Chapter Text
(Make A Wish At) 11:11
Plus one song unavailable on Spotify
Know that old song, the one that goes, “Do you believe in magic?”
Lilly Kane would shout yes as we drove down the 101 every single summer on my family’s annual vacation. She yelled it because she meant it. Lilly Kane believed in magic. Not the rabbit out of a hat kind—that, she could see through in a heartbeat. Lilly believed that with enough intention (and maybe a candle burning), the impossible was anything but. That black cats were acquainted with the witchy side of life, and shouldn’t be crossed. That carrying a piece of red jasper in the bottom of her purse was good protection, and carrying pyrite would keep her bank account full.
Most of all, Lilly believed in fortune and fate. “The future is written, Veronica Mars,” she would insist as she dragged me across the pier in my cotton dress. “And we are going to sneak a peek at the next page.”
Horoscopes. Tarot card readings. Psychics. Lilly loved them all, whether they were total liars, or “the real freaking deal”. But her favourite tradition, her prized ritual, was the Friday afternoon visit to the boardwalk.
“We have to see how the weekend will turn out! Don’t you want to be prepared?”
I did, but I also knew how easy it was to retroactively fit events to a tiny blue card with a generic message. Not that I would dare speak this aloud. Lilly would never hear of it, and it was harmless fun, right? Slip a dollar bill into a slot, be amused, and walk away laughing, arm in arm.
For all of the peeks she sneaked at the book of destiny, I wonder why she never saw death coming... or at least gave me a chance to say goodbye.
A midterm. I turned down an evening with my best friend, the person I’d known since I was five, because I simply had to study three whole days for a midterm. Yeah, it was my Juvenile Delinquency course with the professor that was kicking my ass, but Lilly had just been dumped by that bitch Shawna, and she was itching to go out and forget her broken heart. Without me to steer her from shenanigans, she’d ended up at a frat house and from there, in a car with a drunk driver, headed to a club popular with Stanford students for its lax ID policy.
They’d blown a red light, the police told the Kanes. The car struck Lilly’s door, crushing it against her body. She’d made it to the hospital, but only just. The driver lived, and thanks to rich parents, he was getting probation for killing my best friend.
My hands shudder as I turn the steering wheel sharply for my exit. When I’m a prosecutor, I will be ruthless with assholes like him. They will pay for the lights they snuff out so selfishly.
Lilly believed in magic, but it couldn’t save her that night. I wonder if she thought it was her fate to die young and beautiful, a tragic end at twenty.
What wishes did she never see come true?
I tap my hand idly on the wheel at a red light, remembering late-night conversations sprawled on Lilly’s canopy bed. Kids. Lilly wanted at least two, preferably twins. Marriage wasn’t mandatory. Spain. Lilly was obsessed with Spain. We were supposed to go there this summer. Instead, I’m back in Neptune, popping pills to treat my panic attacks and depression, and struggling to make sense of a world where the dynamic duo is a sad solo.
As the boardwalk looms into view, I sigh in relief. At least some things haven’t changed. Same Ferris wheel with its rainbow cars. Same cluster of shops. Same mini-rollercoaster. I’m not here for any of that.
It’s Friday afternoon and I’m here to honour a promise made at a grave.
Lilly believed in fortune. I believed in us, in our rituals. They were our secrets, our joys. If she were here, we would be pulling into this parking lot, giggling and picking out what ice cream to eat after our special errand.
I cut the engine on the Le Baron and slip out of the driver’s seat, smoothing my wrinkled tank top. The din of the summer crowd is strangely comforting, dragging me back in time, to summers past.
“Veronica, come on! We’re going to be late for Carrie’s party!”
“We wouldn’t be running late if we hadn’t driven half an hour out of town to the boardwalk.”
Lilly halts, her hands on her hips. “Are you seriously suggesting we attend the biggest party of the summer without consulting Madame Z?”
“How much mystical advice do we need to drink a few beers, dance and not kiss any losers like Tad?” I scoff.
“Says the girl who dated Donut for three years.”
“He’s your brother!”
“Ugh, exactly. You spent your whole life around him, too. You should have known he was a total snooze.” Lilly skips ahead, her blonde waves fluttering in the summer breeze. “Madame Z, save us from the most terrible of the Tritons!”
I’m surprised to find it at the end of the eastern pier, right where it’s stood since we were ten: Madame Zelda. The ornate silver box housing the somewhat goofy, stereotypical fortune teller animatronic. Her piercing blue eyes contrast sharply with her jet-black curls, her half-torso clad in a ruby dress dotted with gold threading. Before her, a fake crystal orb pulses with a pale blue light.
I promised Lilly I would try to believe in magic. That I would never, ever forget her. The sight of the hokey fortune teller machine tugs a tear from my left eye and I quickly brush it aside.
I miss you, Lilly. So damn much.
I wouldn’t think of myself as a follower. Maybe when I was a little girl, captivated by Lilly’s confidence and carefree pursuit of adventure, I was more her shadow than her equal. But Lilly was a sister, someone who built me up, nurtured the woman I grew to be. She let me lead as much as I linked arms and ran alongside her.
