve missed you," she sighs out, not meaning to.
“You should tell me that.”
“I am telling you.”
“Ah, but this isn't me? This is you. Talking to yourself, as me?”
She is so distracted by the movement of his fingers as he talks that the meaning of what he’s saying hits her late. She looks down at her feet and sees that the floor to her bedroom has changed to sidewalk and sand. She is outside. She is embarrassed.
“Hey. Hey.” He tips her chin up with his finger to look at him. “That’s okay. I get it. Telling yourself is the first part.”
“The first part of what? Admitting I have a problem? Is this rehab talk? I knew I shouldn't have eaten that steak burrito!”
“You were the one sneaking in episodes of Intervention before bedtime. Don’t blame me (as you, might I say) for the warped effluvia of your subconscious.”
He stops moving then and slides smoothly up to her, closer than before, balancing his arms on her shoulders. It’s surprisingly normal, their proximity, and she isn't afraid or nervous. She feels relaxed.
His smile is small, sweet, and just a little bit cocky. “Let’s try this over, shall we? You’d like to see me, check in, catch up, whatever cute term you want to use, right? This is normal. It doesn’t have to be a thing. You are a grown up. And I should be too. So don’t you think you… ”
She wakes up with a start, the phone ringing.
“Hello?” Veronica says, unsuccessfully stifling a sudden yawn.
“Don’t tell me you were sleeping.” Wallace sounds more amused than surprised.
“I was sleeping and I hate you.”
“Sorry V, most people aren't sleeping at 9:00 p.m. on a Friday.”
She makes an irritated sort of noise in reply.
He laughs. “Are you alone? No rent-a-dog today?”
“His owners took him away for the weekend. What is it, Wallace?"
“Well? Did you think about what I said? You and your friends? Celebrating the past? Showing off how dope we still is? 02ers represent!”
Veronica starts to say something but pauses, suddenly cold down to her fingers. “I don’t know.” She opens her mouth, tries again, worrying that Wallace will read into her hesitancy. She opts for a sorta-truth. “I did think about it. And... I have a plan.”
She waits for him to speak but there is silence on the other end.
“Are you there, Wallace? It’s me, Veronica.”
Wallace's voice is cool and suspicious. “Why am I getting that feeling?”
“What feeling?"
“That feeling.”
“Oh. OH. That not so fresh feeling?” She wrinkles her nose, voice oozing with syrupy concern.
“Nah. More like a tingling?”
“New toothpaste?”
Wallace snorts. “No,” he continues, “like that feeling you get when you hear the piano at the beginning of every Battlestar and the voice says ‘Previously on Battlestar Galactica’ and you know some awful shit’s about to go down.”
“Wow. You just made an unprompted BSG reference. That’s it. My job here is done. What can top that? I’ll tell you what. Nothing.”
“What. Is. Your. Plan?”
“Okay. I was thinking… instead of going to the reunion… why don’t we all go on A VACATION? Whoo hoo! Somewhere beachy, with little buckets of mini beers, smelling of sunblock and mosquito spray. You, me, Mac. What do you say? We can celebrate our teen years with the people who really matter. Ourselves!”
“What about Piz?” he asks.
Veronica is not sure but she thinks she hears an eyebrow quirk. Wallace can’t possibly know what’s going on with Piz. Unless they've been talking. She needs to find a way to keep them apart. “Of course he’s coming, Wallace. He may not have gone to Neptune High but he’s still a fundamental part of our clique. Besides, more girls for our slumber party! I have it on good authority that his hair is a little too short for a french braid nowadays but maybe I can convince him to grow it out a bit, go old school.”
“Uh-huh. So where would we go?”
“I’ve been researching… Chincoteague, Virginia!”
“Chicohuh?”
“Wallace, they have ponies. Wild ponies. You cannot deny me ponies. There was a book!”
“Ummm... ”
The words come rushing out. “I won’t need to start any new jobs until August, it will be my final hoorah before buckling down and defending the rich, we could rent a hou- ”
“I thought you were going to put the bad guys away?”
“I had to rethink my plan. Well??? What do you think? We can go do Karaoke in Virginia Beach! Eat fried clams! Did I mention PONIES!?!?” She jumps up and down, in an attempt to ramp up some enthusiasm.
