FIC: Examining a Goddess, (Logan/Veronica) R
Title: Examining a Goddess
Author: lily_268
Pairing/Character: Logan/Veronica, mentions of Duncan
Rating: R for sexual situations
Word Count: 3,286
Summary: A look at Veronica’s freshman year at college from her roommate’s POV. AU, since she’s not attending Hurst.
Spoilers/Warnings: None in specific, but up to “Not Pictured” to be safe.
Disclaimer: I don’t own or profit off anyone who lives in Neptune, all that pretty belongs to UPN and Rob Thomas.
Any Author's Notes: New author to this comm *waves*, this was written for my fic table, fulfilling prompt #69 - Worship. I'm looking to improve my writing, so any concrit is appreciated! Massive thanks to both noneofyours and hillaryr for their extensive beta-ing that made this fic readable. You each deserve a naked!Logan to tuck you in at night.
She looked up at me with a stone face, her eyes immune to the oceans battling behind them, “I’m a runner. Whenever things get tough, whenever I can’t deal, I need to step back to get a fresh perspective.”
I used to think it was just a defense mechanism, that it had made her stronger. I’m not so sure lately. But I know she can’t help it, it’s what she does. Whether she’s running to get away or to chase after a dream, she must love the current motion. She was always escaping bonds to places or people; she was always striving to be free. Sometimes, she resisted with the lie that she was “happy”. Yet, as much as she tried to withstand her urge to run, she was never really comfortable with the confining chains of her past, so she kept running. I wonder if she’ll ever stop. Maybe people like Veronica Mars aren’t made to stop.
****
I hummed as the flight attendant explained my exits and what to do in case of emergency. My body was throbbing with anticipation as energy coursed through my veins. Her instructions washed over my tense form without so much as a ripple: I didn’t care, and they were of no use to me. This was my exit, and a year with Veronica Mars had prepared me for any emergency I would encounter in the months ahead. After shadowing her actions and following the tabloid that was her life for most of freshman year, I finally had the courage to take my life into my own hands.
It felt good.
****
She whirled into the room in a flurry of boxes; I could barely see her golden hair under the packages. But her posture was immaculate and her smile seemed genuine. That’s how I remember Veronica Mars: full of energy and elegance. From the moment I saw her, I adored her.
She must have had practice at being adored because she filled the role I created for her quickly and efficiently. It was as if she was born to be loved from afar. No one could get in past her walls, so there was no other option. It gave her eyes a shimmering quality; like they were magnified so that she could see everyone from the distance she had placed them. Knowing that it was impossible to breach her defences didn’t make you stop trying: she was addictive, and after five minutes I was in need of a twelve-step program.
We met when moving into our shared dorm room. While organizing her things, she seemed funny, pleasant, and a little nervous. After hugging her dad goodbye, she collapsed on the bed and looked at me with a smile that said, “We’re free”. It was my first taste of shared confidentiality and I lapped it up like honey-sweetened milk. Looking back, she must have filed me in her brain under “lap dog”, the faithful sidekick who could be counted on, but never trusted. It was infuriating that she had me pegged an hour into our acquaintance, but I could never figure her out. Although I was left out, it was a rush to feel so understood. She read me like a book and wrote in the margins.
Veronica was secretive, but she was an excellent roommate. She always did her dishes, she would turn down her music when I was reading, and her side of the room was usually clean. All I had to put up with were the late nights that she spent on her laptop, the occasional conversation that was urgently whispered into her phone, and the random afternoon where I would return to find her hair piled on the top of her head while she attacked every surface with paper towels and cleaning products. Although she was a little distant, it meant that the times she did reveal something made me feel privileged and special. She was letting me into her world and I reveled in the juicy details of her exciting life.
Back then, I had no idea she was manipulating me. She was training me not to ask questions but to be blindingly curious. I saw her as a mystery to be worshipped and protected. I built her up in my mind until I was surprised she didn’t stumble off the tall pedestal I had placed her upon. When she constantly kept her footing against all the winds of deceit, I was even more impressed.
It was in November that I first saw Veronica pulling someone into an abandoned classroom and at the time, I thought nothing of it. Later that week, a vaguely familiar boy was in on the news, but I changed the channel after I made the connection between Veronica and that empty classroom. People kept phoning our room, or knocking on our door looking for her, but she tried not to inconvenience me. One night it got to be a problem when someone came looking for her and was not pleased to hear that she was out. He removed his hand from his shoulder to show a deep gash, letting dark droplets of blood fall onto our welcome mat.