Without her light, her fierce conviction and the way she simply understood what I needed before I knew I needed it… I’ve been lost. I pick up my phone to call her about tests and TV shows. I scroll Instagram for an hour, confused by the lack of filtered selfies and sarcastic memes.
Until it hits me, like a RAV 4 ramming into my ribs, and I gasp for air, drowning in the open. A fish plucked from its tank.
A part of me hopes, as I jam a dollar into the slot of Madame Zelda’s humming machine, that I will be found. That Lilly was right all along, and the book of destiny will flash a page for me. Give me a direction, a sign. Anchor me before I’m hopelessly adrift.
The looping message urging passersby to come closer and learn the secrets of life shifts to that familiar jangling melody. Lilly and I described it as a wind chime sample from a cheap keyboard. Madame Zelda’s eyes are shimmering sapphires as her rigid peach hands slowly wave over the orb before her.
“Welcome! Wisdom awaits you,” a husky woman’s voice announces in a terrible accent that I’ve never been able to quite identify. “The spirits are speaking to me… Oh yes, I see it all now. And now, you will see it too. Heed them well.”
It’s cheesy. The voice speaker is tinny, and the jerky motions of Zelda’s head usually make me giggle. Today… I want to weep. Lilly isn’t here, and she fucking should be. She should be laughing at Zelda’s giant hoop earrings, and how the silver is worn off in just one spot, as if some technician has worried the imitation silver over the years with his thumb. When we were seventeen, Lilly made up a whole romance between Antonio the technician and Zelda, waxing poetic about their forbidden love and his plans to steal the machine until my ribs ached from laughter.
But Lilly isn’t here. She never will be again. It’s just me, and it’s so unfair.
“The stars are aligning,” Zelda announces as the crystal ball gleams a brilliant blue. “Ah! Your future is clear now. It’s in the cards.”
A gear grinds and shifts inside the silver housing. A familiar sound. Reflexively, I reach towards the slot where Madame Zelda will eject her pearl of wisdom. My fingers seize it as the machine whirs and delivers on its promise: a small piece of pale blue cardstock, branded with Zelda’s visage on one side. On the other, a fortune and a series of numbers deemed “lucky” awaits.
The thought of reading it sucks the air from my lungs. We always read each other’s fortunes aloud, playing psychic. Lilly would be theatrical, arms swooping, alternately excited or foreboding. I would offer hers up in a soft, conspiratorial hush, as if unfurling the secrets of the universe just for my dearest friend. Lilly loved it.
I pocket the card and grab a scoop of Heavenly Hash from the ice cream stand—Lilly’s favourite—and return to my car.
I start with the ice cream, its cool comfort and decadence a salve to my weary heart. The speakers softly play a song that reminds me of Lilly, as I watch people bustling between the brimming lot and the boardwalk. The sun will be setting soon. I smile wanly, thinking of Lilly in a panic.
“The night is here, Veronica Mars! We must shine, like stars!”
Gingerly, I slip the card from my pocket and draw a steadying breath. A promise is a promise. I let Lilly down that night. I won’t do it now.
“Alright, Zelda. What does the weekend hold?”
I read the card twice, intrigued by its message.
THE STARS HAVE ALIGNED…
We all like comfort, but you may be too comfortable. Are you staying to routines that keep you from new challenges or excitement? Are you afraid to seek out adventure? Are you hiding behind a mask so no one sees your true nature? Madame Zelda sees you stuck in quicksand. You are not as comfortable as you think.
The solution to what bothers you is to break routine. Try things you would not try. Go where you don’t belong. What you seek lies where you would never be. Find it, and find the key.
Lucky Numbers: 08, 11, 15, 34, 45
“And what’s wrong with being comfortable?” I grumble, jamming the card in my pocket and starting the car.
So what if I spent most of my time studying and working until the semester ended? Why did it matter if I came home last week and parked my butt on Dad’s couch with Netflix and freshly-baked snickerdoodles? My best friend of fifteen years is dead. Grieving is a thing, Madame Z.
“What’s the point of life if you’re not going to LIVE it, Veronica?”
“I’m trying, Lilly,” I argue with the ghost in my passenger seat.
“Try harder, okay? I worry about you, babe.”
“What, that I’ll die of diabetes eating too much Tiramisu from Mama Leone’s?”
If I steal a glance in my periphery, she’ll be there: smiling, blonde hair flowing to her shoulders. My depressive hallucination. I’ll crash my car if I do, so I keep my attention on the freeway.
“You can’t cry for me forever. Well, you can, because I’m fucking fabulous, but I don’t want you to. You have to know that.”
“I know, Lil. I just miss you. I don’t know how to… We had plans, and they’re all just gone.” I swipe furiously at my tears, signalling a lane change. “You’re not supposed to be gone.”
“Or I am. Destiny, Veronica Mars. And you don’t know when your time is up, so stop wasting precious minutes. Make new plans, for me?”
“I’ll try.”
“You’ll fucking succeed, or I’ll shove my heel in your ass and make you. And Veronica?”
