Fic: Insisting on Love (Logan/Veronica), NC-17 WIP 1/?
Title: Insisting on Love (Part 1/?)
Author: hiddeneloise
Pairings: Logan/Veronica
Word Count: 9914
Rating: This part R. Eventually NC-17
Warning: Adult language.
Spoilers: Everything that aired.
Summary: Picks up a few weeks after the events of the last episode of the show. The roller-coaster that is Logan and Veronica. Sometimes you need to get off the ride and stop spinning in order to appreciate the high.
Disclaimer: I don’t own them. I just love them. Despite everything.
A/N: My excellent, patient, long-suffering beta, arabian deserves a cookie. Or a Logan under her tree this year. But since I can’t perform miracles, cookie it is.
A/N2: Yep, it’s shaping up to be Epic. Very sorry! It’s just that it lived in my brain for so long I was considering charging rent.

We are all of us
All the time
Coming together
And falling apart.
The point is,
We are not rocks.
Who wants to be one anyway,
Impenetrable,
Unchanging,
Our history already played out...

"Insisting on Love"
John Rosenthal


“This is Logan with today’s inspirational greeting: Don't abuse your friends and expect them to consider it criticism. Ed Howe. Leave a message.”

He has changed it. Veronica let out a shaky breath. For a week she weren’t sure if the messages she kept leaving were even heard. She still wasn’t, but the fact that he recorded a new greeting meant, at least, that Logan was alive and, presumably, well enough to check his voice mail. And that he listened to at least some of it to respond in this passive-aggressive way.

With relief came an overwhelming surge of annoyance. The trepidation (mixed with inexplicable guilt she valiantly shoved down to the bottom of her psyche) that carried her through a week of searching -- tracking his credit cards, leaving messages, interrogating Dick, questioning Tina at the reception desk of the Grand, even going as far as asking Parker -- have worn Veronica down. And that was just the physical reaction. The sheer terror of the possibilities she could not allow herself to consider fully still made its way into her subconscious. Lying there in wait for the time when the active search options would be exhausted and she would have to stop moving and start freaking out in earnest. Monitoring local news for likely incidents was unnerving enough, but the daily inquiring calls to the hospitals and the morgues were the limit.

She felt badly enough for her share of the fallout, but now that it appeared Logan wasn’t floating in the Pacific in multiple chopped pieces or succumbing to alcohol poisoning in Tijuana, the guilt and trepidation were quickly supplanted by anger with a side of frustration.

Logan was gone. Left the Neptune Grand a day after their last encounter. Their last encounter… Veronica pushed that memory back. Now wasn’t the time. Now was the time to open a can of hurt on his ass. Again. And for once, perhaps, completely deservedly.

“Listen to me, your unmitigated jackass! I know how much your inner drama queen loves to come out and play, but the act is getting stale, Logan! You leaving? I get that. You not returning my messages? Fine, I get that, too. But you not showing any signs of life anywhere? Not telling anyone? Not using your credit cards, turning off your phone for a week? Making people think you might be dead? That is seriously not cool! … Call me!”

She shut off her phone with an extra forceful snap. Her heart was beating fast, her mind racing, her emotions in a seriously muddled mess. Veronica stopped and took in her surroundings. She was at home, her bed unmade, her hair in messy ponytail (she couldn’t remember if she actually brushed it this morning), drawstrings of her gray hoodie frayed to shreds by her nervous fingers. Dark circles under her eyes were no surprise, either. She only managed to sleep in short intervals, waking up from the dreams that resembled shards of broken glass: Sharp edges and shattered continuity, reflecting events of her waking hours but all distorted and hopelessly irreparable. So many things felt hopelessly irreparable these days.

How did she get here? Only a week-and-a-half ago she was okay. In fact, by all standards, she was thriving. Veronica Mars was a full-fledged PI (the license exam was a breeze compared to what she feared it would be). The FBI internship was on offer, pending the results of the background check and – should that go well – a polygraph (she was concerned about both, but it couldn’t have been helped). The finals were successfully over with only a week of school left. And the new relationship she embarked on with such misgivings was proving a surprisingly comfortable fit. Piz slipped with little difficulty into her life: All smooth surfaces and even tones blending seamlessly with her pattern, his presence un-daunting and his insecurities easily appeased.

She wouldn’t have admitted it even to herself, but Veronica was worried at first – what with her sexual history and ever-present doubts – that getting into a relationship with someone new would be uncomfortable. Being Veronica, she made a conscious decision to push through the discomfort, initiating that first definitive step. She felt she owed Piz something for the way she failed to consider him in her summer plans. Besides, might as well get it over with. Not exactly the most romantic sentiment, but romance, she has learned, usually led her nowhere good. Practicality, reason, steadfastness – these worked in all other aspects of her life and she didn’t see why it couldn’t apply to relationships.

And it turned out to be okay. Not quite actual sex -- not yet -- but enough of a skin-to-skin exploration to ease her into the idea of future possibilities while taking away initial awkwardness and hesitation. She knew her body by now, knew how it reacted, and, thankfully, Piz turned out to be fairly undemanding, agreeably pliant and eager to accommodate. And if it sounded a little callous even to her own ears, well, she didn’t mind acknowledging that these were the qualities that drew her to him in the first place. They were good qualities, too. They meant Piz was the kind of person who made friends easily and was a nice company to keep. A quintessential college boyfriend material: Long hair, wide smile, guitar, eclectic interests and rabid enthusiasm for pretty much anything that came his way. She found him rather endearing (if a bit too much at times), after she finally came around to considering him as an option.

His singular fascination with her didn’t hurt either. It wasn’t as if Veronica hadn’t realized he had a crush before. She became aware of it at the beginning of the school year. But Piz then occupied so little of her thought and attention, she kept forgetting. And every time the fact of his feelings presented itself anew Veronica was momentarily surprised.