Wallace speaks gently. “Veronica… I liked high school. Mostly ‘cause of you. I want to go to OUR reunion. Have fun, get my drink on, dance, watch other people suck at dancing, laugh and just soak up the fact that I made it through in one piece. Don’t you want that?”
“I know,” she says, well aware that it’s no answer.
“What is it? Is it… ”
“It’s not Logan.” She realizes what she’s done a second too late and claps her hand over her mouth.
“ ...all that stuff that went down with your dad?” he finishes softly.
She hears the smile in his voice and she really wishes she could reach through the phone and shove him hard off whatever spot he’s sitting on. Because he knows her. Because he’s Wallace.
“I don’t know why I said that, okay? It’s not that. He’s not the issue. Not entirely.”
Wallace, ever the master of the save, “Look. Echolls is cool. He’s not a teenager anymore and neither are you. You don’t even know if he’s coming.”
She lets out a relieved breath, “Okay, right.”
“Though let’s be real, he’s definitely coming.”
She stares at the ceiling, listening to him crack up over the phone. “Wallace Fennel. I can still end you.”
“I love you too, V. I’ll give you the weekend to come to terms with your fate. Then on Monday we’ll figure out your plane tickets and whatnot. Later, Supafly.”
He hangs up before she can tell him where to go. She tries going back to sleep, willing herself back into a dream featuring The Boy and his hands and his back, but no dice. When she finally succumbs, on her couch, remote in hand, there are no dreams. She wakes up repeatedly, in drowsy stops and starts, never sufficiently under enough. The red numbers of her cable box clock, threes and fours, burn into the insides of her eyelids. The cheep and chitter of the early dawn birds fill her with a hopeless sort of rage. When one of them does the car alarm call, she seriously considers taking up archery. Should be easy enough. The Hunger Games are still all the rage. They must have classes somewhere. She channels her inner Katniss Everdeen. Katniss wouldn’t be scared to return to The Seam for her 10 year high school reunion, now would she? No. Because everyone is dead, moved out, moved on so it doesn’t matter if she goes or not. Doesn't matter at all.
She works three fourteen hour days in a row. On the fourth day, she takes off early and goes shopping. She doesn’t try anything on, just grabs and pays. Once home in Brooklyn, she puts on one of Piz’s hundred promo CDs and tries on her purchases. Most of it works, she knows her body. She’s surprised though at the bursts of color, she tends to stick to black. The sleek city noir uniform of ass kicking and name taking also comes with the added advantage of obscuring tomato sauce stains. Because sometimes the chicken parm wins and that sure wasn’t going to stop her from ordering it.
The phone rings. She knows who it is without even looking at the caller ID. She tries to put some huff into her voice. “Mars Estate of You Forgot to Call Me on Monday”
“Hi, honey.”
“Hi, Dad.”
“Whatcha doing?”
“Would you believe I’m trying on outfits? Turns out I’m a real girl after all!”
“New outfits? For a new job?” Her dad's voice is near-manic with hopefulness.
“Not yet. Close.”
“Or are these new clothing items for your upcoming visit to Neptune where you will stay with your old man who misses you lots?”
She grits her teeth and tries to will it into a smile. “Yeeeeah. Not so much.”
“What? You’re not going to go the reunion?
"Nope."
"Oh. I thought you were."
"No." She doesn't elaborate.
He sighs. "Veronica, I know Neptune High wasn’t always your favorite place on earth, but you should see this opportunity for what it is; a nice way to bring that chapter to a close. The DJ is just a bonus.”
She can hear him trying to soften his voice but it doesn’t quite work. It has a rhythmic sound, disappointment. It’s casually emphatic, with a measured sort of cadence. Why did you, why can’t you, how did you, how could you, you, you, you, you didn't. Lately, her dad is an easier read. She softens. “It’s not Neptune High… I hate Neptune. I dread going back.”
“Ah.”
Veronica babbles onwards without thinking, like a little girl talking to her daddy about a storm. The part where the lightning hits just outside and the lights flicker. She babbles. “I botched things. For you. For us, everybody. So badly. That’s why I don’t come back… ”
(She doesn't cry anymore.)
“Sweetheart… It's in the past, none of that ma… ”
“I know. I know. It was almost ten years ago. But it turns out I’m not over it. I need to tell you. So I can get over it.”