My eyes drift to the seat and she’s there, just as she was on the day she died: pale pink blouse, cropped black pants, and undeniably beautiful.
“Wear the red one.”
The red what? I want to ask her, but she’s disappeared into the ether of my memory, the seat empty once more. My therapist insists I conjure her up like a personal pep talk, a way to derive the same comfort and sisterly advice Lilly gave me. I usually suggest we call a medium.
“It will be Lilly’s dream come true. Let’s get a pottery wheel, too,” I quipped last week.
It’s a joke, of course: if she’s really haunting me, I don’t want Lilly to go.
My dad is mercifully not home tonight as I pull into his driveway. A text about a bail jumper in San Francisco assures me a few hours of peace, maybe an overnight. I reheat leftover lasagna and lean against the kitchen island with a sigh. I love my dad, but his constant hovering and comments about the ten pounds I’ve lost aren’t helping me.
I just need time and space. Lilly would understand that.
Sitting at the kitchen island, I spear forkfuls of cheesy pasta into my mouth while absently scrolling through my social media feeds. Friends from Stanford having fun summer outings. High school friends like Wallace hanging out and shooting hoops with old teammates. I make a mental note to make an effort and call him this weekend, and switch to Instagram. Puppy photos from Jenny, a girl in my program. More photos of people having more fun than me—well, debatable, I suppose. Dad’s lasagna is the best in the world.
I almost miss the fine print on the post from VYOLET, but freeze, shifting the image back into the centre of the screen. They’re Lilly’s favourite band—were, I sadly amend, staring at the raven-haired beauty on the poster for a charity event. One word glows neon as my breath hitches.
Neptune.
“They’ve never played here,” I murmur.
Los Angeles is the closest the band’s ever been to our town. We drove out for both shows, at Lilly’s insistence. VYOLET’s singer is incredible, with a soaring voice that tugs on your heart and synth-pop melodies you want to dance to all night. I listen to them a lot these days, thinking of how Lilly would twirl in my dorm and sing at the top of her lungs.
I scan the caption, my eyes widening. They’re playing tonight at a fundraiser gala at the Grand. It’s an event for a children’s hospital, which is great. The lack of tickets for the average peasants like me, however, is not so great.
The irony of an event where Lilly would have access as the heiress to a software fortune, and for her to not be here… it’s not lost on me. I briefly consider asking her brother Duncan to smuggle me in, but wince at the memory of how he’d talked through the Florence + The Machine concert we’d seen while dating.
Go where you don’t belong.
The fortune in my pocket whispers in my mind, and I drop my fork. No way… It’s a novelty machine. It’s generic. As usual, I am retrofitting the bizarre situation to fit the fortune, just like Lilly would.
It didn’t mean it was a bad idea. It just meant I’d have to break a promise to my dad from senior year—specifically, the one about not using my powers for evil.
Being the child of a private eye imparts certain knowledge. Take, for example, the knowledge for producing false credentials for a reporter from an obscure publication impossible to verify on the spot. Add in a fake voicemail on one of ten phone lines reserved for work purposes, and place a call to the Grand. A fake name wouldn’t work, but my years of reporting for the Neptune Navigator are about to pay off.
And if not? There’s a way in through the loading dock that I may have used for a case in high school.
A quick shower and my pathetically limp hair in large rollers later, I study my closet in search of an outfit that suggests charity gala but also hipster entertainment reporter from Stanford. My loathing of formal events and dresses—a sleuth needs pockets—means my options are rather slim, but there are a few contenders. I ignore a princess gown from a prom of the past, gag at a yellow blouse Lilly would be furious to discover I still own, and contemplate a classic black dress with lace accents and a flared skirt. The right accessories, and it glams up well. Can’t go wrong.
Wait… what’s that?
Pushing a blazer aside, my jaw falls slack at the sight of a dress that I’d forgotten. The dress I almost wore for senior graduation, then chickened out on in favour of… my little black dress. The red satin straps gleam as I pull it into the light, the tag from the boutique still intact. I wince at the price, unsettled by how much a simple garment can cost.
It had been a gift from Lilly.
“Veronica, this is you! Red satin, begging to get out and be free.”
High School Me was still shy, still unsure of my place in a school where my social cache was inextricably tied to Lilly’s birthright. In Stanford, I had come into my own. The playing field levelled, and my grades afforded me my own stature, and a sense of ease I’d never felt in Neptune.
I run my fingers along the thick straps that curve into a deep plunging cleavage, boosted by an empire waist. The flared skirt hits my knees, and will let me dance and sway—or run from security, should I need to get… evasive.
“Wear the red one.”
I hold it up to the mirror, smiling to myself. It is a gorgeous dress, and definitely a perfect mix of gala event and music insider. With the right jewellery, it will be beautiful.
“Okay, I’m wearing it!”
I swear I hear Lilly’s laughter on the summer breeze drifting in from my open bedroom window.
I check into the media desk with scarcely any scrutiny, thanks to a keen observation: shift change. Noticing a probable intern slipping into the chair after frantic directions from a polished woman in an elegant blue dress, I confidently stride up to the desk and wait to be greeted, eyeing him with a mixture of boredom and knowing pity.