Again, it wasn’t out of callousness. Simply put, her common sense prevented her from taking his puppy-dog devotion seriously. After all, Piz didn’t even know her, not really, not anything about her that mattered. It wasn’t love; it was hero-worship spiked with hormones.

But the guy kept at it. He didn’t date around. He went so far as to practically inform Veronica (albeit in a clumsily veiled way) that he refused to settle for anyone other than her. And if she weren’t available -- his speech and demeanor seemed to imply -- he would wait patiently until things changed. Or until you meet someone, Veronica had thought, rather uncharitably, at the time.

But things had changed. She became available and, given the circumstances of her sudden availability, Piz’s particular brand of wide-eyed stalwartness gained certain appeal. It wasn’t a smooth transition or an immediate one, but it worked. Piz was officially installed as her boyfriend. They were spending time together, cuddling and making summer plans. Her father liked him. So did her best friend (though, in all fairness, Wallace was partial to Piz way before). This new and unfamiliar absence of underlying tension between emotional factions of her life wasn’t lost on Veronica. Dating someone she didn’t have to sensor or attach disclaimers to while cautiously integrating him into her other relationships felt nice. The way she imagined it should be. So she made a command decision to give this a real shot. She and Piz progressed to fooling around. Soon they would be sleeping together. There was life after Logan.

And if it felt a bit surreal, well, what of it? After the turmoil of tragedies and never-ending drama, an even-keeled, low-humming content would seem strange. She was sure that she would get used to it. Good things were easy to get used to. And it was a good thing. Mac could tease her about the no-thrill rides of “Pizneyland” all she wanted, but there was something to be said for the steady motion and the absence of the free-falling sensation. And sure, somewhere in the back of Veronica’s mind an impish voice (that sounded suspiciously like Logan’s) kept singing with mocking glee: “All we are saying: Give Piz a chance.” But she was nothing if not adept at shutting out unwanted noise, whether it came from the outside or from her own doubts.

That was a week-and-a-half ago. That was before. Before her inadvertent stumble into the “wacky and wonderful” world of amateur porn. From which a daring attempt at a career as a high-stakes thief seemed like a logical progression. Followed by torture, bloodshed and death threats. Culminating in a spectacularly public failure of her father’s career as he took the fall for her. All in all, a rather impressive week, even by the Mars standards.

She should have known. She should have known she would never be allowed things like contentment and even-keeled steadiness. She was Veronica Mars. Gut-wrenching misery, humiliation and constant struggle were more her speed. And all things considered, at least she could credit the succession of shocks to her system with the reappearance of the kind of clarity she experienced last four and a half years ago, when her world went spinning into a vortex.

Of course, Veronica thought ruefully, that pesky clarity people put such stock into, was mostly nuisance. What was the point of seeing the folly of your own actions when you couldn’t either change the outcome or fix the damage already inflicted? Her father was invariably kind, but she could see it in his eyes. The “I’ve warned you about this if you had only listened” look he tried hard to hide. She’ll take it. She wanted the blame, but he refrained from voicing it and there were other looks – also carefully controlled – that made Veronica wish for the out-and-out guilt tripping.

The look of uncertainty, for one. It was so hard to see Keith Mars uncertain. Not even through their toughest times, not even when he lost everything, did Veronica’s father look unsure of his moral position or his judgement. That inner conviction, that absolute faith in the rightness of his choices was what sustained them both through the dark times. These days she caught him looking conflicted, almost lost. And she kept digging her nails into the palms of her hands, inflicting small pain as some sort of penance for the “I did this to him” that kept running through her head. She had tiny, half-moon shaped bruises and it wasn’t enough. Nothing was enough.

Even worse was the perplexed look her father sometimes regarded her with. Half contemplation, half bewildered curiosity, as if he were looking at a stranger, trying to figure out where his daughter -- the one he thought he knew -- went.

Clarity. Such a useless thing when you realize you need a certain person and it may be too late to even find, let alone repair, the bridges you so gleefully burned not long ago. Because, just as clearly as you wanted to cross them again now, in your previous blinding, righteous fury born our of fear, you were determined to inflict structural damage and insure you never would be able to.

The situation with Logan was a mess. Veronica wasn’t even certain if he and Parker were really over or just fighting. Not to mention, there was a part of her still seething at his free-ranging impulses that led him to do things like beat up Piz or have one night stands with heinous bitches. But she no longer dismissed his actions as spite and pure jealousy (has she really, truly ever thought that or was it just a knee-jerk reaction to her own frustration, trepidation and something suspiciously like a desire to punish?).

She kept seeing Logan walk away from her, shoulders straight, spring in his step, bloodied hands relaxed for once. Comfortable. He was suddenly comfortable in his skin, in his position, with his place in the grand scheme of things -- his body language was implying. This was the boy whose body language for the past two years at least communicated constant restless need to spring into motion. The boy who always seemed in search of something or somewhere else.

When or how that ceased Veronica couldn’t tell, but she was watching him retreat without a backward glance at her or the wreckage of their impossible situation, realizing with shock just how in the moment and relaxed he looked. As if he no longer had anything to prove, gain or decide. And she kept seeing his smile: Bright, brilliant, devoid of cynicism or hidden pain, open, even somehow conspiratorial -- as if they were sharing a mutual comprehension. He was bruised and his shirt had blood smudges. He wiped his mouth carelessly and the corner of it was scratched. And his eyes were alight with that undeniable something that made Veronica want to follow him anywhere. She realized she was smiling back, her own body ready to close the space between them. But something in his eyes, in the easy, confident slant of his shoulders, signaled to her that, for the first time in a long time, he wasn’t waiting for her to do that. Or do anything. He looked at peace, beyond seeking approval or fearing censure. He looked beyond her.

