Pony is on me the moment I step through the door, covering my face with his sloppy doggy kisses. His breath never smells of expensive French perfume, but this time it’s even worse. It stinks like a clogged-up old sewer and whatever he slobbered on my face tastes even worse.

“Gross,” I mutter, pushing him away. “Pony, what did you get into?” Did something die in the alley and he ate it? Should I give the vet a call?

“I made paella,” Logan answers from behind the stove, tasting what is probably rice from his palm. “And I basically used every pan we own. So, you’re welcome and I’m sorry.” I must have gone pale, because he quickly shakes his head. “And I haven’t developed amnesia. Still allergic.” He makes a hand motion like a TV-shopping channel personality presenting an item. “No shellfish in sight, only a liberal amount of fish sauce.” He takes a good sniff, makes a face. “A very liberal amount.” He smirks. “Again, sorry.”

I wash Pony’s fish sauce flavored saliva off my face, but I still have the memory of his foul breath deep inside my nostrils. “Smells good,” I say, stand on tiptoes and welcome Logan’s soft kiss. He, on the other hand, smells very good.

“No, it doesn’t,” he chuckles, “but maybe I can salvage it a little. It does taste rather nice, though.”

“Listen...” I circle the kitchen counter and perch on my stool. “I need to tell you something.”

“Me first,” he quickly says, squeezing a half of lemon into the pan. “You remember that Clyde person, Big Dick’s new bestie?”

I’m not really in the mood for gossip, but whatever. “Yeah?”

“He used to rob banks.” He stirs vigorously. “You know, Big Dick’s all sort of hard about that. I guess that they shared a cell in Chino.”

I roll my eyes. Of course. “Two Chino alums, now community leaders. What is wrong with this town? What is wrong with these people?” I throw my arms in the air. “At least one of their loved ones or friends was shafted by Big Dick, they know what he did and they don’t care. He’s the one who thought up the nutjobs—”

“I think it’s NUTT,” Logan interjects, but quickly lifts his hands in surrender. “Sorry,” he says with a smirk. “Do go on.”

“They’re trying to take jobs from people, their livelihood, so I guess they chose the right leader,” I growl. “What is wrong with these people?” I ask again.

“Well.” Logan quirks his eyebrow. “Are you done, can I put in my two cents?” He grins when I growl. “I believe, society as a whole has become rather desensitized to everything thanks to the news and media constantly bombarding us with unprecedented levels of content. There’s too much of everything for people to really focus on the real issues or really see the bigger picture, so they focus on little, immaterial, unimportant things and don’t really care about anything that doesn’t satisfy their current impulse or need.” He shrugs. “Which is exactly the point of the whole process. Emotional desensitization. It’s divide and conquer all over again.”

I can do nothing else but stare at him. So long, so hard and so silently, an actual blush spreads high on his cheekbones. Which is beyond adorable.

“What?” he asks, scratching his freakishly long neck, which is a clear sign he’s uncomfortable. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

I lean my elbow on the counter and drop my chin into my palm. “What are you doing in the Navy? You should be a philosopher, an anthropologist. Hey!” I straighten and point my finger at him. “You should be a community leader. If you ask me, with brains like yours and reasoning like that, you’re wasting your potential in the Navy, oh great Yoda Echolls.”

“It all a higher purpose serves. Much to learn you have. Hmmmmm.” He flicks rice at me, making me laugh. “So what did you want to tell me, before you distracted me with your compliments of my brain and philosophic prowess?”

I can no longer postpone it. And if I don’t tell someone, I might explode. I drop my hands in my lap and look down at my trembling fingers. “It’s Dad,” I tell him softly.

Logan immediately turns off the gas and comes to sit by me. Because that’s who he is, how he operates. He’s a nurturer at heart. “What happened?”

“He’s sick.”

“Oh, baby,” he murmurs, slowly running his large palm up and down my back. “What is it? You know it’ll help if you let it out.”

I nod. Of course, I know. We learned it together. So I bite the bullet. “He has dementia. Or at least his doctor put him on meds for it.”

“Did he tell you today?”

I shake my head. “No, I’ve known for a while now. I was waiting for him to tell me, almost blurted it out today, but he keeps saying he’s fine.”

“If he didn’t tell you, how do you know?”

Trust Logan to go for the juiciest meat. “Mac hacked his medical records.”

Logan chuckles softly, never stopping the soothing movement of his hand. “Of course she did. It was probably a piece of cake.”

I frown at him. “Meaning.”

“Come on, Veronica. I’d probably be able to hack that doctor’s records.” He sighs. “They have too many patients and not enough staff, so trust me they’re not putting their profits into security; patient confidentiality and possible breaches be damned. Keith should switch doctors. See someone who isn’t overworked, who actually gives a damn beside seeing his or her next paycheck, and get that damn hip replaced.”