“Oh, um hi. Can I help you?”
“Picking up my media creds,” I reply coolly. “Veronica Mars, Stanford Review.”
“Sure. One second…” The intern flips through a three-page list, running his fingers down it and frowning. “I’m sorry, you said Veronica, right?”
“Mmhmm. Petra and I spoke this afternoon. VYOLET’s singer is a Stanford alumnus, so we asked to cover her and she graciously consented.”
A lie, but plausible. The name drop and late addition should sell me. I shift my weight onto one hip and scroll through my phone, seemingly unfazed as he continues to shuffle pages. His blonde hair flops over his eyes as he is increasingly frazzled.
“Do you have your confirmation, or was it verbal?”
Jackpot. I’ve mocked up an email, courtesy of an old case for the Grand years ago. I flash it for him on my phone with a half-smile.
“These events are chaos. Lists are always a mess, right?”
“They are!” he agrees in a frustrated hush. “And Lina seems to think it’s my fault that there’s not enough vegetarian appetizers when catering was Nicole’s responsibility.”
He jots my name down on the reverse of a guest list, adding Petra’s name beside it. A lanyard is handed over, along with an elegant ticket on gold cardstock, embossed with bright blue writing.
“You’ll give the ticket to the door staff when you head to the main ballroom to our right,” he explains politely. “The lanyard will permit you access for an interview with VYOLET in the Green Room after the set for five minutes, and grant you priority access to the front of stage for photos. It will also let you take video for one song.”
I nod as if these are perks I’m accustomed to and wrap the lanyard around the strap of my bag. “Thank you. Hopefully your night gets better.”
I move away from the desk and down the Grand’s newly-refurbished marble floor towards the ballroom, pausing to check my reflection in a mirror on the wall. My normally limp hair is brimming with large, looping curls that gently frame my face; my makeup is simple, but gives my eyes that bit of drama Lilly always insisted on; and the dress… Well, bless the band beneath my breasts for keeping them from flying out of this extreme V cut.
What were you thinking, Lilly? I barely have anything to hold this dress up!
And yet… it somehow works. What I do have is lifted a little, and I feel… sort of sexy? The swish of satin around my thighs as I walk is a powerful drug. I wish I’d worn this to graduation now, made every guy who called me Vanilla Veronica sorry.
I hand my ticket to the door staff, watching as they stamp the reverse and return it. I tuck the souvenir inside of my silver handbag and enter the ballroom, drinking in the scenery.
Well, the elite certainly know how to throw a gala.
The dim lighting evokes a feel of a patio party underneath a full moon: cool light in shades of blue, spotlights of white offering clustered corners of conversation, and tables brimming with partiers clutching champagne. Two bars are furiously serving long lines of patrons in the east and west. To my immediate right as I enter is a photo booth with a giant tree wrapped in twinkle lights, its faux trunk emblazoned with the logos of, I presume, the sponsors who’ve coughed up the most coin.
At the farthest corner of the ballroom sits a stage with a modest dancefloor before it. The backdrop: a giant moon, realistically sculpted with tiny craters and imperfections.
A program I find in a stand at the tree informs me VYOLET will be on in half an hour—plenty of time to grab a drink, I decide, and I do. My fake ID passes muster, not that the bartender seems to scrutinize it. I sip my champagne as I weave towards the stage, nabbing a cheese puff off a tray as I study the crowd. Most of them are the parents of my rich classmates—I see Richard Casablancas and his latest trophy wife, and the Gants—but few of their children.
A burst of boisterous chatter from an open patio door soon explains why: the youth have revolted and retreated poolside. As the event hostess takes to the microphone to introduce VYOLET’s set, a group of fifteen familiar faces stagger inside, jostling and laughing with drinks in tow. Several of them halt at the sight of me, their faces frozen in a mixture of surprise and sympathy.
Understandable. It’s the first time they’ve seen me since the funeral.
I flash a smile and wave quickly, my attention focused on stage as the lights dim. The bass begins to thrum and the moon pulses with light. It evokes the image of Madame Zelda’s crystal ball and I shake my head, willing it away.
Get a grip, Veronica!
Elyssa, the voice of VYOLET, steps to the microphone and the crowd applauds politely. With a toss of her long, black waves, she raises her arm and signals the beginning of the first song, one I know well. It was their first single, and the song that Lilly discovered them by. I edge closer to the stage, swaying to the melody as Elyssa begins to sing.
“I
Falling, I-I grit my teeth under the weight
See
I got my back up against the wall
It's got to break
Walking through the fight
Oh, living, living's never easy…”
“Veronica! I didn’t expect to see you here.”
I glance over at Carrie Bishop and flash my lanyard. “Covering the set for the Review.”
I feel my pulse racing, in that wonderful way. That vibrant, thrumming way when worry releases me and I am free. Lilly is here, in this room where I don’t belong. What I’ve been looking for is where I don’t belong—just like Madame Zelda predicted. Maybe it’s a stretch. Maybe it’s desperation. In this moment, as Elyssa’s voice soars, I only know that for the first time in months, I feel alive.