She realized he has turned a corner of some sort. That he might walk out of her life for real. And what an irony that would be just as she realized she couldn’t possibly let that happen. It was a core reaction, a pull so strong she almost grabbed at him. But then she saw Piz. Standing a few feet away, looking at them with that pained expression she remembered seeing once before, in January. In the same cafeteria. Watching the same two – Logan and herself. He was bruised, like Logan, now, but, unlike Logan, looking defeated and hurt. And a crushing wave of guilt distracted Veronica temporarily. All she could do was watch Logan issue a surprisingly graceful and sincere apology to Piz and walk away. He didn’t glance her way.

She told herself there was time. Sure, only yesterday she all but kicked Logan out of her life, declaring their association -- such as it was -- over irrevocably and completely. But then Logan knew her. He knew she was prone to over-the-top vitriol when upset, threatened or confused. There was time to undo and take back. She resolved to go to the Grand and talk. She was going to tell him he was forgiven, and they would take it from there. Newly found independence or not, Veronica was armed with inner conviction that, should she really push, Logan’s defenses would crumble. The fact that he still considered himself the righter of her wrongs told her everything she needed to know about his feelings.

In the meantime there was Piz and his muted misery to take care of. And Wallace issuing the not exactly uncalled-for rebukes of “didn’t I specifically ask you to not mess with my guy and his delicate feelings?” There was also Mac with her loyalties split three ways between Veronica herself, Parker and Logan. Mac, who tried for neutral and was forced to admit in the end that she hated being Switzerland, and “why did everything had to get so damn complicated?” Mac, who needed reassurances even if she loathed to show it.

With all of that still unsorted, nightmarish events in and around her father’s life hit like a freight train, and it was two weeks before Veronica was ready or willing enough to go face Logan.

And found him gone.

At first she was perplexed but unconcerned. He was probably cooling it in Mexico, and she could trace him in five minutes. Then, when she couldn’t find him or any signs of him, she had gotten scared. And angry. And frustrated. And piling more guilt onto the already hulking mountain of it. So the flash of righteous anger she experienced upon hearing his god damn inspirational greeting was a very welcome relief from all the jumble of other conflicting emotions. She missed feeling justifiably angry. She missed being in the right.

So, it stood to reason that Logan’s inspirational greeting got quite a workout while it took Veronica seven separate messages to unburden herself of everything she had to say to him. In language most graphic. She hoped his voicemail curdled under the acid outpouring of her indignation. She had every right to be indignant here: He left without so much as a “post it” note with forwarding address. He didn’t answer his phone. He let her think he might have been harmed in some way, and it weren’t as if he had a death threat hanging over him or anything… Veronica was pissed and she made sure Logan knew it. Or his voicemail, at least.

It was another two days before she found the letter. A pile of unsorted mail, nothing in it looking urgent, sat on the corner of the kitchen isle for longer than Veronica could consciously remember. Keith went through it, with eyes only for official looking envelopes, not surprisingly apprehensive of bad news on formal stationary. And Veronica herself avoided mail, partially afraid of painful reminders of temporary recent victories and partially out of a kind of a self-preservation instinct. The same way she only briefly scanned her e-mails and screened her calls determinately.

Her dad finally went through the jumble of rolled newspapers, sealed magazines and junky advertisement leaflets, and tossed her the rather thick envelop with “The Neptune Grand” embossed in intricate letters in the corner. She opened it mechanically, her mind elsewhere. And stilled in shock at the familiar, slanted handwriting.


******
“Veronica,

Don’t worry: This isn’t anything you need to respond to or take action about. It’s simply a last – probably as futile as ever – attempt on my part to be heard. What with the finality of our parting and all. See, I know the drill by now: Your mind’s made up, which usually means my calls don’t get returned, e-mails get blocked and explanations dismissed. Hence the old-fashioned letter. You don’t think I pay attention, but I do.

When you said you were never getting over the Madison thing, I believed you. Sure I had to make a masochistic stab or two at your mercy, but they appeared forlorn even to me. I know you, Veronica. For most people terms like “never,” “ever” or “forever” are just hyperbole outlets for anger or upset. Not for you. You don’t get over anything.

All this to let you know I accept that I’m out of your life forever. I know you think my seeking you out yesterday and apologizing meant I was trying to get back into your good graces. A “nice gesture,” as you put it. It was a gesture, but it didn’t mean what you assumed it did. I owed you an apology and I owed one to Piz. I simply began with you. Everything for me had been beginning and ending with you for such a long time, it’s almost a second nature.

Anyway, I owed both of you an apology for jumping to conclusion before making sure of my facts. Also a habit and a consequence of keeping you company. To be fair, your leaps to judgment seldom leave people bruised and battered (well, I ended up being pummeled by a deranged biker gang, but that was a fluke and, you may well argue, I deserved a beating regardless), so there’s that. See, I kept forgetting the unspoken motto in our dynamic: Quod licet Iovi non licet bovi (Aren’t you impressed? I actually learned something. I think that’s how it’s spelled, anyway, but History of Rome is, well, ancient history, and I slept through most of the class) -- "What’s allowed to Jupiter, is not allowed to the ox." Or, in plain English, rank has its privileges. And let’s face it, you’ve always outranked me, often simply by staking the claim to the higher ground.

So I shouldn’t really find it at all ironic that you would declare defending your honor to be completely none of my business in the same tone of voice you once announced that your nose belonged wherever you chose to put it. I shouldn’t find it ironic and I don’t. Before yesterday I would have thought it a given, even natural. Because that’s what one signs up for with you: Double standard with the best possible intentions.