If I look at him with at least half the gratitude I’m feeling at the moment, he’s about to drown in it. I knew I could talk to Logan. I knew he’d understand. Maybe I can enlist his help in changing Dad’s mind. “That’s what I told him. But he refuses, because the one he has is the only one he can afford on his insurance.” We can surely cut back on the pro bono jobs for a while, until he gets his hip and head fixed.

“Veronica.”

The strange tone of Logan’s voice pulls me out of my plotting, and the look on his face makes my heart sink. I know what he’s thinking. I know what he’s about to say and I refuse to go through this again. “No!” I snap. “We won’t use your money!”

It always comes down to this. It’s been coming down to this for the past five years. Ever since the accident. He’d offered to pay Dad’s hospital bill, he’d offered to help him upgrade his insurance, pay the premium himself if necessary, he’s been repeatedly offering to set Dad up with the best orthopedic surgeon to fix his hip...

“My money?” Logan slowly moves away and I immediately feel the loss of his warm hand, his presence. He’s not looking at me, but at the floor. Then he closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. When he finally lifts his head, his face is expressionless, his eyes empty. “My money.” He repeats. “It always comes down to this, doesn’t it. It’ll always come down to this. My money,” he says monotonously. “Or better yet, my parents’ money. The trust fund left to me by my alcoholic mother and murderous, cradle-robbing father.”

I’d prefer him getting angry like in high school, yell, break furniture and lamps. That wouldn’t scare me, because I know he’d never hurt me. The monotonous voice, the blank expression, the dead eyes...Those scare me. They make him look like a stranger. “Logan...”

He lifts his hand to stop me, shakes his head. “I’m not using that money, because I don’t need it. It’s a nest egg for emergencies. For family emergencies. Because you never know what might happen. Keith, your father, the only father figure I’d had in my life, the best approximation of a father, I’ll get, is sick and needs help. If that’s not a family emergency, I don’t know what it is, seeing how we’re engaged and all, how you two are the only family I have, beside Dick. But no. You don’t want to use my money. Because it’s not your money. You won’t claim it not even after we’re married. It’ll always be my money, won’t it, Veronica? I might understand Keith’s reasoning, if I squinted really hard. I’m not a good bet given my history, but the fact is, I’ve changed. He’s accepted me, he’s embraced me, dare I hope, as a son. But he still refuses to use my money, because it’s mine, and I’m the last descendant of Aaron Echolls, a stark reminder of the man that almost killed both of you.”

No, it has nothing to do with who he is or was and it has nothing to do with Aaron. How can he even contemplate such thoughts? He’s nothing like Aaron. And Dad has accepted him as a son, he’s told me so, I’ve seen it, experienced it. How can he—

“I hoped you might change his mind eventually,” Logan continues, fists clenched at his sides. “But now I see you’re on the same wavelength as him. As always.” He shakes his head. “No matter what I do, I’ll never be good enough, will I? I’ll always be tainted. My money will always be tainted.” He grabs Pony’s leash from the hook by the door and the dog scrambles to him, tail wagging in blissful unawareness. “I’m taking Pony for a walk, I need some air anyway.”

He walks through the door without a backward glance, leaving me staring at the closed door with burning eyes and a breaking heart. Not for me, but for him. Because I hurt him. Both Dad and I hurt him again and again by refusing his help, his money. I drop my head in my hands and let the tears come, because I’m the true bad guy here. I’m the one who’s known him for over twenty years, the one who knows him best, and the one who can hurt him most, the one who is hurting him the most by pushing him away, turning down his help, when I know best of all that he only wants to help and protect those he consider his and that there are so few of us left in this category.

For once, the two voices in my head, the adult and the bitchy teenager, are in utter accord.

You’re petty. You’re proud. You’re afraid. What can you possibly be afraid of? The boy loves you, God only knows why, and you two have laid each other bare for the other too many times to count. So what are you afraid of? Why are you so petty and proud? Why are you so fucking stubborn? He just wants to share what is his with those he considers his. So what is your problem?

I wish I knew.

Cut the crap. You know what your problem is, you’re just too stubborn, proud and afraid to admit it to yourself, to tell him. That’s why you two always end up fighting about the same damn thing.

Yet this wasn’t like our usual fights, when we turn to banter, and then end it with a smile and a kiss before the squabble even begins, like the night of our engagement. Or when we scream at each other and then end up on the floor or against the wall, sweaty, panting, and still half-dressed. Which is a perfect recipe for never going to bed angry.

But the argument is never resolved, is it? You just use humor and sex to push it away, until it rears its ugly head. Sooner or later it had to come to this, don’t you think? Sooner or later something had to give, you just never expected it to be your relationship.

I lift my head in shock at the thought. Our relationship is stronger than this. This is just a minor hurdle.

Is it?