“Okay.”
“Is this okay? Can I tell you?” She sounds like she’s running. This is not her at all.
“You can always talk to me. Always. About anything.”
“Can I?”
“Yes. Always.”
There is silence on both their ends. She catches her reflection in the mirror, sitting on the edge of the bed in her bra with her jeans on, holding a royal blue blouse in her hands. She looks ridiculous and about five. A busty five. She laughs. Her dad does too, misunderstanding, but that’s fine, it’s more than fine.
“So do I get to see you? Buy you an ice cream, go to the zoo? Can we do that? Are you too old?”
She smiles, nodding no, which he can’t see.
“I hear that the panda baby just turned one.”
Veronica narrows her eyes. “Now that’s just playing dirty right there.”
“I do what I have to do. Well?”
“I want to. But… ”
“But?”
“…I don’t think so,” she finishes softly.
“Then I suppose we still have a date for Grimaldi’s in September?”
“Yes. Yes, of course. The official Keith Mars wing of my matchbox will be ready and waiting.”
“Good. Because it’s been too long since I’ve seen your face.”
She agrees to meet a friend for lunch at the Shake Shack. Jenny is now six months pregnant but looks further along. Also, furious.
“Who the fuck is allergic to chocolate and wheat? Me. That’s who. Who keeps eating it anyway? ME.”
“This will not end well.” Veronica directs this to Jenny’s abdomen. It does not reply.
“No, it won’t.” Jenny pauses to slurp up some of her shake. “I love that blouse on you by the way, the blue really makes your eyes pop.”
“Oooh. Thank you! You look amazing. Glowing!”
“No, I don’t. This is sweat.” Jenny eyes her appraisingly. “What’s going on, Mars? You seem distracted. You’re never distracted. You’re like a shark. Waiting on some news?”
Jenny is what some might consider brusque. Veronica finds it refreshing, there was no guile there, just honesty, loads of it, smacking you in the face.
“Sorry." Veronica shakes her head, tucking her hair behind her ear. "I’ve been preoccupied by life/work stuff. It’s taking up too much real estate in my brain. Nothing serious. Just… stuff.”
“I know how you feel. I just got an invite to my high school’s ten year reunion.”
Veronica stops chewing. “Really? Are you going?”
“No way. I hated high school. With a fiery passion usually reserved for hospital dramas. More so. At least the hospital dramas have hot people wandering around.”
“There’s no one you want to see?” Veronica asks, keeping her voice light.
“Mmm. Well, there are always the ghosts of teen romance. The boy I dated because I wanted to be him but didn’t actually want him. And the one I wanted but who then did something to guarantee I would never, ever, ever hook up with him.”
Veronica feels lightheaded. She swallows the bite of her sandwich she’s been chewing on, long turned to gruel in her mouth. “What did he do to you?”
“It’s dumb. Like, really dumb.”
Veronica relaxes. “Tell me. This is way better than a hospital drama.”
“Well, because I was insanely in love with him, all I ever did was talk about how great he was, how cool, how hot, blah blah blah and this girl I was fake friends with started to get interested thanks to the sales pitch I didn’t know I was making.”
“Uh oh.”
“Exactly. Did I mention that she was older, gorgeous, had a giant rack and was not a virgin?”
“And you were.”
“And I was. I had a vivid imagination and a whole lot of book knowledge but the most I’d ever done with boyfriend number one was makeout and some over the clothes petting. Me doing most of the petting. God, he was useless.”
“So what happened with… ?”
“Jonah Wilcox.” Jenny smiles ruefully.
“Jonah?”
“Jonah. Jonah and Jenny. Double J. That’s what my dad called us. Ummm… Well, apparently he was about to ask me out when Agathe, the fake friend, ugh, even her name was the worst, ummm… when Agathe made her move. I thought that because Jonah and I had been friends since elementary school and we were clearly 'soulmates', he would obviously choose me but he didn’t. We had it out in his driveway. I told him they wouldn’t make it to two months before he tired of her colossal stupidity.”
“You said that?” Veronica raises her eyebrows.
Jenny shrugs. “I was dramatic.”
“So what happened?”
“It lasted three weeks. He spent the next two years trying to get me back. Our senior year, he asked me to the prom and I said yes. I made out with his best friend in the limo.”