Yesterday, however, something happened to me. I swear I was just sitting on the couch, contemplating what the fuck happened to my life, listening to Dick wonder if any more angry blondes were going to barge in and tell me they were through with me. (And, as an aside, I must say that was my first official “friend” breakup. DK dumped me once, but he didn’t have a speech or anything, he just did what he’d done with you sophomore year: Stopped acknowledging my existence. On the whole, I prefer your approach. A nifty tirade delivered with just the right flourish lends such an air of significance to the moment, puts a final bow on the irreversibly wrapped relationship.)
I was sitting there, looking at myself through your eyes – yet another habit I’ve acquired – and seeing what you must see: A jealous, unstable lunatic of questionable morals and non-existent loyalties who put your boyfriend in stitches for no good reason.

And something jarred. Didn’t feel right. In fact, none of it made any sense. Granted, the sight of you climbing aboard the Piz express is forever burned into my retinas. (Where it’s occupying a place of honor next to the image of Lilly fulfilling her dream of “parental love” – too bad it was my parent and the love was of the creepy, illegal kind. Incidentally, I’m never watching porn again. Ever.). And sure, it wasn’t the fuzziest feeling I’ve ever had. But if you seriously believe I went after Piz just because he rounded 3rd base with you, you know me even less than I realized.

I jumped to conclusion. A logical one, if you stop and think about it. It was you and Piz alone. It was in his room. The one he shares with Wallace. Who could have possibly taped that and to what purpose? Not you. I don’t even need to ask to know that. Not Wallace, because, well, ditto. So who’s left, Veronica? You tell me what other conclusion was there for me to jump to? Some improbable-sounding secret society? A “connected” shmuck with an attitude?

Fine, whatever, I jumped the gun and a non-responsible guy got hurt. That I apologize for. I accept responsibility for my mistake. I refuse, however, to accept your other charges. My mostly fatalistic view of heredity aside, I’ll be damned if I let you convince me I’m a psycho for trying to stand up for the people I love, for making sure those responsible don’t get away scot-free. If this is lunacy, then hey, we can get certified together! Because whether you admit it or not, you do the same thing. You just don’t do it with your fists (though you’ve been known to use your taser on occasion). And I can tell you right now: I will always, always continue to fight when fighting’s called for. You, of all people, should know that justice takes many forms. Because sometimes, if it doesn’t come by way of less-than-proper channels, it doesn’t come at all. I don’t think I can live with that. And I KNOW you can’t.

Believe me or don’t. I’m not trying to change your mind. Not now, not anymore. I couldn’t do it when we were together, and it would be useless to keep trying now, after all that’s happened. It comes down to this: You still see me with the same eyes you did two years ago. You may have absolved me of some sins, but it was never a full pardon. Sure you said you trust me, but I’d be damned if every time you didn’t automatically assume the worst when opportunities for doubt occurred.

I asked you if you loved me. You said you did. Or as near to the sentiment as your reluctant “yeah” would come. You may have loved me (or close enough), but you sure as hell didn’t like me. Not my choices, nor my friends (for which, granted, I don’t blame you, considering), nor my hobbies, interests or aspirations (such as they are). You didn’t approve of my life-style or my outlook, barely tolerated my taste in recreational activities, and, of course, my coping methods didn’t bear thinking about.

Look, I’m not claiming anything I am or do is admirable or even interesting. But you acted as if most, if not all, of it was downright reprehensible. Which makes me wonder what it was that you saw in me in the first place? Was it love? Was it just some physical thing, fueled by recognition of the similarities of our situations, fueled by loneliness, fueled by missing our mutual departed, fueled by guilt, fueled by …?

You know, when we got back together after the graduation, it was all a whirl of frantic and determined activity: The funerals, the inquiries, the NY trips, the endless news cycles, the estate settlements, the last minute college applications. So it took a while for the dust to settle, for “us” to hit a stride, and for me to start noticing things. But I finally saw that, consciously or not, you kept me pretty separated from the rest of your life. I was only allowed to your place when your dad was out of town. Something I, in my euphoria at being with you at all, attributed to the fact that you didn’t want to emphasize the intimate nature of our relationship to the parent. When you went out with Mac on a weekly basis and wouldn’t let me join you, I didn’t question it, because … well … girl talk. Plus, given what you both had just been through… And when you disappeared to hang out with Wallace, I wasn’t offended: Everyone needs his or her BFF time. Even when you would cancel our plans to go do this or that “thing,” as you put it, I figured you were working your PI gig on your own for so long, you got used to the solitary stints. I wanted to be there, but I didn’t like being a pest or a nuisance. Worse, not being versed in sleuthing, I was afraid of cramping your style and seriously hampering your efforts. I just hoped you’d take me along for the seriously dangerous stuff.

Even when I started seeing the pattern, I didn’t feel concerned. I thought I understood. Considering you once lost everything in one fell swoop – your friends, your mother, your innocence, your stability, your peace of mind – it wasn’t a stretch to imagine you were keeping various facets of your life separate now. Just so if one of them went, for whatever reason, you weren’t losing the lot—a kind of a self-sustainable departmental structure of a life. Yeah, I had a whole theory worked out. So much for my theory.

What I’m finally getting (what I suspected but didn’t want to believe) is that you weren’t protecting yourself from possible unpleasant eventualities. It was you protecting me and yourself from judgment and censure you felt assured of. From your father, your friends, and your own mind. You were ashamed of me. Of what you saw as my shady morals, narrow horizons, and low aspirations.

It was so clearly illustrated by that one ill-conceived dinner with your father, I’m stunned I didn’t put two and two together right then and there. The 12-page instructional manual you recited before you let me into the place? Made me feel like I was meeting your dad for the first time, instead of knowing him for years. The list of topics cleared and subjects banned, the rush to clarify and twist my every word like they needed translation … I didn’t see through it and I feel like even more of an idiot than I did then.