I slammed the door when he started yelling and called campus police, my whole body shaking. I had never seen an injury that extensive up close before; and I wasn’t cheered to be confronted with violence in such tangible fashion. That night I couldn’t sleep as I thought about my own mortality and wondered, for what felt like the thousandth time, how Veronica kept surviving when surrounded by so much death. I never got the chance to ask her if she also lay awake, curled up in her blankets, worried and scared. Or perhaps she got a thrill from it all, and felt more alive after seeing a life expire. It was hard to tell from her expression, when I told her about what had happened: she seemed to grow with a cold fury. She was out the door again in ten minutes, after first swearing under her breath. Before she left, she paused at the door and reached out for my elbow, her head lowered.
“I’m sorry you were involved. I’m trying to get out.” She seemed to be convincing herself as much as me, such was the force behind her words. Her eyes flashed again with the familiar cool anger when she raised her head to return my inquisitive gaze. “I told them not to come here. I told them I wanted a part of my life untouched.” Her eyes were dry, but they contained oceans of yearning.
The incident was never brought up again, but she must have done something, because from then on no one ever asked me about Veronica Mars. I once saw the boy who arrived with the bloody shoulder, but he would never meet my eyes and practically ran to the opposite side of the quad when I approached.
Her laughter was so infectious and her style so glamorous while understated that when I discovered that the boy I liked only stopped by for Veronica, I could only sulk for a few days. As much as I wanted to hate her, to act out in a catty way and destroy her as I would any other girl in the past, I couldn’t. My jealousy of her talent to attract people so effortlessly was overshadowed by my need to be accepted. I think I had a foolish idea that if she liked me enough, she would divulge all her secrets and I would transform into a confident swan. I guess I thought that perhaps I could live my life with the same grace and combat problems with the same strength she seemed born with.
In January, I came home early one night from the library and saw that I was not the only one who found her enchanting. Despite my haste to back out of the room quickly, shielding my eyes and stringing out apologies; I was able to notice his face in ecstasy as he gazed upon the naked women in his arms. She was straddled on top of him with her hands holding his hands firmly to her hips and her long hair was gently grazing his knees as her head tilted back. They seemed so comfortable nesting in the heat of their intertwined limbs. I heard stories of the sound of their passion from neighbours, and I don’t even know if they noticed me enter the room, for they appeared so rapt in their moment. If they did, it was only to further the experience, because on occasions after that, I’m sure that the lock was intentionally neglected. I made sure to stay over at a friend’s room for the rest of the weekend, but I wished I could have been with them, a part of their exclusive clique and cocoon of lust. I felt slightly more alive when I saw them, as if I was feeding off their energy. I imagined Logan’s long fingers tracing the contours of her body and the sweet moans his ministrations would elicit. I would close my eyes and picture her arms around his neck as he thrust into her, pushing her against our wall, as they called out each other’s names. They were perfection together: a beauty that should never be separated. I wanted to admire them.
However, I knew better than to expect to be part of their clique, and Logan was not one to be trifled with. His extra-curricular activities were forever broadcast on the news, causing Veronica to sit, cross-legged, staring at the screen until the story was finished. Then she would start rummaging in her bag for her phone to start yet another, long, whispered conversation.
In February, Logan started coming down from Neptune more often. He would sit with us in the cafeteria during breakfast, eating scrambled eggs off her plate or rub her neck as she read Russian literature on her bed. Most nights they’d go under the covers for a movie but sometimes she’d smile at me with her eyes and I’d grab my overnight bag as I slipped out for the night with the guise of “just going out to pick up some things”.
Unfortunately, everything corrodes with age, even the brightest of bronze rusts, and their cocoon wasn’t built to stand the test of time. For weeks at a time Logan was absent, whether by Veronica’s request that he give her space, or by his own design I never knew. All I knew was that when would arrive their former heat would ignite again, manifested in the shouts their lips produced, rather than the moans.
