Archive of Our Own

"Shooting into a clown's mouth . . . yeah, your future's bright, Dick." -Logan in 2.13 Ain't no Magic Mountain High Enough

"It was like looking into a crystal ball, and I didn't like what I saw . . . Me falling completely in love with him, losing all reason, ending up hosting candle parties and selling family heirlooms on eBay." -Mac in 3.18 I Know What You'll Do Next Summer

i.
It wasn't something she planned.

She wasn't sure she had any control over it whatsoever, actually. Perhaps it was her inexperience. That wasn't to say, of course, that she never drank. She kept wine chilled at all times, and she was never short on some of the stronger stuff, too. But that was in her New York apartment.

When she was in Neptune for the holidays, her only home was with her parents and little brother, and the comforts of New York City were a distant dream. In Neptune, she couldn't leave work at eight, settle into her apartment with leftover take out from her dinner with investors earlier that week and go over her work for the next day with a glass of something that put her to sleep. In Neptune, she was forced to endure her brother's talk of basketball and her mother's questions about why she couldn't settle down and wasn't Jerry such a nice man.

In Neptune, she was reminded why she left Neptune.

That was, then, the reason she found herself sitting at a stool in some seedy bar. Well, there was that and the bombshell that a seventeen-year-old girl had dropped in her lap two days earlier. Mac had already spoken to Veronica, had already had the news confirmed, and she couldn't deal with it, not in that stupid house surrounded by her well-meaning but ridiculously infuriating family.

Her last clear thought was that Dick Casablancas looked much the same as he had at Hearst: the same mop of blonde hair, the same arrogant smirk, the same purposefully ignorant, drunken gleam in his eyes. They had talked, she was sure; they had probably sniped. There was a vague recollection of "Dude, you're, like, hot now."

When she had woken up with a pounding head and found herself naked in his bed, she had felt only immense frustration at herself for not leaving the night before. It wasn't a habit of hers to sleep with strangers; in fact, she never had before that night. But she didn't much care.

She and Jerry were done for good, this only confirmed that, and she had bigger issues to deal with.

Issues like cancer.

ii.
It all started in a department store. It went like this:

Mac absent-mindedly tapped her foot to the department store music. Parker was still in the dressing room, trying on yet another dress. Mac had made the mistake of agreeing to go shopping with her old freshmen roommate on the first full day of her short stay in Neptune for the holidays, and it was the world's longest recorded shopping trip.

Parker had been ecstatic that Mac would be back in California for so long, and she had driven down from San Diego the same day Mac had flown in, all shouts of glee and hugs and laughter and "Ooh, you know what we should do? A girls' day out! It'll be so much fun, roomie!" Parker was only her roommate for freshmen year, after which the bubbly blonde transferred out East, but she still insisted on calling Mac her roomie.

"Mac?"

Mac glanced over at the sound of her name. The voice didn't belong to Veronica or Wallace, and there was really no one else Mac wanted to see in Neptune. Who would she have to brush off now? Maybe Parker would be done soon, and they could make a quick get away.

She didn't recognise the teenage girl standing beside a rack full of bright blue dress suits, but there was something eerily familiar about her dark brown hair, pulled back in a ponytail, and the timid expression in her pale face. "You don't know who I am, do you?" the girl asked.

"Sorry," Mac shook her head, giving an apologetic smile, "no."

"We've met before," the girl said. "It was a long time ago. I didn't know who you were, then. But you knew who I was, didn't you? That's why you came that day, and why you came back the next day."

Mac frowned. "I — I really don't know what you're talking about."

The girl straightened suddenly, as if she decided she would simply let it rip. "My name is Lauren," she said. "Lauren Sinclair." Mac's mind flashed back to the girl hidden in the library at Madison's birthday party, the girl who looked like her and liked to read like her and was her sister, but would never know, because Mac had been cosmically screwed over.

"Aren't you going to say something?" Lauren asked. She might be nervous. Mac was too floored to notice.

"Hi," Mac said, inadvertently breathless.

Lauren bit her lip. "Hi."