I cling to the feeling, my body surrendering to sound. I sway and spin, moving to melody. At some point, Casey Gant tries to dance with me, but I brush him off. I’m not here for any of them. They haven’t reached out in months. I’m more than happy to dance alone.
Every note reverberates in my ribcage, every song evokes applause far beyond the delicate golf claps of the wealthy patrons around me. Elyssa notices, grinning in my direction as she crouches down and belts the chorus of her newest song right to me as I film it. She plays to my phone’s camera, making sure I have the best footage of the night.
“And I can see through this raging storm
My head is heavy, but this heart’s still warm
Oh my love, these are diamonds in our hands, so be gentle…”
I applaud wildly after ending my video, bumping into a man who’s slipped into the crowd beside me. I apologize softly, but he waves it off.
“It’s a concert. You’re acting like it,” he observes quietly. “I find it refreshing.”
I steal a glance at him, noticing the white dress shirt with its top button open, the loosened bow tie, the chestnut eyes studying me intently as his lips curve into a crooked smile. “Is no one else acting like it?”
“No. I was, back at the bar. Came to the party section. You don’t mind a little company, do you?”
I’m not sure whether to be mortified that I’m sticking out in a crowd, or be happy that an attractive guy noticed and came over because of it. I shrug shyly as Elyssa announces the next song is their last. The soft melody suckers me in the gut, the opening lyrics reminding me why I hit skip on this track: the image of a couple as a car crash is too much to bear. I breathe in deep, push it aside and dance.
Let it go, I tell myself. Let it out.
Gorgeous stranger is swaying beside me, listening intently to the band. Madison Sinclair approaches him, touching his arm, and he shrugs her off, holding up a hand and gesturing to the band. I fight off the urge to laugh. She’s never been nice to me, and I can’t say it makes me sad to see her unhappy. I like mystery guy already.
I sing along with the chorus, thinking of nights driving with Lilly along the PCH. This was one of her favourites by the band.
“Tell me this isn’t the story of my whole romantic history! Bad boys and girls, breaking my heart in two.”
And yet, Lilly fell hard, each and every time.
“You could never rescue me, but you’re the only one who’s worth the glamour and danger,” Elyssa belts, her voice filling the ballroom.
I cheer loudly and my new concert buddy joins in, whistling and clapping. We’re by far the most enthusiastic and Elyssa rewards us with guitar picks before leaving. In need of water, I scan both bars as the lights come up, debating which is my better option.
“You’re not one of the upper-crusty,” mystery guy declares.
“What gave me away?”
“Too emotive.”
I flash my lanyard and smirk. “Media. Although I went to school with that crowd,” I admit, jerking my head towards my former classmates.
He clucks his tongue sympathetically. “How was that?”
“Years of standing out like a sore thumb in the crowd as they whispered and stared, so… pretty much like tonight,” I reply. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find some ten dollar water.”
“I know where they keep the eight dollar water, if you’re interested.”
That little smirk of his… it’s not quite cocky, but not innocent, either. I’m intrigued—and parched. Screw it.
“My father said to never take water from strangers,”
“’There are no strangers here; only friends you haven't met.’ William Yates.” He bows, ever so slightly, and winks. “Logan.”
“Veronica.”
He gestures to a smaller bar, tucked away near the giant looming tree. “Everyone misses that one. Come on.”
I follow him through the bustling crowd, noticing how people nod and smile at him—and how he quickly nods and evades them. He must be someone important, I decide. So why is he paying attention to me? As the throng of people grows particularly tight, he turns to me, almost sheepishly, and reaches for my hand. I offer it up, too preoccupied with thirst to question the implications. If he can part the masses and find me a cold liquid, I’ll hop on his shoulders and accept a piggyback ride.
We reach the bar and find a line two rows deep. To my surprise, the bartender signals us to the end, ignoring the waiting crowd.
“Gin and Tonic,” he instructs the bartender, “two Lauquen Artes… anything to drink for you?”
“Champagne is fine,” I reply softly.
“You heard the lady. Finest you have. On the tab.”
“Yes, Mr. Echolls.”
My mind whirrs to life. Echolls… as in Aaron Echolls, action movie star, and Lynn Echolls, former model and actress? This explains the nodding—and Madison’s eager play for attention. It does not, however, explain his interest in me. Logan passes me the water first and I crack the bottle open, drinking greedily. He chuckles softly, taking a swig of his own before switching to his gin.
“This is really tasty for water. I hate admitting it, but it’s true.”
Logan grins, passing me my champagne flute. “Argentinian mineral water, extracted from beneath ground. Is it necessary? No. Do the rich want it?” He gestures broadly around the room.
“How much do I owe you?”
Logan shakes his head. “Veronica, no. It’s on me.”
“I can pay for my own drinks,” I insist, sipping my champagne. “Wow… This is incredible.”
“And it’s seventy dollars a glass.”
I nearly drop the delicate crystal flute. “Fuck off!”