I mean, God, I know! I know only too well I’m no father’s dream of a suitor for his little girl. Hell, you should have seen the looks I got from Parker’s parents. Her dad kept staring at the top of my head like he was checking for horns. She told me later I “didn’t survive Googling.” Well, duh! But Keith? He already knew who I was. He already knew the worst there is to know about me. The bumfights (so delightfully well publicized by The Tinseltown Diaries), the fake alibi, the arrests, the fact that he felt compelled to throw me out of your place once already, the gang wars, the buying and destroying of stolen evidence, Kendall. To say nothing of my stellar heredity or the fact that I was undoubtedly corrupting his daughter… Add to it that, despite clinging to the plausible deniability you liked to provide him with as much as possible, he couldn’t help realizing you and I were well past the handholding stage…

Given all that, I had to ask myself later: What else could there possibly have been for your father to find out that could have lessened his oh so high opinion of me as a human being in general and his daughter’s boyfriend in particular? And the answer was: Not much. Which was kind of the point, right? That’s what you were really afraid of. That, take away the instability, the propensity to start fires, the sordid sexual history, the family mayhem and the spotty relationship with the law, there’s really not much to me. Right, Veronica? Am I close? You weren’t concerned about the impression I was making on your father for my sake, you were worried about changing his impression of you. What he might think of his smart, independent, discerning daughter doing who knows what with a loser like myself. Because that’s the only explanation for the way you conducted that dinner conversation. Like a traffic cop. A back-handed complement to me on my high SAT scores (see dad? He may be a lazy bum, but he’s not entirely stupid.). A kibosh on my hobby disclosure (no, dad, don’t ask why he enjoys surfing. Just don’t go there.). A stop to the Larry King question (no, dad, he isn’t as much of a publicity whore as you’d think. Sometimes he says “no.”).

I don’t blame you for feeling like that. I can’t even be sure this is how you really felt. I don’t want to ascribe motives without a benefit of a doubt. That’s your MO. Maybe you did love me. Maybe that’s the only way you knew how to express love. Maybe what you had with Duncan wasn’t you in love but you in love with a notion of a perfect relationship. Kind of like playing at it instead of living it. Maybe you just cast DK in the part of the ultimate boyfriend and he happened to inhabit it seamlessly, without giving you reasons to rethink the casting.

That is, apart from the way he dumped you without so much as a “see ya” and then proceeded to make like you didn’t exist. Or apart from the way he watched his friends torment you and spread sordid rumors about you for a year and a half. Not actually participating – he would never do that -- but not lifting a finger to put a stop to it. But that’s understandable, right? He had to ignore you, of course. He thought you were his sister. And who ever heard of standing up for a sister?! (Well, I did, but who am I, after all?). Or apart from that time, later, when he was about to become a father and it slipped his mind that you, as his current girlfriend, might have been interested in knowing the fact. Or…

You know what? I can’t. I can’t look at all this, knowing you either forgave or didn’t blame him at all, and not draw the only possible conclusion: You loved him. The only one you ever did feel that for. Because there’s no other explanation for how you justified, rationalized away, or turned a blind eye to his every transgression. He was Duncan Kane, the golden boy of your dreams and he got a free pass and total and utter devotion.

Fair enough, and God knows, once upon a time I was hardly different when it came to Lilly. Except I wasn’t blind to her misdeeds or her motives (though the lengths to which she’d go did take me by surprise in the end). But I forgave it all because I loved her and craved her love. And when she did give me a little bit, it made it all worth while. So I do get it.

I look back on the past year and I realize I’ve fallen into the same pattern with you. What little love you could spare for me was so intoxicating, I was willing to put up with anything, be anyone I thought you needed me to be (yes, even Duncan), just to keep the crumbs coming. So I’m an addict, and it’s time I admitted it (the first step, they say). I tried to keep you and your affection by the means I thought would accomplish that. This time I wasn’t going to risk your censure or your flight by doing or saying anything stupid. Anything that would make you question your decision to be with me. Easier said than done. The external stuff was straightforward enough. Cut down on drinking and partying (I was bored by most of it anyway – poor substitution for what I really wanted). Get interested in college (at least some of it). Get rid of everything possible that irritated you about my old life: My loud car, the remnants of the more disposable 09-er crowd (most of them were gone to different colleges, anyway), my verbal coping techniques you found flippant. Try to be more serious. Follow your lead. I didn’t think giving up surfing was necessary. You didn’t seem to mind it, and it was certainly one of the healthier ways to sublimate emotion and cut loose. But surfing brought trips to Mexico on occasion – and that equaled nothing good in your estimation. I compromised: More domestic surfing in the mornings, a lot fewer TJ outings. (I thought you were satisfied with that. I was wrong, of course.).

Next step was to get some new friends, college ones -- a higher grade. Naturally, being me, the new friend turned out to be worse than most of the old ones, but hey, I never claimed to have stellar judgment. So, a single Mexico trip, a long drink, a rash mistake and I was determined to never let you know about it. Because my mistakes, especially the ones to do with Mexico and/or fires, have proven near fatal to our relationship before.

I am not justifying it. I should have told you the truth no matter how much I was afraid it would send you running again. I shouldn’t have allowed you to continue in your assumptions, because, for all my, at times rampant, stupidity, my mistakes were genuinely that: Mistakes. They weren’t sinister, or malicious, or deliberate and hurtful in intent. But by not disclosing them, by walking around you on eggshells, by trying to preserve illusions, I sure as hell made them look that way.

And let’s face it, you didn’t need my assistance to see them as sinister. Because, bottom line, you always have and you probably always will. I can do ten good deeds a day for a year, then take one false step, and it will negate in your eyes all the good that came before.

