Chapter Text
There was one summer
that returned many times over
there was one flower unfurling
taking many forms
Crimson of the monarda, pale gold of the late roses
-Louise Glück
“Veronica Mars is back.”
That’s how they say it: italics for emphasis, and a period, for “stop” and “stay.”
Her dad whooped when he saw her, pumping his fist like the Padres rallied at the bottom of the ninth. Wallace hugged her, lifting her off her feet, a gesture more exuberant than he’d ever dared before. Mac nudged her shoulder with a conspiratorial smile. Weevil shook his head, the Michael Corleone joke unspoken but apparent in his smirk. The cook at Mamma Leone’s snuck zeppole in Veronica’s take-out bag, wrapped in paper marked “la mangiona.”
Fortunately, Veronica has yet to bump into any of her high school nemeses—but then, she spends most of her time at home or at the office. “Home,” these days, is her dad’s new apartment. It’s smaller than their old place, but she counts it as an upgrade, because it’s free of mold and has a functioning air conditioner. Plenty of fathers would’ve made use of the second bedroom by now, buying an elliptical to create their own personal gym, or crowding the floor with boxes of t-shirts, tools, and old yearbooks, the detritus of middle-aged bachelor living.
But, as she discovered on her return, the bed in Keith Mars’ spare room was made with military precision, with a blanket in Veronica’s favorite shade of green. The desk was set up exactly the way she left it: the pinch pot from camp in the corner, full of tangled costume jewelry, and the soccer trophy, still stacked with rubber bands. He always knew I’d come home, she thinks. Or hoped for it.
Her father even suggested that she help out at Mars Investigations, at least until she got a full-time gig. After Palo Alto, Veronica suspects she could handle it, but she’s not sure she wants to. Besides, she’d hate to poach Weevil’s cases. Weevil—or Eli, as he is now known—chases down the fugitives, since Keith has finally accepted that bounty hunting is too rough on his back. The place smells like lemons, because Eli’s become a bit of a neat freak.
The front desk is now manned by a teenager named Daniel. He disarms clients with his wholesome good looks, the way Veronica used to, and takes meticulous care of both the case files and the new snake plants in the lobby. Although he’s confident enough to banter with Weevil, he eyes Veronica with trepidation. She’s not sure whether he’s afraid she’s going to steal his job or unnerved by the stories he’s heard about her.
Somehow, Veronica forgot her reputation. But the sins of her past are baked into the sand on Dog Beach and the asphalt on Bergamot Avenue. They stretch the vessels of the palm trees, and they crack the bark of the Mesa oak. Still, there’s plenty that’s different in Neptune, free from the influence of Veronica Mars.
Occasionally—usually after she’s chatted with Weevil, who managed the comeback of the decade—she is comforted by these changes. The tiramisu on Mamma Leone’s menu. The coin-operated horse in front of the bake shop. The floral mural behind the mortuary. They remind her how much progress she’s made since she left. There are even rare moments when Veronica contemplates the progress her enemies might have made. The rest of the time, though, she is itchy and tense.
During their weekly video session, her therapist claimed that the trauma remains in her body. Her still-healing unconscious wounds are inflamed by old, familiar places and the changes to them. In Veronica’s mind, Neptune is dangerous, and safety will always be out of reach if the devil she knows has spent five years growing bigger, tougher, and smarter. But then, she tells herself, so have I. Well, tougher and smarter, at least.
Susie recommended a sort of exposure therapy. “You’ve learned how to mark boundaries,” she pointed out. “And you’ve learned you like to. Think about the maps you kept in your room. So push past the fear and walk the streets. Nod and smile at your neighbors. I have a feeling you’ll discover that the devil you know has settled down in his old age. And, if he hasn’t? You’re more intimidating an adversary than you were at sixteen. You can take him, Veronica Mars. You’ve got people at your back, and you know how to ask for help. You’ve got me. You’ve got years of experience living a life without crashes and sirens. You know what’s possible, and you know how to get it.”
So Veronica strolls down Bergamot Avenue, dutifully (awkwardly) smiling at passing strangers. She finds herself heading to the picnic tables near the taco truck; she and Logan had lunch dates there, once upon a time. She has to hunt for their favorite spot, because the carnival-striped umbrella is gone.
“Let’s run away and join the circus,” Logan suggested as they hid in its shade, years ago. “I’ll be the ringmaster, and you can be the magician.” Then he perked up. “We’ll get you a spangly bikini and a feather for your hair.”
He’s charismatic enough to be the ringmaster, she thought, but he’d make a better magician, all sleight of hand and misdirection.
“I’d end up on the tightrope,” she said. “Or the Wheel of Death.”