“Ouch.”
“I know." Jenny nods sadly.
“What did he do?”
“Then? Not much. Just stared at me. After the prom, we went to this girl’s country house for the weekend. I had sex with his friend. It was my first time. It was… fine. Jonah and I wound up talking by the pool at five in the morning. Neither of us could sleep and the countryside can be so horror movie quiet, you know?"
“Oh you city kids with your fear of crickets,” Veronica teases gently. Jenny doesn’t seem to hear her.
“He still wanted to kiss me. Can you believe that? I wouldn’t let him. I really wanted to though. Like desperately. Of all the times, that would’ve been the time, you know? But it was the principle of the thing,” Jenny sighed. “What can I say? I was a stone cold bitch with an odd sense of justice. Aren’t you glad I’m a lawyer on the side of the good now? Oh man, look at your face, Veronica. You think I’m an asshole.”
“No, I don’t. Not at all.” Veronica wipes invisible crumbs off of her lap, something to cover for her eyes not meeting her friend’s. “I was thinking… Don’t you kind of miss that? The longing? That teenage feeling?”
“Like, oh my god, when will he kiss me? Why won't he kiss me? He needs to kiss me! That type of thing?"
“Yeah. Something you outgrow. Get past. Sad but not tragic." Veronica's not sure what she's talking about anymore. She only knows that she needs to know.
“True. But oh my god, you know what? The girl, the one with the country house we stayed in after the prom? She died last year. Breast cancer. I mean, she wasn’t a girl anymore but yeah, that‘s tragic. It’s weird to think that the girl in the prom pictures isn't here.”
Veronica closes her eyes for a moment in thought. She opens them. “But Jonah Wilcox is.”
“Yeah, I have a couple of friends who are still in touch. He’s out there.”
“So what’s the harm then? In seeing him? You’re beautiful, you do amazing work, you’re about to have a baby with a wonderful guy. Why not talk to Jonah Wilcox. Put those feelings in perspective?”
“I don’t know if I want to see him. Or talk to him. Or meet his hot wife. Because he will be married and his wife will be hot. I mean… it’s not like we’re gonna hook up? What good will it do to rehash some feelings that were probably based on illusions? I’d rather meet him on an astral plane or something unreal and hypothetical with no one else around to judge my outfit or haircut. Or actions.”
“Like, in a dream?” Veronica says with a tilt of her head.
“Yeah, a sexy dream. Man, when I think of everything I've learned in the past ten years, I would rock his fucking world.”
“I bet you would, tiger.”
“What would you do, Veronica Mars? You are the girl I aspire to be in life. Would you go? Or would you hire an actor to go in your place?”
“I’m not you, Jenny. I haven’t had your experiences. My time in high school was very different.”
“Yeah, well, forget all that. You’re me. What would you do?”
Veronica steals a fry from Jenny’s plate, a dangerous smile taking over her face.
Her call takes him by surprise.
“The answer is Yes, I’ll go.” Her voice sounds breathless and strained. “Can you RSVP for me? Tell them, whoever’s in charge? I emailed you my flight options. Tell me when you can pick me up. I want you to write my name on a sign and everything. Make it real official-like.”
“Yeah? We doing this?”
“Yeah, it’s been long enough. Yeah… I’m ready. Go Pirates!” she mock-cheers.
He laughs and repeats “Go Pirates!” which is still their shorthand for situations best avoided.
They move on to other topics. She only half listens to the rest of their conversation and he knows it and she knows it and it’s okay. She drifts away. This happens all the time, for both of them. They forgive one another with that kind of exasperated love you have for your family and only your family.
She hits the sack early that night, her muscles giving out from the loss of tension. She dreams that she is sleeping against him, her back to his chest, on the couch at her and her dad’s old place at the Sunset. Logan Echolls kisses the top of her head and tells her that he needs her, of course he does, didn’t she know that by now? She turns to face him.
“You’re me,” she says. He brushes her hair out of her face.
The next night she skips the gym and attacks a half pint of Van Leeuwen earl gray ice cream instead. She idly wonders if they deliver all the way to So Cal. After walking Buster under a starrier than usual urban night, she goes home and watches the story of a woman who buried her long time abuser alive. Then she brushes her teeth, lies down on the bed and sleeps like a baby.