"You said — you know who I am?" Mac asked, swallowing thickly. Lauren nodded.

"You're my sister. My real sister." They stared at one another like that as seconds, minutes (could it be hours?) passed. Mac had long since put everything with the birth switch and the Sinclair family to bed. It was a life she should have had, sure, but that's not how it happened. If she could change the past, that's not the thing she would choose to change.

"How did you — how did you find out about me?" Mac asked. She had to ask something.

"I heard them talking about you," she answered. "My parents, I mean."

"Oh." That was simple enough; Lauren didn't need to have P.I. connections. She just overheard a conversation . . . and her whole life had changed. Mac wondered briefly what Lauren's relationship with Madison was like.

"I had to find you," Lauren said, and she took a step towards Mac. At the same moment, Mac suddenly heard Parker's voice, and by the tone of her voice and the way she gushed, Mac suspected her old friend to be on the phone with her fiancee. How would she explain Lauren to Parker? "I . . . it's all I've thought about for weeks, finding you. I still hadn't gotten the guts to go to your house, but I saw you in here and I — I could stop myself. I had to talk to you. I had to — for me. And for him. For him."

Mac didn't understand.

"Hey, there you are! I am so sorry I tots abandoned you like that, but as I was leaving the dressing room, my phone went off, and I haven't talked to Steve all day, and I — oh!" Parker exclaimed, pausing as her eyes landed on Lauren. Mac didn't glance at the blonde.

"Who's him?" she asked Lauren.

There was a sheen of tears in Lauren's eyes, and Mac realised that something had happened, that there was a specific reason her birth parents had been speaking of her, there was a reason her sister had sought her out — she should have known it would have to happen this way.

"My dad," Lauren whispered. "Our dad."

"What?" Parker asked, gasping. Nobody answered her.

"Is he —?" Mac began. She didn't have to finish. She already knew.

"He's sick. And he wants to see you."

iii.
Veronica was pregnant.

It seemed so unfathomable to Mac how Veronica had become who she was. She sat at the kitchen table in her little blue kitchen with its matching curtains and floor tiles, and her face was flushed and glowing pleasantly, her hair tossed up on her head and her stomach expanding under her shirt. She looked like she had the life every girl wanted to have when she was twelve years old.

Mac had never thought Veronica would have that life. It had never even occurred to her that Veronica would want that life. It certainly wasn't what Mac would get in life, and she didn't want it. She liked living by herself, liked the freedom it gave her. And Mac as a mother? Puh-lease.

But Mac smiled and nodded as Veronica told stories about the pregnancy while Logan added in his two cents now and then. She only came back to Neptune once a year, and she had to admit she would much rather spend a night eating dinner with Veronica than yet another night with her parents and brother.

Of course, this dinner was a little awkward, considering Dick had also been invited and the last time Mac had seen him, she was leaving him sleeping soundly in his bed. He said nothing to her, and she wondered if he even remembered. She certainly hoped not.

She got the distinct impression as Veronica chatted with Dick that this wasn't the first time Dick had eaten dinner with Logan and Veronica. Really, if she had to guess, she'd say Dick probably spent more time in the apartment over their garage than his own suite across town.

Veronica was putting leftover homemade mac n' cheese into disposable Tupperware for Mac to take with her when she finally said something. Logan and Dick were upstairs looking at the new sound system Logan had installed in the master bedroom. "Do you think you're going to go see him?" Veronica asked. She wasn't looking at Mac.

"Probably," Mac admitted, staring at the potted plant on the kitchen window sill.

Veronica pushed the Tupperware into Mac's hands. She smiled kindly. She said nothing, but the disagreement was written in her face. Veronica never said the things that would bother Mac. She didn't ask about Jerry, she didn't mention how little Mac visited her family or friends, and she wasn't going to give Mac her thoughts on the Sinclair family.

But it was all on her face, just waiting for Mac to signal that Veronica was free to give her blunt advice. Mac made no such signal, however, and she disappeared into the barely-chilly Winter air of Neptune with her man n' cheese in hand and a silent Veronica watching her go. She drove home. She didn't get out of the car. She drove to the hospital. She didn't get out of the car.