“Like I said, it’s on me. You can pay me back by telling me more about the band. I’ve never heard them before tonight.”
“Really? They’ve had five top-ten singles.”
“I don’t listen to radio. Usually, people tell me to check out bands and I do.”
This champagne is the most delicate, smooth drink I’ve ever consumed, but I want it to last. I force myself to sip and savour it, knowing my bank account will not tolerate another round.
“Well, Logan, I’m telling you to listen to VYOLET.” Another sip, as I lean against a pillar. “Elyssa’s voice is incredible, and their songs are impossible not to move to. They write about love, loss, identity… something for every mood.” A gulp of champagne, and I hear myself purr, to my embarrassment. “So who do you listen to?”
Logan plants his hand on the pillar, staring into his drink. He throws out a few bands he enjoys—some mainstream, some more obscure. Half of them I don’t recognize, which he enjoys holding over me. He has a bit of a mischievous streak in him, I learn quickly: he likes to tease, but not to hurt. It’s to exasperate, to draw out a laugh. My champagne empties and another glass appears despite my protests. Logan leans closer, whispering in my ear.
“My father is paying. It’s fine.”
“Last one,” I insist as we head onto the patio. “I do have money.”
“I believe you. Consider this you helping me.”
“I’m helping you by spending your father’s money?”
Logan’s eyes darken as he stares out at the pool. “Yeah. It’s complicated but… yeah.”
“Okay.”
Impulsively, I lay a hand on his arm, sensing a need for comfort. He lowers his gaze, seemingly surprised by the gesture, but doesn’t protest. We stare out over the water, watching as Casey Gant, Dick Casablancas and Shelly Pomroy laugh at a gazebo nearby.
“So, how come you dodged the Neptune High reindeer games? Are you new in town?”
“Here for the summer. I grew up in LA.” Setting his glass down, Logan shifts to face me. “Hey, do you have anywhere to be?”
“Tonight? No, why?”
“Parties like this, they’re not… I feel like a show pony. But I want to talk to you. Would you want to come upstairs to my room?”
I take a step backwards, because as attractive as that strong jaw line is, and as captivated as I’m becoming by the way he stares at me while I speak, going to his room? Really? I’m 19 going on 30.
“Logan—“
“Look, I know how that sounds, but I promise, just talking. Unless you change our plans. My assistant Mac will be there.”
“Oh, another guy will be there?” I scoff.
“Mac’s a woman. Cindy MacKenzie. She prefers Mac. I’m in Neptune partly to work on a business project and she’s helping me with start-up work. I got a two-bedroom suite.”
His hands are in his pants pockets, and there’s something almost child-like about the way his dress shoe scuffs the pavement. Maybe he really means talk? My experience with guys these days consists of a loser puppy dog who won’t stop asking me out and college guys who think being able to do a keg stand is a turn-on for every girl.
What would Lilly do?
She would listen to Madame Zelda. I think of the powder blue cardstock and its advice: try things you would not try. I would never, ever consider hanging out with the son of celebrities—never dream I’d be interesting enough for an invite.
Alright, Madame Z. You want me to get uncomfortable? I’m in a dress that’s half-bandage, at a rich people gala on false ID, with the son of a movie star. Might as well see it through.
Besides, Logan seems… safe. Like Lilly. Not all trust fund kids are jerks. She was proof of it. Even Carrie Bishop is pretty decent.
“What’s your room number?”
“1508. Why?”
Pulling my phone from my purse, I begin sending what will be the most awkward text ever. “Because if I’m going to a hotel room with a guy I just met, no offense, I’m doing what my daddy taught me and checking in with a friend.”
“None taken.”
He means that, and it reassures me that my instincts about Logan are good. I still hit send on my text to Wallace.
Hey, Papa Bear. I owe you apologies and a catch up, maybe over lunch tomorrow? I need a trusted friend with check in duty. Headed to the Grand, room 1508 with Logan Echolls. Just in case I’m never seen again.
“Alright, lead the way.”
We make it to the fifteenth floor before my phone chimes. A reply from Wallace, despite the late hour. How is it 11:11 already?
Supafly! A catch up is mandatory, especially with that 411. You need a check in call?
I tap back a quick reply: Call at like one if you’re up, but not mandatory. You’re the greatest.
11:11. Lilly giggles in my ear.
“Make a wish, Veronica!”
I wish for this to be a good decision. A good way to end what has been a magical night, so far.
Logan swipes us into the corner suite and I take it in: the cool colour scheme, the fireplace (what?), the enormous sitting area, and the petite woman with blue hair tapping away on a laptop on the large couch. She glances up at our arrival, eyeing Logan with a smirk.
“Hello, boss. We have company?”
“Mac, this is Veronica, the only fun person at the entire gala. Veronica, this is Mac, the woman who will one day be as famous as Steve Jobs and Bill Gates.”
“More famous,” Mac replies playfully, setting her laptop aside and rising to greet them. “Nice to meet you, Veronica. Has Logan told you about our business collaboration?”