She imagined Logan throwing knives in her direction while she held still on the bullseye. The blades tore her skin every so often, but she rarely bled. Most of the time, they punctured the wood, close enough to make her flinch and remind her she was all alone up there. The crowd laughed and cheered him on, ogling her half-naked body, and she kept her expression blank.
Logan noted, “We’d both be good at it.”’ His tone was matter-of-fact, not angry or resentful, but Veronica tensed anyway, because it was the truth she most hated to admit: she’d scared him, she’d made him feel alone, and she’d done it in front of an audience so it would be harder for him to hide from the pain, or forget.
Logan Echolls is back in Neptune, too. The tabloids haven’t mentioned it, but there have been clues. Every evening, her father asks, “Did you run into anyone from high school?,” as though he’s monitoring a threat. In conversations with Mac and Wallace, there are loaded silences. The thought of seeing Logan again fills Veronica with dread and excitement in equal measure.
Part of her expected to run into him at their old haunts, as though he’s been waiting there, all these years, to say he is sorry he left her and swear that, this time, they can skip the wheel and the blades. Depressed by the sight of the empty tables, Veronica decides to check out the new burger joint. I’ll eat French fries until there’s no room in my body for nostalgia, she thinks. And in public, too. Just wait till I tell Susie. I am owning therapy!
The place is quiet, and the TV on the wall is showing No Country For Old Men, which she’s seen often enough to quote; it’s the perfect distraction, and a relief, after so many restaurants and cafes inflicted TMZ on her. Veronica moves to the corner of the bar: the stool to her left is the least comfortable in the house, sandwiched between a cardboard cutout of Nnamdi Asomugha and a syrup display, and the stool to her right is occupied by a goth reading Rebecca. The woman nods to Veronica, then returns to her book, idly twirling her opera-length rosary necklace. Veronica lets out a sigh of relief. Eating in public is enough exposure therapy. I’m not up for conversation.
Of course, before Veronica has a chance to order, a man slides into her corner. She sighs. The goth looks up, takes stock of the situation, and shakes her head in feminine commiseration.
“Hey, pretty lady! How about I buy you a drink? You look like a gin fizz kind of girl.”
Veronica arches a brow, and his grin falls at her unwelcoming expression. But he opens his mouth to try again, so Veronica presses her palms against the table and says, “Look, I’m not going to have sex with you.” She gives him a once-over, noting his Warby Parker glasses, Patagonia vest, and immaculate red Vans. “I’m sure you think you’re the smartest guy in this room, and in the top thirty at Kane Software-“ He pats his chest to check for an ID badge, shocked when it’s not visible. “-but my best friend can outhack most of Silicon Valley, so I’m not going to swoon over your binary code or the trophy you won as captain of the Mathmagicians or Neural Neds or whatever you’re calling your pub trivia team. I definitely don’t want to be your shoulder to cry on when you remember, three beers in, that the Homecoming Queen was never going to date you in exchange for Physics homework, and your fetish for blondes probably does have something to do with the fact that your mom was a dead ringer for Cheryl Ladd in the seventies.” By this point, he’s gaping. “So. I’m going to eat some junk food. And you’re going to direct your attentions toward a woman who bats her lashes at you instead of one who sat in a corner precisely to avoid conversations like these.”
“Ouch,” he replies, rubbing his sternum. Then he laughs and waves the bartender over. “I’ll have the local beer on tap, and I’ll cover whatever the lady wants.” To Veronica’s surprise, when he turns toward her, his expression is more amused than offended. “Compensation for the come-on. No strings attached.” Then he pulls a sudoku book out of his messenger bag. “I’ll keep myself busy. And for the record...my girlfriend was the Homecoming Queen. Pan High Class of 2000. We were voted Class Couple, too. Not everyone can be pinned down that easy.”
Okay, Veronica admits, ordering fries and a Skist. Maybe Susie’s right. Neptune has me on the defense.
And then she hears Dick Casablancas shout, “Hey, man, can I get a Four Horseman? And a Shirley Temple for my bro, extra cherries.” Veronica hides her face behind her hand. And there’s why.
“Dude, I don’t want a Shirley Temple.”
Logan Echolls, she marvels. Of all the gin joints. Her hand trembles against her cheek.
Instead of acknowledging Logan’s objection, Dick ogles the goth’s Elvira-worthy cleavage. “Hey, baby, you want a drink?” he asks. When she looks up, he wriggles his eyebrows. “Or do you vant to suck my-“
Veronica interrupts with a sound of disgust, and Dick’s jaw goes slack. “Veronica Mars?” He drops the woman’s rosary into a glass of water and uses the cross to flick some in her direction. “Begone, demon! Begone, Ghost of Buzzkills Past!”
Veronica is tempted to pour her water over his head, but the stranger is ahead of her, elbowing Dick in the kidney and pulling her necklace from his grasp. The bartender ignores the scuffle, setting her plate in front of her. Veronica notices none of this, because Logan Echolls is inches away.