She drove to that same little bar. She was three sheets to the wind when Dick came in. He hailed her with a brief nod. "I'm a regular," he offered in explanation as he sat beside her.

"For the remainder of my stay in Neptune," Mac told him sullenly, "I am, too."

He clinked his glass with hers. "Cheers."

She left before falling asleep this time, but he didn't try and stop her. She also remembered most of it this time. It didn't make a difference.

iv.

There were only a few people she could talk to about it. She tried them all in the course of one day. It went like this:
"My dad is dying," she told her mom in the morning. "What?" her mother asked, her brow pulling together in confusion as she paused over the batch of pancakes she was making. It was a Saturday morning, still fairly early, and the men of the house were still asleep.

"My biological dad," she said. "He's sick. He has prostate cancer."

Dumbfounded, her mom stared at her. "Mac," she began softly.

"You didn't think I'd never find out, did you?" she asked.

Her hand trembling slightly, Mac's mom put down the cup of batter she had been about to pour onto the sizzling pan. "Honestly, sweetheart? I had hoped you wouldn't. You belong to us. You're our daughter."

"But I'm someone else's daughter, too," Mac said, not letting her gaze waver as she stared at her mother.

Her mother's eyes hardened. "No. You're my daughter."

"Does that mean Madison Sinclair isn't your daughter?" Mac challenged.

"Yes," her mom answered, and Mac was surprised at the utter lack of hesitation. Her mom sighed. "It was the hardest thing I had to do, admitting that the child I had given birth to belonged to someone else. But she did. She does. And you, Mac, you belong to me. And to your father. You're not a Sinclair. You're a Mackenzie."

There was something so carnally satisfying about hearing her mother say that. She finally let her posture sag, and her mother obviously noticed. She smiled softly. Maybe this sort of conversation was best left short and sweet. Her mind flickered to her brief encounter with her biological mother, who obviously didn't feel the same way about the switch as Mac's adoptive mother. She thought the latter had it right; a person had to make peace with this sort of thing. She had . . . until now.

But — "Does that mean I shouldn't go see him?" she asked. "Lauren Sinclair, my biological sister, she sought me out. She told me Mr. Sinclair wants to see me. That he's dying and wants to see me." She said it all clinically, because there was no other way for her to get the words out.

"That — that's really a decision for you to make," her mom said. She turned back to her pancakes. "I'll support whatever choice you make." Mac's heart sunk a little. Why couldn't, once, her mother just tell her the answer to the problem?

That afternoon, she tried Veronica.

Logan was in the background, watching something on TV, but if he was listening, she didn't really care. After all, Veronica would tell him later either which way. So Mac gave in and let Veronica dole out advice. "It's really up to you," Veronica began slowly. Mac waited. "But, if you want my opinion, . . . no, don't go see him. You don't owe him anything, and if he hasn't ever wanted to see you before, why should he get to now?"

That all made sense. But Mac had to argue. She would have argued the opposite had Veronica suggested the opposite. She would always argue. It was easier than making a choice. "He wasn't supposed to contact me. Maybe he wanted to but respected the agreement, except now he's dying and it's all done and over with. Shouldn't I give him a chance?"

"You're not his daughter, Mac. Madison is."

"I'm sorry," said Logan, apparently deciding to join the conversation, "are you, Veronica Mars, really saying that a dying man could find plenty of comfort in Madison Sinclair?" Veronica glared at him. "And the apocalypse is coming when, exactly?" He glanced at his watch. "Two? Three? In time for me to catch one last episode of Beauty and the Geek?"

Veronica ignored him.

"If my dad were dying," Mac said, "and he wanted to see Madison, I would be so furious with her if she refused him that." There. That was a valid point. (Yet another one among a list that went on and on and kept her from enjoying her vacation in Neptune — not that she would have otherwise.)

"But he wouldn't want to see Madison," Veronica argued. "He would want to see you, because you're his daughter."

"Is it really that simple?"

"It should be," said Veronica.