In late April, when Veronica had been slamming the door for two days, their fight was overshadowed by the turmoil in the news. I had never heard of the Manning’s, but apparently, their granddaughter was kidnapped. Everyone was shocked when the kidnapper returned to the family with the girl. I was just going to make a joke about the next story involving motorbikes and juggling geese when the sound of glass breaking interrupted me. I turned around to see Veronica’s dumbstruck face and the shards of a coffee mug on the tile. The phone rang at the next commercial but she didn’t move towards it. I started picking up the glass and my movement seemed to jolt her awake. She bent down to help and we worked silently while the answering machine recorded Logan’s nervous message. I heard Veronica let out the breath she had been holding when he said that he was going out of town for a few days.
Over the next week, Veronica moved through life like a zombie. She barely ate and her eyes seemed glazed over. The only thing she paid attention to were the news broadcasts. Apparently, the boy who took the baby was the father, and he only returned with his daughter because she was sick and he needed a family history. I found it startling how people who were once so prejudiced against him were now attacking the victims they had previously painted. As I watched Veronica watching him, instead I still had no idea why she found him so fascinating.
Logan still had not called and I returned one afternoon to see Veronica in bed with red-rimmed eyes. I told her I was taking her out to dinner, and then dancing where we’d find cute boys to buy us shots until we puked up our dessert. She let a weak smile grace her face and tilted her head to lean on my shoulder.
“Thanks, but I’m pregnant.”
I froze as I let the knowledge fill my veins. I had doubted that she was flesh and blood since we moved in since she always seemed so statuesque. This confession should have made her more human, and for an instant I tried to see her as small and fragile. Instead, the knowledge of her pregnancy only made her appear stronger. I could only guess at the turmoil she must have suffered, yet she was still here, alive and breathing. When my startled limbs started moving again I placed my arm around her tiny frame and pulled her into me. She didn’t talk after that; we just sat, staring at the opposite wall, minds reeling. She cried that night until the food that I had ordered arrived and then we filled ourselves with greasy pizza and pints of ice cream. I had never seen her so utterly broken and conflicted. For the first time she seemed unsure of herself. I never imagined that goddesses could question themselves. I always saw them living a carefree live of infallibility. She was silent as we ate and I didn’t ask for details, knowing that she wouldn’t be forthcoming with them. I made embarrassing chitchat about professors and campus affairs that seemed trite as it flowed from my mouth. I wished I could do more but she never made me feel useless, when I got up to turn off the light she looked at me from across the room and smiled with tired eyes.
“You’re welcome,” I said to the space between us.
She walked around a week later with the phone pressed against her ear and her voice agitated. I arrived only to hear her forcibly yell goodbye into the receiver. I don’t know who she was trying to convince, but as she looked at me with hollow eyes, I knew she was unsuccessful. She simply stated, “The baby is Duncan Kane’s. I slept with Duncan and he is the father.” I couldn’t bear to look at her defeated form any longer and shifted in my seat. I didn’t know what to say to her as she stood there like a Grecian statue. Instead of insightful advice or friendly understanding, I simply closed my gaping mouth and silently offered her the leftover noodles from the night before.
She was packed and gone by the next morning.
Many people talked about Veronica Mars. The gossip ranged from incredible to idiotic. Everyone watched as she grew with what was supposedly Duncan’s child. I kept quiet as the events unfolded, although more than once I wanted to scream. I seemed to be the only person who realised the truth, who knew about Logan and their moment of perfection. More than once I wondered if that’s all their relationship would ever be; a fleeting glimpse of pure perfection that only existed in my memory. For some reason, she had never allowed herself to trust him, and now she was trying to deny the result of their passion. I couldn't look as she walked out the door, feeling that by walking out on Logan that she was somehow walking out on me and all the other imperfections in the world. It was the first time I noticed her stumble off her pedestal.
I’ve never forgiven myself for not giving her my hand for balance.
I don’t remember now which happened first, but I know that she moved into the Kane estate amid flashing bulbs and catcalls, and that Logan was hospitalized for an overdose around the same time. He is currently in a coma in a restricted wing that doesn’t accept visitors.
I tried sneaking in once to see him, thinking that if I talked to him, that if I told him how much Veronica and his child needed him, he would wake up. Nevertheless, Logan remains on life support to this day, a study of despair, on display in his bed. He’s now immune to the troubles of the world and safe from further heartache. I envy his fortune and hate him for his cowardice. Most of all I pity him, because I know what it’s like to worship Veronica Mars; its destruction.