He is glancing between her and the tech bro, stricken, so she gives a tiny shake of her head as if to assure him, “This isn’t a date. He’s nobody.”
They recognize the absurdity of the exchange at the same moment, relaxing with the memory of five years apart. Veronica smiles at him. Her mind is so crowded with words that she cannot speak.
“You’re back, ” he says. There is something like awe in his voice—maybe even joy, although she worries that’s wishful thinking.
“So are you,” she breathes, and the tension is palpable enough to make her neighbor stand and gesture to the barstool.
“I’m just going to...go over there,” he offers. “So you can sit together. It was nice to meet you.”
Confidence restored, Logan pulls the stool closer to her, and she takes a moment to admire him. She has seen his picture in the papers, of course, but nothing could have prepared her for the full force of Logan Echolls, all grown up. He’s tanner than he was in his mugshots, less jaundiced, and he’s lost the baby fat. His eyes look bigger in the sharpened planes of his face. He even appears taller, but maybe it’s only that his posture’s improved.
Logan is cataloguing the changes in her, too, and she does her best to remain still, suppressing the instinct to smooth her hair and unfasten the top three buttons of her shirt. She can’t resist crossing her legs, and Veronica is rewarded by the affection in his eyes when he notices her choice of footwear.
“Nice boots,” he says, nudging one with his sneaker. He refrains from adding “butch,” but he’s thinking it; she can tell from the smile playing around his mouth.
“Thanks. They’re new.”
He steals one of her fries, the way he’s done since they were twelve. “I heard you were at Stanford. Couldn’t resist the pull of the Hellmouth?” There is a flash in his eyes, as though he’s nervous the reference will send her running. “Are you back for good?”
She shrugs. “Keeping my options open. My dad’s so excited, I think he’s about to buy one of those fuzzy monkey backpacks for toddlers, with the leash.”
“You think he’ll change the sign?” Logan moves his index finger through the air as if underlining a marquee. “Mars & Mars Investigations?”
“Oh, I don’t do that anymore,” she replies, and her voice is free of resentment, anxiety, shame, or defeat. Veronica no longer regrets moving on from PI work. But his comment is a jarring reminder of all Logan has missed. “I majored in psych, but I was working with my journalism professor for a while. Not sure what’s coming next.”
He laughs. “Still after truth and justice, huh? Your dad should’ve known what he was in for, when he picked your name.”
“It was Lianne’s idea, actually,” she says dryly. “Orchestrating her own downfall from the maternity ward.”
Dick slams a Shirley Temple in front of his friend. “Here, Logan.” His eyes are on Veronica. “Since you’ve dropped all your bad habits.”
“Not all of them,” she notes. “He’s still slumming it with you.”
“I’m going to catch up with Veronica for a minute. But the redhead by the door was checking you out, if you want to try for her.”
Dick swipes a cherry from Logan’s drink, popping it into his mouth. “Thanks, bro. Time to show her the trick!” Then, with a lazy wave, “See ya, succubus.”
“Do I even want to know?” she asks.
Logan chuckles. “He figured out how to tie a cherry stem with his tongue, which is half the reason he orders me these things.” He rubs the back of his neck. “The other is...well, it’s his weird way of being supportive since...I don’t drink anymore.” He takes a deep breath. “I’m sober.”
“I’m glad.” Veronica wishes there was a way to communicate the strength of her gratitude, but all she can do is cover his hand with her own. I forgot how jittery Logan can get, she thinks. He’s been tapping his fingers against the bar and twisting his toe over the peg in the wood floor.
Most of the time, when she thought of him, curled up in her bed in Palo Alto, he was leaning against his car, confident she’d walk into his arms, or he was naked on his sheets, intimidating even when he was below her. He was snarking with his feet up on the school desk, or he was watching her from the 09er table with the steadiness of a predator. He was moaning in bed with an ex-Laker girl, or he was groping a pair of lingerie models. He was cracking the rib of a stranger, or he was laughing as he hit 180 on the highway. He was peeling an apple with his switchblade, smirking as she bantered with his so-called friends, or he was slashing the bark of a Mesa oak, telling her he loved her but Veronica Mars was not worth staying for.
Even in her softer memories—the dance floor and the limousine, the girl’s bathroom and the beach—she’d buffed away his insecurities. He was the romantic who barreled into love, and then he was the heartbreaker. He was epic.
But now, meeting Logan’s tender gaze with her own, Veronica recalls: he was just a boy, as fragile as she was. He was nervy and lonely and sad. He was balancing on the guard rail of a bridge, and he was crying over a stack of video tapes. He was bracing himself for a blow, and he was pleading for her to return to him.
“Hey, do you want to get out of here?” Veronica asks. The giddiness in his smile calls up hope in her own heart.