"But you of all people know things aren't as simple as they should be," Mac pointed out. "Besides — maybe I should just see him because it would be the nice thing to do. What do I have to lose? Even if I'm not really a daughter to him, even if I owe him nothing, what would it cost me to pay him a pity visit?"

Veronica considered her for a moment. "If it were that easy," she said slowly, "you would have already gone to see him."

"What if — what if Keith had turned out not to be your real dad?" Mac asked, trying a new angle. Maybe if she asked every question she could and Veronica managed to combat every one, it would allow her to take Veronica's advice without hesitating. "What if it was Jake Kane?" She knew Veronica didn't like talking about this, and she had told it to Mac in complete confidence. But Mac felt if ever it were to be brought up in conversation, now would be the time.

"What if he was your real dad and he was dying and he wanted to see you?"

"Whether biology said it or not," Veronica told her sharply, "Keith Mars would always be my father. He will always be my father. I couldn't care less about Jake Kane, and I would not see him if he were sick. The one who takes care of you, who raises you, who sticks by you — that's the one you go see. And if you're about to bring up my mother —" (she had been) "— then let me tell you right now that I wouldn't. She wouldn't deserve it."

"Sweetie," Logan said conversationally, tossing a piece of popcorn into his mouth without taking his eyes off the television screen, "your issues are showing." Veronica made a face at his back, and Mac just barely saw the upturn of his lips, as if he knew precisely what Veronica was doing.

"So I shouldn't go see him?"

"I wouldn't." Veronica crossed the room to sit beside Logan, and she grabbed a handful of popcorn from the bowl in his lap. "Of course, it's up to you." That was the problem.

That night, she said simply to Dick, "I was switched at birth."

One of his eyes popped open. "What?"

"With Madison Sinclair."

"No shit!" He scrambled to sit upright in the bed. She could feel his eyes on her face, but she continued to stare at the barren wall of his apartment and the awful wallpaper. She hoped he hadn't picked that out himself.

"Yeah, and when our parents figured it out, they decided not to switch us back." It was quiet. "You know what this means?" he finally asked slowly. "Like, if they had switched you back, you and I totally would have gone out in high school." She was so surprised she glanced over at him. "How awesome would that have been?"

"It doesn't work like that," she said, slightly amused despite herself.

He grinned. "Dude, why not?" Her smile faded a little as her mind returned to the problem at him.

"Did you ever meet Mr. Sinclair?" she asked him. It was ridiculously surreal that she was really having this conversation in bed with Dick Casablancas, who meant absolutely nothing to her but who she was sleeping with on her short stint back in Neptune. But she was.

"Madison's dad? I don't know. Once or twice. He was going bald and didn't like my jokes." Mac snorted. Even with that short, silly description, Mr. Sinclair sounded like a dad.

"He's dying," she said. "And he wants to see me."

"That's heavy," Dick said wisely. Mac snorted again against her will.

"That's heavy?" she repeated.

"You know — deep shit. I was watching Back to the Future last night. If I could get my hands on a Flux Capacitor . . . dude, I would do some damage." He grinned mischievously, and she shook her head at him.

She glanced at her hands. "Do you think I should go see him?"

He didn't answer for a while. When he finally looked back at him, his face was serious.

"It's messed up," he said softly. He swallowed, and she watched his Adam's apple bob. "Family. It's messed up. Nobody really has it easy. Veronica's mom ran out on her and Logan's dad is a psycho and I . . ." She knew how messed up his family was. He didn't have to say it. "But it's still family, you know? It might suck ass, but sometimes you gotta, you know?" He looked at her as if imploring her to understand.

"So you think I should," she said.

He shrugged. "I don't know. Whatever. I'm shit at this stuff." He climbed out of bed and disappeared into her bedroom.

It was a strange day on Earth when she decided, of all the advice to take, she'd listen to Dick.

v.

She and Max made it two months into sophomore year.

Max gave her so much. Bronson had given her a long forgotten belief in the male race. Max gave her a never before possessed confidence in herself. But she felt little for herself when she left them. She felt bad for them, of course, for the broken look on Bronson's face and the confusion and then terror on Max's, but her own heart repaired quickly.