I wasn’t even aware how firmly your defaults were set until recently. Do you remember when you told me that Parker asked your advice on the twists and turns of my psyche – namely, my apparent lack of consideration for her while picking summer activities -- and I wanted to know what you said to her? Your response was: “I told her that’s just how you are.”

That’s just how I am? Begging Parker’s pardon -- because that is, indeed, how I was with her (for which I am sorry and ashamed, and would like to keep apologizing until she’s happy, and married, and forgotten all about me) – that is not how I was with you! I have never not considered you in our relationship. I have done nothing but consider you first and foremost. So much so that considering myself at all became decadence, a source of guilt, something to constantly apologize for. Surfing, especially a trip out of town for it, suddenly turned into an unforgivable folly. An occasional card game -- a clandestine activity to be kept from you at all costs. Hell, even going to classes required justification. Weight lifting couldn’t possibly be anything I enjoyed for non-nefarious reasons like health, fitness and a few easy credits. No, from where you stood, I might as well have been attending athletic-themed orgies. Funny how you never had this problem with Wallace’s basketball or Duncan’s soccer. I guess it’s the team sport vs. individual athletics. Because “individual” stands for “self-indulgent,” right?

I know that a lot of it I brought upon myself. I wanted to be good, respectable for you. I wanted so desperately for you to approve of me. So I overdid it and probably led you right down the path of suspicion. It took me months to realize you weren’t changing your mind about me, and if I were to go any further with this charade I’d just fade out completely. Hope is a stubborn thing. I wasn’t blind, I could see so clearly were we were headed it made my eyes hurt. But I kept hoping and I kept believing you every time you said something to reassure me. That “trying to act unnaturally” speech was a particular a favorite. You told me -- tears in your eyes! -- that you were trying to overcome your “pathological” suspiciousness. Yet the very next time the situation came up where the choice was to take my word for something or reject it outright and accuse me of any number of evils, you didn’t even hesitate. You sailed right past reasonable doubt directly to conviction. You promised me to not dismiss my concerns, to “go easy” on me, and yet, right after that I saw you blithely ignore my calls with a frown of annoyance, as if my worry was an unfounded nuisance.

So I let you go. I figured I wasn’t enough. Or at all what you wanted or needed. I realized my probation period was to be interminable. I couldn’t understand anymore why you even were with me. I figured it was a combination of things: Some natural attraction, some nostalgia, a bit of a habit (after all, I’ve been in your life, in one capacity or another, for seven years). All mixed in with a hefty doze of guilt and fortified by sense of obligation. You know, humoring an orphan and what not. And man, if there’s one thing I cannot take it’s being anyone’s charity case. I may be needy when it comes to love, I may accept it in whatever crappy or punishing package, I may embrace pain and invite loathing. But that doesn’t mean I’ll accept just about any emotion. I’ll take stark hatred and I let most people’s disapproval wash right over me. But one thing I never want and absolutely cannot handle is pity. So when I realized that pity was the most I could expect out of you, I couldn’t see any other livable choice but to end it.

And I was miserable for those 6 weeks, Veronica. I wasn’t prepared for the ache that didn’t go away but festered like an infected wound and wouldn’t be curbed by any of the old stand-bys like booze and partying. I lost you before and I survived. I thought it’d feel the same. It didn’t. For one thing, before, when I lost you, I didn’t really have you. Not that close, not completely (or, as completely as you let me). And I am not talking about the physical here. For better or worse, you became my whole world in that short time after graduation. Before I had pretty powerful distractions taking up almost all of my time and a good chunk of my emotional energy. Distractions like sporadic arrests, various murder accusations, gang wars, Aaron’s impending trial, even Kendall… I didn’t have the time to dwell, even if I wanted to. This time around, I just felt gutted. Like a hollowed out Halloween pumpkin with it’s obligatory smile curved in to mask the total emptiness inside. School never did it for me the way it did for you. Sure I liked some of the classes and tolerated others, but it was hardly enough. And even if they could snap my mind off of you, the holidays took away that option. I won’t bore you with details. Suffice it to say, I was missing you so acutely it made me physically ill. What that kind of misery does is it makes you forget your objections, worries, fears, concerns – whatever it was that led to the initial decision to end the relationship. So your constant suspicions of my motives, your lack of trust, your neglect became much lesser issues to me. Instead I kept remembering your solicitation and kindness with the whole Charlie matter, and many other, very real things you did for me. Your constant efforts to “better” me ceased being the sign of your disappointment and became the proof of how much you cared. And so on.

And then you came back! You came back, and it was as if that cliché I never liked or believed much -- the one about setting what you love free for the sake of some academic experiment in gravitational pool -- suddenly turned into the greatest revelation of all! You came back, you were just as miserable without me as I was without you. You loved me. It wasn’t just gratitude, or guilt, or misplaced sense of duty, or -- hell -- pity! You really wanted to be with me. And in the light of that I no longer cared about all the things that pushed me to the break up point 6 weeks prior.

Besides, it was clear you wanted to try. You said we should strive for intimacy, for real closeness, and it took me a while to notice from my euphoria-induced heights that it was I who was expected to accommodate. That bid for intimacy, that “let’s see if we still like each other, warts and all” thing? It made me uneasy. It implied you didn’t think we were intimate before. That, despite all we’ve been through and all we’ve learned about each other, you still thought I was concealing some “warts” from you. What it said to me was that nothing’s changed. That you still saw me as the guy who’ll let you down. And naturally, when you spied the next “wart,” your mind went straight for the worst possible explanation.