After the birth of her daughter, Veronica left town. Duncan called me the morning of her disappearance, obviously worried. I’d met him since Veronica had moved in, although she had been a ghost since then, only leaving her room for food. His voice was even more nervous than his normal inflection, which pained me, because I didn’t know how to console him. I knew that she wouldn’t be coming back. It was a wonder she had kept herself alive long enough to give birth. She must have wanted some part of Logan still alive, something tangible to touch and hold.
I had never thought Duncan to be very knowledgeable about the world around him, but his eyesight must have been keener than I suspected, because he didn’t push the loss of his second “child”. It was with a begrudging sigh that he ended the conversation, like he knew finding her was hopeless, but was comforted by the fact that he still had a family and life that grounded him to Neptune. He was noticeably concerned, making a public plea to the media, but after a month, I think he gave up. I heard a rumour years later that he spent his afternoons with Logan, commiserating with the unresponsive body of his once best friend over their mutual loss.
Watching Duncan implore Veronica to return, wondering if his speech fell on deaf ears, I never sympathised with her more. She couldn’t be trapped with Duncan, not when her heart lay unconscious in a hospitable room. She had persuaded me, moulded me, and shaped part of the woman I would become; and I wanted her final influence be a positive one. I had dreamed constantly of her face, finally aglow again with her former glory as she gazed down into the face of her daughter, stealing away in the twilight to start a new life. I wanted to remember Veronica victorious, so I imitated her one last time.
That’s why I didn’t even bother to pack my bags once I’d made up my mind to travel. I was going to close my eyes and choose a country I’d never been to before. I grabbed my purse and jacket and emptied my bank account. I only phoned my parents after the plane had left the tarmac.
I had no idea if I’d ever see Veronica again, but I wasn’t on a quest. Veronica was probably gone forever; instead, my search was for myself. I had scavenged the room for a reminder of her, a tangible way to remember what she had taught me about living. As I felt my ears pop over the roar of the engines, my fingers traced the lines of the engraved swan ornament she had kept on her bedside table. By making my own path, finally out of her shadow, I felt that perhaps I had transformed.
Author: lily_268
Pairing/Character: Logan/Veronica, mentions of Duncan
Rating: R for sexual situations
Word Count: 3,286
Summary: A look at Veronica’s freshman year at college from her roommate’s POV. AU, since she’s not attending Hurst.
Spoilers/Warnings: None in specific, but up to “Not Pictured” to be safe.
Disclaimer: I don’t own or profit off anyone who lives in Neptune, all that pretty belongs to UPN and Rob Thomas.
Any Author's Notes: New author to this comm *waves*, this was written for my fic table, fulfilling prompt #69 - Worship. I'm looking to improve my writing, so any concrit is appreciated! Massive thanks to both noneofyours and hillaryr for their extensive beta-ing that made this fic readable. You each deserve a naked!Logan to tuck you in at night.
She looked up at me with a stone face, her eyes immune to the oceans battling behind them, “I’m a runner. Whenever things get tough, whenever I can’t deal, I need to step back to get a fresh perspective.”
I used to think it was just a defense mechanism, that it had made her stronger. I’m not so sure lately. But I know she can’t help it, it’s what she does. Whether she’s running to get away or to chase after a dream, she must love the current motion. She was always escaping bonds to places or people; she was always striving to be free. Sometimes, she resisted with the lie that she was “happy”. Yet, as much as she tried to withstand her urge to run, she was never really comfortable with the confining chains of her past, so she kept running. I wonder if she’ll ever stop. Maybe people like Veronica Mars aren’t made to stop.
****
I hummed as the flight attendant explained my exits and what to do in case of emergency. My body was throbbing with anticipation as energy coursed through my veins. Her instructions washed over my tense form without so much as a ripple: I didn’t care, and they were of no use to me. This was my exit, and a year with Veronica Mars had prepared me for any emergency I would encounter in the months ahead. After shadowing her actions and following the tabloid that was her life for most of freshman year, I finally had the courage to take my life into my own hands.
It felt good.
****
She whirled into the room in a flurry of boxes; I could barely see her golden hair under the packages. But her posture was immaculate and her smile seemed genuine. That’s how I remember Veronica Mars: full of energy and elegance. From the moment I saw her, I adored her.