She went on a handful of dates for the remainder of her sophomore year, but no one really caught her eye. She met her next serious boyfriend when she got a job at the new Apple store in town. His name was Teddy, and he was the perfect combination of Bronson and Max. He was the tallest boy she had ever dated, and he knew every line to every episode of Seinfeld. They would watch it together, curled up on the couch, and he always smelt like the beach and something close to peppermint. It was strange. She liked it.
She could have loved him.

They had broken up by Christmas.

She dated no one for the remainder of junior year, but it didn't bother her. Senior year she met Jake, and he was the best kisser of them all. He was the funniest, too, and he had read every book she had and more, and it didn't terrify her very much when he talked about the two of them taking a graduation trip to Europe and backpacking across it, seeing all the sights they'd both always imagined seeing.

The month before graduation, however, he took her home to meet his parents and two little sisters. He told her his plans for the future, how he wanted to be a stock market broker, and they could both go to New York together, and in a few years —

It had hurt her so much more saying goodbye to him than anything that had ever hurt her before. (Well, except for that, but she didn't talk about that, because it was better to imagine that that hadn't ever even existed. If that never existed, then that couldn't still cause her pain so many years after she was supposed to have moved past that.)

She dated Toby in New York. He was an ass. She'd dated Jerry next.

Jerry had been her longest relationship yet; he was three years of her life. He had proposed on their three year anniversary, in fact. She had said no. He hadn't understood why.

No one ever would, and that's why she'd always say no.

vi.

It was the worst Christmas Eve of her life. It went like this:

She found the number in the phone book. She dialed it halfway and hung up. She dialed it all the way and hung up after one ring. She dialed it and then clutched it to her ear with white knuckles. She was about to hang up after the third ring when someone answered.

"Hello?"

It was an older woman. It was her biological mother. It had to be. But she couldn't talk to her, not yet. She cleared her throat. "Is — is Lauren there?" she asked.

"Oh, yes, one moment, please," her mother told her, and Mac heard her yell for Lauren.

When Lauren came on a moment later, Mac almost hung up again. But she forced herself to say, her voice small, "It's Mac." Lauren was quiet for a long time.

"I'm so glad you called," she finally said. "I'm really, really glad."

"Yeah, well, listen — I've thought about it, and I'll come to the hospital to see your dad."

"Our dad."

"Don't — don't do that," Mac said quickly, forcing herself to stay calm. "Don't do that, not if you want this to work." There was a pregnant pause.

"Okay," Lauren agreed quietly. "When do you want to come?"

"How's this afternoon?" she suggested. If she made a later date, she would have too much time to change her mind. The sooner she saw him, the better. She had to get it over with. "Maybe in a few hours?"

"That sounds good. Do you want to meet me at the hospital or —?"

"Yes. I'll meet you at the front entrance. Three o'clock?" The hand that wasn't holding her cell to her ear was trembling so much that she slipped it under her legs, trying to still it and her own rapidly beating heart. She shouldn't be this worked up. She was just doing what she should — paying a visit to a dying man, as was his last wish.

"Yeah. I'll be there. . . . Thank you, Mac. Thank you so much for doing this." Her voice broke a little, and Mac could hear the tears in it. "You have no idea how much —"

"Don't worry about it," Mac interrupted. "I'll see you later." She hung up before Lauren could say more. She sank against the fridge of her tiny kitchen, glad that her whole family was at Ryan's friend's family's Christmas barbecue, or some equally ridiculous thing. She let herself slide down to the floor, cradling the phone in her hands.

She took a long shower, watched most of A Christmas Story on TV, ate a peanut butter sandwich, and paced her room a little. She thought about calling Veronica and asking for advice on what to say or how to act. She reconsidered. Veronica was no expert, and surely she had something better to do with her day. She was probably with Keith and Alicia and Wallace and Logan as their big, patched-up family celebrated the last Christmas before the baby was born.