“Nothing specific.” Eyeing Mac’s designer jeans and sleeveless blouse, I am acutely aware of how bare my chest is in this damn dress. “Why didn’t you come down? You missed an amazing set.”
“I aspire to wealth, but loathe the wealthy. Logan livestreamed it for me. Speaking of, I’d like my camera back?”
“Right.”
Logan passes her a tiny device from his pocket and I laugh: it’s a high-end model of a device my dad uses in the field.
“You two, using classic PI gear around a PI’s daughter.”
Mac brightens, gushing over covert cameras and microphones for five minutes while Logan watches us with a mixture of wonder and bemusement. My sometimes-profession is news to him, and he’s clearly fascinated. He tosses out a probing question or two on covert cameras for security and I recommend a few models of choice, sensing as a celebrity’s son that he may have concerns of his own.
There are some advantages to being middle-class: no one cares what toothpaste I use.
Mac shifts to a desk in the corner of the sitting area as Logan reaches for a room service menu. “I’m hungry. Anyone else?”
“Veggie burger,” Mac replies without glancing up from her screen.
“Something sweet,” I decide. “Can I see?”
After a moment of deliberating—and Logan’s input—I settle on the white chocolate and raspberry truffles. A mini-bottle of champagne appears from the bar and is opened promptly. I accept a glass and drink slowly, eager for food to soak up the booze I’ve been packing away.
True to his word, Logan really does want to talk. Music, Neptune, Los Angeles… we veer wildly between topics, falling into a comfortable rhythm. I feel like I’ve known him forever, which is unsettling me since I find it hard to open up to anyone. There’s something about the way his gaze zeroes in on me, the slight lean in when I speak, that makes me feel known.
He’s also refreshingly candid for a man who surely grew up primed for paparazzi and prepared speeches. I introduced myself as media, but he doesn’t hesitate to insult his father’s last film. He admits to being an “asshole” in high school, but caveats that he was “going through a lot”.
“I don’t make excuses, Veronica. I just have reasons.”
I like that philosophy. It’s so different from Duncan, who would endlessly excuse his absenteeism as a boyfriend on his parents’ demands, and how hard it was to be the heir to a fortune, blah blah blah.
Room service arrives and we eat while taking turns playing DJ on Logan’s Spotify, an increasingly tipsy game of “no, you have to hear this one!” until Mac rolls her eyes and announces that we’re impossible to work around. I apologize, feeling my cheeks burn, but she smiles and waves it off.
“I should sleep anyway. It was nice meeting you, Veronica. Drop me a line. We can nerd out.”
“Absolutely.”
I like her. She has a good energy about her. I sense she’s someone who’s secretly the funniest one in the room when least expected.
“Your turn,” Logan nudges me.
“Oh! I have one.” I tap a few keys and hit search. “So, there was this guy I met last summer who was obsessed with me. I mean, obsessed. It was obnoxious. He made me mixes. Which can be romantic, but when you’re not interested, finding CDs on your car is just weird. Anyway, the only good thing was discovering cool artists like this one.”
The opening piano notes play and I smile. I love the singer’s voice. It’s sultry and soothing, like honey for my ears. Logan nods approvingly, reaching over to add it to his favourites.
“It’s a keeper.” Rising to his feet, he holds out his hand. “Let’s dance.”
I blink hard, unsure if my head’s spinning from the champagne or the ask. “What?”
“Come on. It’s a great song, and I know you can dance.”
Aww hell, there’s that crooked little half-smile, and I feel myself melt. He’s magnetic, and it’s not fair. I’ve never been drawn to someone like this. It’s so strange, but I surrender, offering him my hand. He pulls me up, brings me in close, but not too tightly. Just enough to be acutely aware of his left hand on my hip, and feel the heat radiating off his chest as we sway in a circle.
“Tomorrow, I will have no shame
I will start again, and make a wish
Tell me, have you ever felt alone like this?”
He gently twirls me out, extending his arm and reeling me back in. His playful grin melts me and I tuck my body closer.
“I don’t hear I’ve Had The Time Of My Life playing. Careful, I’ve had a lot of expensive champagne in these heels.”
“Moment of whimsy. Won’t happen again,” he promises solemnly.
“Or… warn me?”
He leans in closer, his forehead lowering to meet mine. “I feel like I could lift you. I’ve never done it, but I have actor DNA. How hard can it be?”
“Let’s stick to twirls, Astaire. It’s our first dance.”
“Implying there will be a second dance?”
I blush, realizing I’ve been caught. This is ridiculous. He’s the son of movie stars. He doesn’t even live in Neptune, let alone Stanford. Don’t get attached, Veronica.
“I don’t have anywhere to be yet. Pick another song.”
“Ahh, she deflects.” His hand slides in my hair and my breath hitches. “I’ll take it.”
I’ll take it, too. I’ll take whatever this night is offering, because something is happening. The air is charged, crackling between us. I feel like if I let go of him, if I lose his grounding force, I will be struck by unseen lightning. The song ends and Spotify shuffles off to a recommended track based on our night’s explorations. Neither of us move.
“Your turn,” I whisper.
“No,” he insists. “Your move.”