The insidious whisper of two voices, who usually have opposite opinions, sounding in unison makes me nauseous. Sure, this communicating business between me and Logan is hard, but all worthy things are, and we make it work.

Do you? Then why did he walk out thinking you don’t really love him, believing you think less of him, consider him less worthy because of his money? Do you think he’d done it, if he knew the real reason behind your stubbornness in refusing in not convincing Keith in accepting his help?

No, he wouldn’t. And if I did, he’d come after me. So what am I still doing here, crying and talking to myself when the man I need to talk to is out there thinking I don’t really want him.

Silly, silly man.

I brush away my tears, square my shoulders and prepare to eat some humble pie.



It’s not a question of turning left or right at the bottom of the stairs, there’s only one place I’ll find Logan. The beach.

It takes a while for my eyes to adjust to the dark, once I leave the comforting glow of the lights illuminating the boardwalk, but once they do, I easily spot the lone, tall figure silhouetted slightly against the sky, staring at the sea with his hands in his pockets, and the dog faithfully sitting by his side.

I see his shoulders stiffen when I approach. “Shouldn’t you be at your dad’s by now, cursing my name?” he asks.

I wince. Dad and I have an unhealthy co-dependence, I freely admit it, and we’ve both been trying to shake it, and rather succeeding, but this is the first time Logan has thrown it into my face. He has all the right and if I weren’t fully in the wrong here, I’d probably be at Dad’s venting at Logan’s behavior. But this is between Logan and me. This is fully my fault and I have to fix it. Somehow.

“You didn’t really let me talk before—”

“Veronica.” His tone is resigned. “I need to be alone. I want to be alone. Please, just go. We’ll talk in the morning.”

He doesn’t sound convincing and my heart constricts. Could it really be too late? No, I refuse it to be.

“No, we won’t,” I tell him. “We’ll just pretend everything is fine, as we’ve done so many times after this argument.” Only this time it was worse. It would be worse. “We need to talk about it.”

He shakes his head, still staring at the sea, away from me. “We have talked. We’ve been talking about it for five years. The joke’s on me for hoping your stance might change.” He turns, again away from me, and whistles to Pony who, with a look that would be judgmental coming from a human, quickly follows.

Serves me right, really, in now being unable to get through to him, while I shoved him away so many times before. But I’m nothing if not stubborn, and I’m too afraid to lose him, too afraid that I’ve just lost the best thing that ever happened to be, to let it go for now and leave it for the morning. He might not be there in the morning.

“Wait!” I rush after man and dog. “You got it all wrong.”

His turn is so sudden, a dichotomy to his previous slow, almost languid movements, that I slam into his chest, but he quickly steps back as if unwilling to let me touch him. “Wrong? Pray, tell me where I got it wrong, Ronnie.”

The snarled nickname transports me back to junior year in high school and I swallow. Gone is the sanded down version of angry Logan from before, the leash has snapped. But I’m still not afraid of him, despite the notorious volatility and unpredictability associated with his current emotional state. I’m actually more comfortable with dealing with him now, this Logan is familiar. I prefer the waves of his anger, the shaking of his voice to the blank expression and monotonous delivery from before.

“It’s not you, it’s me.”

He rolls his eyes. “Really, you’re going with the cliché?”

“Listen to me!” I place both palms on his chest and give him a shove, wanting to follow it with a punch to the gut, since he barely sways. “I never thought of you as less, okay?! Or tainted or whatever crap you said before. And I don’t really care about you changing, because there was nothing wrong with you in the first place, no matter what I said in senior year. And the only claim Aaron has on you is your last name. I never see him when I look at you, I never think of him and what he did when I look at you. You’re his complete opposite in every single way and the only one drawing comparisons and having hang-ups about your connection to him is you. And I know Dad feels the same, he might not tell you, we Marses are silent types, but it shows and if you can’t see it you’re blind.” I’m feeling lightheaded and out of breath, but I know I have to get this out, before I lose him. “The problem is the money. Not where it came from, I don’t really care who left you the trust fund or how they got it. It’s the money, okay!”

He glares at me. “I know it’s the money. Weren’t you there when I told you so before?”

“You got that wrong as well,” I snap.

“Cut the crap, Veronica.”

I give him another shove. “No, you cut it and listen. I don’t want—”

“My money,” he snaps. “Yeah, you made that plain.”

My eyes burn with unshed tears of frustration. “Why won’t you let me finish?” My voice trembles and I hate it.

He cocks his head, he must’ve realized how close the meltdown is, but instead of taking me into his arms, like he usually does, he crosses them over his chest. “Finish, then.”

“I—” My voice breaks. Great, now I have performance anxiety. “I don’t want you to think I’m with you because of your money,” I say in a near whisper. There it is. The bare-bone truth coupled with a generous heaping of embarrassment for having admitted it.