Fine, a drunken one-night stand while miserable and heartbroken, with someone I don’t even like or respect, can certainly be seen as a pretty big wart. God knows I felt disgusted with myself enough over it. But it wasn’t the crime you made it out to be. It wasn’t a grudge-motivated, score-settling attempt to stick it to you, to hit you in the most vulnerable place. For one thing, while I knew you had no love lost for Madison, the actual depth of your hatred I wasn’t aware of. You never gave me the impression that you thought Madison handed you her trademark “trip to the dentist” knowing what else was in there. Do you really think that? That Madison set you up? It never even occurred to me you might hold her consciously and deliberately responsible (no more than I thought you might hold me consciously responsible, or Duncan – especially Duncan – for that matter).

Let me tell you about Madison Sinclair: She is petty, entitled and so self-centered her head practically spins on its axis. All that you know. She is also fiercely competitive, only it’s not an Olympic spirit of good-will sportsmanship that drives her. It’s the pathological need to feel superior that somehow goes beyond the mere spoilt queen complex. Maybe she didn’t feel loved enough by her parents, or maybe she’s just a natural-born bitch and that’s all there is to it. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that there’s a definite pattern to her behavior and it’s fairly obvious. She is mean where she feels threatened and knows she can get away with it, and she is sycophantic and fake where she expects to gain something. She’s never loved anyone but herself (well, she once referred to Manolo Blahnic as the love of her life, but I think we can safely dismiss that), and her jealousy is rooted in proprietarial rather than tender instincts. Again, all this you know. Here’s something you don’t seem to: Madison, while being a lot of things, is not the devil. She isn’t even a devil. She’ll unleash her revenge on someone she perceives as a threat by spitting in her drink, writing “slut” on her windshield, spreading rumors and generally making sure the girl in question is ostracized and miserable. Petty, childish, sophomoric and predictable means to an end. What she wouldn’t do, however, is knowingly and willingly arrange for the other girl to be physically hurt. Especially in such a way. Because, while she may revel in your humiliation, the actual level of depravity and cold-bloodedness required for something like this is simply not in her. For one thing, Madison’s emotions don’t run that deep. She is all about the surface of things, the perception of pain inflicted, the public humiliation. She is all hurtful words spelled out on a car for the world to see, she is insults openly thrown in everyone’s hearing. If she were to drug you deliberately, it would have been for taking embarrassing pictures and posting them all over school. Probably a photo of you in your underwear with something sordid written on your forehead in magic marker. But getting you assaulted? Hurting you on such a profound level? No. Just, no… Madison Sinclair is spiteful, unimaginative and immature, but she is not inhuman. Her retaliation tactics run the gamut from “kindergarten infantile” to “middle school petulant.” She is not a criminal. And all the proof you need of that is the fact that she felt compelled to throw all sorts of metaphorical spitballs at you all throughout high school. Not only because that’s all she’s capable of, but because she felt you weren’t punished or shunned enough. She didn’t know, she still doesn’t, what happened to you at Shelley’s party.

I can't believe I just spent all this time and ink defending Madison! How fucked up is that? All because your assumption is equally, if not more, fucked up, and I feel like I have no other choice but to explain
something that should have been completely obvious.

I am not a fan of the girl. And believe me, the thought of having gotten so drunk and depressed as to have suspended all judgement where she’s concerned fills me with the level of self-loathing I didn’t know I was capable of. (And, let’s face it, my capacity for self-loathing is so vast it practically reaches industrial significance). However, you assuming that I saw Madison in Aspen and thought “Oh, goodie, there’s the heinous harpy deliberately and cruelly responsible for the worst thing that ever happened to Veronica! So why don’t I use this enormous stroke of luck and sleep with her to get my ex where it hurts!” is just wrong.

You thinking something like this is so wrong it’s beneath you. It’s beneath your intelligence, your much-touted sense of justice and your seldom-questioned judgement.

There was a group of us in Aspen. Some from high school, some new. There were parties and a lot of alcohol. (And trust me, soaking my depression in booze is something I’m determined to avoid in the future, because it doesn’t help and it doesn’t prop me up anymore. And because it leads to further badness.) And seeing her there reminded me of the old, less complicated days when I still felt like I could control something, even when my family, my life and my house fell crumbling down around me. Seeing her was a momentary detour back. It wasn’t a plan and it certainly wasn’t a coherent decision to spend any length of time even talking to her, let alone spending the night. It was a drink. A few drinks. A shared nostalgia. A tremendous lapse in judgement, if you will, but not a malevolent plan to score some far-fetched point at your expense. If anything, that night – and that drunk -- was the only time during those six weeks that I did not think of you at all.

Sober and achy in the morning, mostly what I felt was nausea and regret. But not due to thinking I had somehow done something awful to you. Or that you’d never forgive me for this and wouldn’t take me back. Trust me, I entertained no hope of ever getting you back at the time. Mostly because I didn’t think you loved me, at least not enough to try and meet me halfway. No, my regret had nothing to do with you but rather with, once again, feeling empty and unclean after a brief and meaningless hook up with someone who was less-than-nothing to me.

God, this letter is a novel. Then again, you’ll probably toss it in the trash without opening, so might as well use this to say everything I wanted to say for months and never gotten through.

Well, here it is. This is the moment, Veronica. (Yes, I am quoting you, but hey, it’s homage!). We are out of each other’s lives for good. And for the first time in two and a half years I can actually see the wisdom of such an outcome. We have too much between us for any fresh starts. Some scars never fade (I can attest to that), and we’ve known each other for too long to ever develop those blind spots necessary for any enduring relationship.

I know this feels like I’m blaming you, and only you, but I don’t. I am just as culpable in the demise of “us.”