She must have had practice at being adored because she filled the role I created for her quickly and efficiently. It was as if she was born to be loved from afar. No one could get in past her walls, so there was no other option. It gave her eyes a shimmering quality; like they were magnified so that she could see everyone from the distance she had placed them. Knowing that it was impossible to breach her defences didn’t make you stop trying: she was addictive, and after five minutes I was in need of a twelve-step program.
We met when moving into our shared dorm room. While organizing her things, she seemed funny, pleasant, and a little nervous. After hugging her dad goodbye, she collapsed on the bed and looked at me with a smile that said, “We’re free”. It was my first taste of shared confidentiality and I lapped it up like honey-sweetened milk. Looking back, she must have filed me in her brain under “lap dog”, the faithful sidekick who could be counted on, but never trusted. It was infuriating that she had me pegged an hour into our acquaintance, but I could never figure her out. Although I was left out, it was a rush to feel so understood. She read me like a book and wrote in the margins.
Veronica was secretive, but she was an excellent roommate. She always did her dishes, she would turn down her music when I was reading, and her side of the room was usually clean. All I had to put up with were the late nights that she spent on her laptop, the occasional conversation that was urgently whispered into her phone, and the random afternoon where I would return to find her hair piled on the top of her head while she attacked every surface with paper towels and cleaning products. Although she was a little distant, it meant that the times she did reveal something made me feel privileged and special. She was letting me into her world and I reveled in the juicy details of her exciting life.
Back then, I had no idea she was manipulating me. She was training me not to ask questions but to be blindingly curious. I saw her as a mystery to be worshipped and protected. I built her up in my mind until I was surprised she didn’t stumble off the tall pedestal I had placed her upon. When she constantly kept her footing against all the winds of deceit, I was even more impressed.
It was in November that I first saw Veronica pulling someone into an abandoned classroom and at the time, I thought nothing of it. Later that week, a vaguely familiar boy was in on the news, but I changed the channel after I made the connection between Veronica and that empty classroom. People kept phoning our room, or knocking on our door looking for her, but she tried not to inconvenience me. One night it got to be a problem when someone came looking for her and was not pleased to hear that she was out. He removed his hand from his shoulder to show a deep gash, letting dark droplets of blood fall onto our welcome mat.
I slammed the door when he started yelling and called campus police, my whole body shaking. I had never seen an injury that extensive up close before; and I wasn’t cheered to be confronted with violence in such tangible fashion. That night I couldn’t sleep as I thought about my own mortality and wondered, for what felt like the thousandth time, how Veronica kept surviving when surrounded by so much death. I never got the chance to ask her if she also lay awake, curled up in her blankets, worried and scared. Or perhaps she got a thrill from it all, and felt more alive after seeing a life expire. It was hard to tell from her expression, when I told her about what had happened: she seemed to grow with a cold fury. She was out the door again in ten minutes, after first swearing under her breath. Before she left, she paused at the door and reached out for my elbow, her head lowered.
“I’m sorry you were involved. I’m trying to get out.” She seemed to be convincing herself as much as me, such was the force behind her words. Her eyes flashed again with the familiar cool anger when she raised her head to return my inquisitive gaze. “I told them not to come here. I told them I wanted a part of my life untouched.” Her eyes were dry, but they contained oceans of yearning.
The incident was never brought up again, but she must have done something, because from then on no one ever asked me about Veronica Mars. I once saw the boy who arrived with the bloody shoulder, but he would never meet my eyes and practically ran to the opposite side of the quad when I approached.
Her laughter was so infectious and her style so glamorous while understated that when I discovered that the boy I liked only stopped by for Veronica, I could only sulk for a few days. As much as I wanted to hate her, to act out in a catty way and destroy her as I would any other girl in the past, I couldn’t. My jealousy of her talent to attract people so effortlessly was overshadowed by my need to be accepted. I think I had a foolish idea that if she liked me enough, she would divulge all her secrets and I would transform into a confident swan. I guess I thought that perhaps I could live my life with the same grace and combat problems with the same strength she seemed born with.