He reels back in shock. “What?” he breathes.

I shrug, staring down at where I’m twisting my bare foot into the sand, hugging my arms around my midriff. “I don’t want you to think I’m with you because you’re rich,” I repeat louder.

“I never did.”

I shrug again as I fight tears and try to swallow past the gigantic lump in my throat. He might not have thought it, but I know other people have. I saw the stares in high school and the first year of college, I sometimes still see them when we happen to be in old 09er circles. It isn’t often, since he has even less in common with them nowadays than I do, but still, the judgment and smugness chafe.

“I never did, Veronica,” he repeats.

The bewilderment and the hurt that I might not believe him in his voice break me. I take the two steps to bridge the distance between us and lean my forehead against his chest, sobbing. “I know,” I whisper and it turns into a sigh, when his arms come around me, warm and comforting.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me this before?”

I’m still hugging myself, wishing beyond anything to be able to circle his waist with my arms and hold on, but this is my penance. “Because it’s stupid. And childish. And it makes me feel like I’m back in high school between the have-nots.”

“Why do you care what others think?” he whispers. He takes my shoulders and pushes me away, so he can look at me, tucks a finger under my chin to make me look at him. “You’re Veronica Mars, you should be impervious to outside influence and misconceptions.”

I sniff and wipe one hand under my nose, drinking in his slight smile, his clear eyes. There’s still hurt there, but it’s lessened.

“Have you ever considered all those that make you feel insecure, that make you feel like they’re looking down on you for being a gold digger, just might be jealous of you?”

I sniff again. What is he talking about?

“You’re a successful PI who was featured in Vanity Fair. You’re a lawyer with a psychology degree. You charge exorbitant amounts of money to your rich clients so you can help those in need and you have a pretty clear picture of what you want in life,” He shrugs. “Those in my former circles, who even Dick isn’t overly keen to hang out with anymore, might I add, don’t have a clue, they never did. They only know how to spend and exploit, without any idea how to provide for themselves or how to help others.” He taps a finger on my nose. “You, my dear, intimidate them and the only weapon they have against you, apparently, is your insecurity. Which is adorable, by the way, but entirely misplaced and stupid.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?”

“Apparently you do. So will you stop being stupid?”

I merely look at him. If it is about the money issue, I just might, but if it’s a question of a more broader nature, he should know that no one can just stop being stupid.

“Money is a non-issue, Veronica,” he says. “As I said before, it’s there for emergencies and for family. It’s obvious Keith’s current doctor isn’t cutting it anymore, he needs to see a specialist, we both know that. And he has to fix that hip, if it’s not too late already. It’s been going on too long.”

I nod. “Yeah.”

“So?” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Shall we dispense with the bull and the Mars pride?”

“I’ll talk to him first thing in the morning.”

His smile lights up his entire face. “That’s all I ask.”

I dare place my palms on his sides. “Are we good?” I ask softly.

He nods. “We’re good. But you need to talk to me, Veronica. We need to talk to each other about things like that.”

I hum. As Jane keeps hammering home, communication is key. This fight is only proof of it. “I’ll try, but as I told you before, we Marses are silent types.”

He kisses my forehead. “Let’s start with try and see where it takes us.”

I finally circle his waist with my hands, tuck my head beneath his chin and smile as his arms come around me as he hugs me tight. It feels so good, I might start crying all over again.

“Logan?”

“Hmmm?”

“You know how you said people are jealous of me?”

“Yeah?”

“Well,” I say smuggly. “You forgot the most important item on their to-be-jealous-of-Veronica list.”

“And what is that?”

I lift my head and grin up at him. “You.”

His eyes are dancing with laughter. “Why, thank you, darling.”

“You’re welcome.” I turn serious. “I love you. You can take that as an absolute. No matter what I say or do, that might make you doubt that, don’t. I love you, Logan Echolls. No matter your financial status or family ties and history. I. Love. You.”

“I love you, too.” There are tears in his eyes as he leans down for an overdue kiss.

It starts deep and languid, but quickly turns into heat and frantic need as teeth clash and tongues dance and we’re trying to get to as much skin as possible, forgetting we’re on a public beach, albeit in the dark of night.

It’s Pony that brings us to our senses—barely. Our loving dog, obviously overjoyed by his parents’ reconciliation, decides he wants in on the action and wiggles, an almost impossible feat, between us, barking, licking, and whining, so we have no choice but to break the kiss so Logan can tell him to stop before all three of us end up in the sand.

Then, jaw set in a determined line and without a word, my Navy boy throws me over his shoulder and carts me home, his long legs eating up the yards to our apartment, where Pony once more throws a sulk-fest as we indulge in a long and sweaty session of make-up sex on every possible surface, and discover that Logan’s faux-paella, even stone-cold, is surprisingly good.