Do you know when I fell for you? Not when I began to be attracted (that’s been sort of there pretty much since we met), but when I first felt this overwhelming tugging sensation that wasn’t mere attraction (feels a lot like nausea, actually)? It was when you were helping me find mom. Sometime after I broke down and sobbed like a little girl in the middle of a hotel lobby, and you held me. You held me after I tried to make your life unbearable for a year and a half. You held me through my grief after I all but dismissed yours. There was such genuine kindness and warmth there -- something I forgot the feel and shape of, or maybe never knew at all -- it floored me. By rights, your only emotion where I was concerned should have been disdain. Or, at least, supreme indifference. And you didn’t even believe my mother was alive to begin with. I could tell. I figured you were humoring me out of pity, or maybe just in it for the check, but doing your best, because you take your job seriously. But the job was effectively over, and you had no reason to stay… Instead you sat there on the marble floor supporting me with all of your tiny frame. The strongest person I knew.

I think I sort of canonized you then and there. Which is why, when later disappointments, disillusionment and setbacks came -- proving you are all too fallible -- I was more than eager to justify, overlook, rationalize away and not blame.

So, really, we are both at fault here. I put you on a pedestal and then spent months and months trying to rise to the impossible heights in your estimation just to sit at your feet. And you… You kind of still saw me in the gutter. Not that either of us thought like that consciously. And if that was the whole problem, well, maybe we could have made it. But it wasn’t. We didn’t fight for “us,” not really. I don’t know anyone who can navigate a relationship effortlessly, and people will always and inevitably clash. The ones that make it are those who work at it. Even when it’s hard or when it feels like the other person isn’t. Yes, I know, you came back to me. But it was after weeks of missing each other, feeling nostalgic, romanticizing the good and glossing over the bad. And the moment something came up, the moment some real difficult work was needed, you did what you always do: Cut your losses and ran.

And I am no better. That is, I did try to get through to you, to explain, to fix this somehow, but honestly, they were half-hearted efforts. I didn’t believe in them myself, so it’s not surprising I didn’t convince you. Truth is, your “never getting over this” carried too much weight for me to doubt it. And past experiences had told me that there was nothing I could say that would be heard and nothing I could do that wouldn’t be misinterpreted.

But maybe I was wrong. Maybe if I persevered, kept popping up everywhere you went, indulged in that borderline stalker behavior, the kind that worked so well for Duncan (and, it would seem, Piz), then things between us would have turned out differently. Maybe. But if I learned anything from this fiasco it’s that trying to be Duncan (or any version of your idea of a “nice guy”) does not pay for me at all. Not with you, not with anyone.

I think we can both safely say I’m not a nice guy. Not by your definition. I’ve got plenty of vices and I’m not ashamed of most of them. I don’t cultivate commendable hobbies and I have zero interest in doing so in the future. I’m not above manipulation or deception when stakes are high enough, and sometimes, in the process, I end up hurting people I like, people who don’t deserve it. (This I hope to never have to do again, though I can’t promise anything). I don’t like, let alone love, many people and I couldn’t be bothered with the fate of humanity in general. I have a hair-trigger anger impulse. I can be thoughtless (though I do try not to be). I’ll probably never be the guy who enjoys random art shows or lectures on literature. My art tolerance is tied in with my mother’s extensive collection of apparently extremely valuable stuff I just as soon never see again. And I don’t like literature. I like books, but I can’t stand “literature.” (Incidentally, I think Martin Amis is possibly more pretentious than his father ever was and nowhere near as funny or as good a writer.). I’ll probably never set any academic records ablaze: I’m easily bored when not interested and I don’t see any need in concentrating where interest is absent. My economics professor pretty much relegated me to the “lost cause” category. (Though I beg to differ. Just ask Mac about our little venture that’s starting to take flight, whatever he thought of its chances or legitimacy. On the second thought, don’t ask her. You won’t like it any more than my professor did.).

I’ll never run for a student government (or any political office), become a sheriff’s deputy or host a radio show on issues of great social import. And before you accuse me of mocking your ex and/or current boyfriends, I’m not. I respect their better qualities. Heck, I tried to emulate some of them. I just learned that I can’t.

Personally, for the longest time I thought you were deluding yourself thinking that a nice guy is what will do it for you. I see darkness in you, or, at the very least, a shadow. Something that’s profoundly incompatible with the “nice guy” outlook. At the very least, dating someone like that makes you pretend to be someone you’re not. Sunnier, more virtuous, but ultimately less than who you are. Aren’t you afraid that one day, say, Piz would accidentally step into the shadow and be horrified by what he sees? He is a nice guy, he won’t be able to deal. And aren’t you exhausted from having to keep up the pretense all the time?

But maybe I’m wrong. I certainly have been on many things about you and I could easily be on this. You seem … happy with Piz. Content. And I gather (from what little I could stomach to watch of that tape) the relationship is working in more ways than one. I’d be lying if I said I’m nothing but glad for you. It’s kind of difficult to master “glad,” considering I still love you. But it helps to see you all moved on. It removes lingering hopes. It’s just the jolt I needed to finally close the chapter you clearly moved beyond long ago. The message has finally penetrated: You can never be happy with me, and, by that virtue, I can’t be happy with you.

It still hurts, and probably will for a long time. But I know now that I’ll make it. And I am, believe it or not, genuinely wishing you the best. I want you to be loved, and safe and at peace. I want at least “at peace” for myself, too. For that reason -- even if you didn’t decree it -- I am out of your life. As you are out of mine.

I love you. I’m grateful for all, even for the bad and the excruciatingly painful. Be well, be careful, do great things I know you’re capable of.

L.E.


******

The letter was scattered in sheets all over Veronica’s bed. She kept picking up loose pages, rereading sections, going over sentences twice, three times. Some of it hit her like a physical punch. Some she had to say out-loud in order to comprehend. It was a mess. She was a mess. Her life was a mess. And she could see it scattered in loose pieces all around.

To be continued…