In January, I came home early one night from the library and saw that I was not the only one who found her enchanting. Despite my haste to back out of the room quickly, shielding my eyes and stringing out apologies; I was able to notice his face in ecstasy as he gazed upon the naked women in his arms. She was straddled on top of him with her hands holding his hands firmly to her hips and her long hair was gently grazing his knees as her head tilted back. They seemed so comfortable nesting in the heat of their intertwined limbs. I heard stories of the sound of their passion from neighbours, and I don’t even know if they noticed me enter the room, for they appeared so rapt in their moment. If they did, it was only to further the experience, because on occasions after that, I’m sure that the lock was intentionally neglected. I made sure to stay over at a friend’s room for the rest of the weekend, but I wished I could have been with them, a part of their exclusive clique and cocoon of lust. I felt slightly more alive when I saw them, as if I was feeding off their energy. I imagined Logan’s long fingers tracing the contours of her body and the sweet moans his ministrations would elicit. I would close my eyes and picture her arms around his neck as he thrust into her, pushing her against our wall, as they called out each other’s names. They were perfection together: a beauty that should never be separated. I wanted to admire them.
However, I knew better than to expect to be part of their clique, and Logan was not one to be trifled with. His extra-curricular activities were forever broadcast on the news, causing Veronica to sit, cross-legged, staring at the screen until the story was finished. Then she would start rummaging in her bag for her phone to start yet another, long, whispered conversation.
In February, Logan started coming down from Neptune more often. He would sit with us in the cafeteria during breakfast, eating scrambled eggs off her plate or rub her neck as she read Russian literature on her bed. Most nights they’d go under the covers for a movie but sometimes she’d smile at me with her eyes and I’d grab my overnight bag as I slipped out for the night with the guise of “just going out to pick up some things”.
Unfortunately, everything corrodes with age, even the brightest of bronze rusts, and their cocoon wasn’t built to stand the test of time. For weeks at a time Logan was absent, whether by Veronica’s request that he give her space, or by his own design I never knew. All I knew was that when would arrive their former heat would ignite again, manifested in the shouts their lips produced, rather than the moans.
In late April, when Veronica had been slamming the door for two days, their fight was overshadowed by the turmoil in the news. I had never heard of the Manning’s, but apparently, their granddaughter was kidnapped. Everyone was shocked when the kidnapper returned to the family with the girl. I was just going to make a joke about the next story involving motorbikes and juggling geese when the sound of glass breaking interrupted me. I turned around to see Veronica’s dumbstruck face and the shards of a coffee mug on the tile. The phone rang at the next commercial but she didn’t move towards it. I started picking up the glass and my movement seemed to jolt her awake. She bent down to help and we worked silently while the answering machine recorded Logan’s nervous message. I heard Veronica let out the breath she had been holding when he said that he was going out of town for a few days.
Over the next week, Veronica moved through life like a zombie. She barely ate and her eyes seemed glazed over. The only thing she paid attention to were the news broadcasts. Apparently, the boy who took the baby was the father, and he only returned with his daughter because she was sick and he needed a family history. I found it startling how people who were once so prejudiced against him were now attacking the victims they had previously painted. As I watched Veronica watching him, instead I still had no idea why she found him so fascinating.
Logan still had not called and I returned one afternoon to see Veronica in bed with red-rimmed eyes. I told her I was taking her out to dinner, and then dancing where we’d find cute boys to buy us shots until we puked up our dessert. She let a weak smile grace her face and tilted her head to lean on my shoulder.
“Thanks, but I’m pregnant.”
I froze as I let the knowledge fill my veins. I had doubted that she was flesh and blood since we moved in since she always seemed so statuesque. This confession should have made her more human, and for an instant I tried to see her as small and fragile. Instead, the knowledge of her pregnancy only made her appear stronger. I could only guess at the turmoil she must have suffered, yet she was still here, alive and breathing. When my startled limbs started moving again I placed my arm around her tiny frame and pulled her into me. She didn’t talk after that; we just sat, staring at the opposite wall, minds reeling. She cried that night until the food that I had ordered arrived and then we filled ourselves with greasy pizza and pints of ice cream. I had never seen her so utterly broken and conflicted. For the first time she seemed unsure of herself. I never imagined that goddesses could question themselves. I always saw them living a carefree live of infallibility. She was silent as we ate and I didn’t ask for details, knowing that she wouldn’t be forthcoming with them. I made embarrassing chitchat about professors and campus affairs that seemed trite as it flowed from my mouth. I wished I could do more but she never made me feel useless, when I got up to turn off the light she looked at me from across the room and smiled with tired eyes.