I don’t want to make a move. I barely make it through a day without crying. I want him to know what I need, like Lilly knew. And right now, I need him to kiss me until I can’t breathe. I have no words for this, no bravery. It doesn’t even make sense. We’ve just met! But like the concert, I feel alive in his arms, and I crave more of that. I need it.
“Veronica?”
It clicks: I know how to get what I need. I hold up a finger, leaning out of his arms to change the music. If I want to feel like I felt at the show, I need to hear what I heard. A few clicks and a playlist of VYOLET’s music is filling the room. I sigh happily, pressing up against Logan’s chest. I can hear his heart pounding within, steady and fast.
I like that I affect him, too.
His arms envelop me and we sway wordlessly to the song we met to, the one I captured on video. It’s a beautiful love song, one that speaks to how confused and unsettled I feel. Maybe he’ll understand. Maybe he’ll hear the words lodged in my throat—
Oh God. Logan’s head bows, and his lips are on my neck, and I’m done for. The lightest of kisses, the thought of one really. I gasp and grip the collar of his shirt, tilting my neck and offering it up to him. A soft growl rumbles in his throat as he kisses and nips, moving to my shoulder. I turn to watch him, mesmerized at how such light touches could have my knees shuddering and he catches me, captures my lips. It’s all been a gambit, and I’ve fallen for it.
I admire the strategy for three seconds, before sinking into the sinful delight of kissing Logan Echolls.
His lips are soft as they crash into mine and I immediately yield, parting mine and deepening the kiss with a sigh of relief. His grip on my hip tightens and I press closer. He is unhurried, exploring and teasing. My fingers splay through his short hair, toying with the ends and he matches me, wrapping my curls around his fingers and tugging me closer. My heart is a stampede, wild horses set free. I can’t remember a kiss ever feeling this damn good.
Which is probably why I unleash a string of obscenities when my phone begins to ring.
“Ignore it,” Logan murmurs huskily.
“I can’t, it’s my check-in,” I whine.
“Shit!”
I fumble for my purse in frustration, swiping to accept Wallace’s call. “Hey, I’m fine, I’m alive, I’m great and I really need to go.”
Wallace laughs on the other end. “Oh, DO YOU?”
“Goodnight, Wallace!”
I throw the offending device on the couch and grin sheepishly at Logan. “Um, sorry.”
“Good friends are important.” His eyes darken as he edges closer. “So, why did you need to go?”
Slipping my hands around his waist, I hook my fingers through the belt loops of his pants and tug him roughly against me. “Because I can’t talk and kiss you at the same time.”
Lilly was right: I am red satin. I am powerful, confident and gorgeous. I have captivated a man who makes me laugh and sets my body on fire. And I love it.
I pour myself into an Uber at four, Logan insisting on walking me downstairs. My lips are bee-stung swollen, my curls wild, my dress rumpled from straddling his lap in the world’s longest dry-humping session.
I couldn’t sleep with him. I had to draw a line, and Logan didn’t complain at all. Said I was right—he owed me a proper date at minimum first. Instead, we talked and kissed, sprawled in his bed as we threw out random hypotheticals and shared embarrassing high school stories. It was a different intimacy, a laying bare no less intimidating than peeling off my dress.
I gave him my number, but as the Uber pulled away, I almost regretted it. We would be going our separate ways in eight weeks and I was already feeling that pull in my chest. I was too attached, too quickly.
Maybe I should have just slept with him and never looked back.
I fidget with the gala ticket as the Uber carries me back to my dad’s house, tracing the embossed letters with a fingertip. I had definitely gone where I shouldn’t go tonight. But had I found what I was looking for?
My phone chimes in my purse and I swipe to read the text. It’s Logan and I grin despite myself.
You’ll never believe what’s on TV right now. Dirty Dancing. I’m studying up.
I’ve had a really good night. The kind of night Lilly would squeal over, call legendary and post about on social media. A night I used to have, before she was gone. I guess ol’ Madame Z was right, even if I’m retrofitting it.
I tap out a quick reply to Logan: I had a great time, and I owe it all to you.
The trouble is, as I stare out the window at the Coronado Bridge, what do I do next? I can’t spend my life crashing galas and flirting with rich guys. I have school, a summer job to find, and grief to process. One night is a reprieve, a welcome and needed one. Take off this dress and I’m still just Veronica Mars, depressed on her dad’s sofa.
That’s a tomorrow problem, I decide, pulling up the video from the show and posting it to Facebook. Tonight, I’m alive.
I’m on my porch when my phone chimes again. It’s Logan. I ignore it until I’m inside, teeth brushed and changed into my pajamas. My heart flutters as I read his words.
You looked beautiful out there. Goodnight, Veronica.
Tucking the gala invitation into the corner of my mirror alongside Madame Zelda’s fortune, I crawl under the covers. It was a good night, singular, with Logan Echolls. I had stepped out of my comfort zone, found a moment of happiness, and tomorrow would be the beginning of healing. I needed to shake off my stagnant grief and move forward, stronger than ever.
Unknown to me, the stars had only just begun to align…