“You’re welcome,” I said to the space between us.
She walked around a week later with the phone pressed against her ear and her voice agitated. I arrived only to hear her forcibly yell goodbye into the receiver. I don’t know who she was trying to convince, but as she looked at me with hollow eyes, I knew she was unsuccessful. She simply stated, “The baby is Duncan Kane’s. I slept with Duncan and he is the father.” I couldn’t bear to look at her defeated form any longer and shifted in my seat. I didn’t know what to say to her as she stood there like a Grecian statue. Instead of insightful advice or friendly understanding, I simply closed my gaping mouth and silently offered her the leftover noodles from the night before.
She was packed and gone by the next morning.
Many people talked about Veronica Mars. The gossip ranged from incredible to idiotic. Everyone watched as she grew with what was supposedly Duncan’s child. I kept quiet as the events unfolded, although more than once I wanted to scream. I seemed to be the only person who realised the truth, who knew about Logan and their moment of perfection. More than once I wondered if that’s all their relationship would ever be; a fleeting glimpse of pure perfection that only existed in my memory. For some reason, she had never allowed herself to trust him, and now she was trying to deny the result of their passion. I couldn't look as she walked out the door, feeling that by walking out on Logan that she was somehow walking out on me and all the other imperfections in the world. It was the first time I noticed her stumble off her pedestal.
I’ve never forgiven myself for not giving her my hand for balance.
I don’t remember now which happened first, but I know that she moved into the Kane estate amid flashing bulbs and catcalls, and that Logan was hospitalized for an overdose around the same time. He is currently in a coma in a restricted wing that doesn’t accept visitors.
I tried sneaking in once to see him, thinking that if I talked to him, that if I told him how much Veronica and his child needed him, he would wake up. Nevertheless, Logan remains on life support to this day, a study of despair, on display in his bed. He’s now immune to the troubles of the world and safe from further heartache. I envy his fortune and hate him for his cowardice. Most of all I pity him, because I know what it’s like to worship Veronica Mars; its destruction.
After the birth of her daughter, Veronica left town. Duncan called me the morning of her disappearance, obviously worried. I’d met him since Veronica had moved in, although she had been a ghost since then, only leaving her room for food. His voice was even more nervous than his normal inflection, which pained me, because I didn’t know how to console him. I knew that she wouldn’t be coming back. It was a wonder she had kept herself alive long enough to give birth. She must have wanted some part of Logan still alive, something tangible to touch and hold.
I had never thought Duncan to be very knowledgeable about the world around him, but his eyesight must have been keener than I suspected, because he didn’t push the loss of his second “child”. It was with a begrudging sigh that he ended the conversation, like he knew finding her was hopeless, but was comforted by the fact that he still had a family and life that grounded him to Neptune. He was noticeably concerned, making a public plea to the media, but after a month, I think he gave up. I heard a rumour years later that he spent his afternoons with Logan, commiserating with the unresponsive body of his once best friend over their mutual loss.
Watching Duncan implore Veronica to return, wondering if his speech fell on deaf ears, I never sympathised with her more. She couldn’t be trapped with Duncan, not when her heart lay unconscious in a hospitable room. She had persuaded me, moulded me, and shaped part of the woman I would become; and I wanted her final influence be a positive one. I had dreamed constantly of her face, finally aglow again with her former glory as she gazed down into the face of her daughter, stealing away in the twilight to start a new life. I wanted to remember Veronica victorious, so I imitated her one last time.
That’s why I didn’t even bother to pack my bags once I’d made up my mind to travel. I was going to close my eyes and choose a country I’d never been to before. I grabbed my purse and jacket and emptied my bank account. I only phoned my parents after the plane had left the tarmac.
I had no idea if I’d ever see Veronica again, but I wasn’t on a quest. Veronica was probably gone forever; instead, my search was for myself. I had scavenged the room for a reminder of her, a tangible way to remember what she had taught me about living. As I felt my ears pop over the roar of the engines, my fingers traced the lines of the engraved swan ornament she had kept on her bedside table. By making my own path, finally out of her shadow, I felt that perhaps I had transformed.