She parked in the hospital parking lot just two minutes shy of three. But she couldn't make herself go in. She had a panic attack or something. What did a panic attack entail, anyway? Before she knew what she was doing, she was calling Logan. He didn't ask many questions (not yet) when she asked for Dick's number.

She wasn't sure why she wanted to call Dick. But he gave her the number and she did call him.

"It's Mac," she greeted for the second time that day. "I'm at the hospital, and I . . . I can't go in there by myself. I can't."
What was more surprising was the fact that he came.

It was three twenty-two when he pulled into the parking lot, and it was amazing she didn't throw herself at him crying hysterically. If she didn't have such a handle on her emotions, such a practised ability to grit her teeth and pretend the world spun a normal routine, she probably would have. "Want to know something kind of weird?" Dick asked as they walked towards the hospital. It was the first thing either said.

"What?" she asked, inadvertently curling her fist at the thought of what awaited her inside.

"I totally hate hospitals," he said. She glanced over at him, frowning. "It's true." He nodded. "They're freaky."

"I don't know if I'd call that weird," she said. "I think most people hate hospitals."

He shrugged. "I thought hospitals were, like, places of healing and shit like that. And who doesn't like to be healed? But I don't know, dude — it's never done much for me."

"You can only be healed if you're wounded," Mac said. "We're not wounded. We're broken." The words slipped out before she could stop them. But they were true.

"I guess that explains it, then," he said, and the automatic hospital doors slid open for them. Mac saw Lauren immediately, and she felt a little guilty at the dejected look on the girl's face. When Lauren caught sight of Mac, however, her face lit up.

"You came!" she said, approaching them. "I was beginning to think you had changed your mind." Her relief was clear.

"Yeah, sorry about that. We got held up."

"We?" It was only then that Lauren noticed Dick. "Dick?" she said, her distaste clear.

"Lorie, right?" said Dick. "I remember you!" He looked proud of that fact.

"I remember you, too," Lauren said, her eyes flickering between Dick and Mac with a little confusion, "and it's Lauren, not Lorie." Mac was not surprised to find that Lauren was not a fan of Dick Casablancas.

"Right. My bad." He smiled with his best attempt at charm, and Mac shook her head at her utterly un-charming he was.

"Well, I guess . . . we need to get you two some visitor passes and then he's up on the sixth floor." They walked to the check-in counter together, and Mac felt her legs grow heavier with each step. Somehow she made it to the counter, though, and she signed her name in and received a visitor's pass.

They were in the elevator when Dick asked conversationally, "So, where's Madison?"

Lauren actually winced. Mac frowned. "Um, Madison's . . . out of town. She's in, ah, Texas — San Antonio, I think."

"Texas?" Mac repeated, a little surprised. If Mr. Sinclair were really dying, what the hell was Madison doing in Texas?

Lauren gave an uncomfortable shrug. "She's living there now, and she came back for a little while when he was first diagnosed, but she . . . my parents decided to tell her the truth about, well, you know — and she's really busy and it's just . . . it's complicated." She stared at the glowing elevator buttons.

Mac nodded. It sounded like Madison was Madison.

The sixth floor seemed particularly dreadful to Mac. And it got ten times worse when she saw Mrs. Sinclair stand, her eyes going wide and a hesitant smile flickering to life on her face when she saw Mac. She had known her biological mother would probably be there, but she hadn't really let herself think about it.

Lauren led the way down the hall to her mother. "Hey Mom," she greeted, kissing her on the cheek. "Sorry we're late."

"It's no problem," Mrs. Sinclair assured, her eyes not leaving Mac. "It was so good of you to come," she said. She didn't seem to have time or attention to notice Dick, not when all her energy was on Mac.

"Yeah," Mac said. She was suddenly terrified that her biological mother might try to hug her. She didn't think she could handle that. "So, how's — how's Mr. Sinclair?"

"Oh, he's . . . he's doing pretty well today. He's just in here," she nodded at the door a few feet away. "Why don't we go in?" She smiled, and Mac nodded stiffly. She could feel Lauren's eyes on her face, but she didn't look at her little sister. They shuffled one by one into the room, Mrs. Sinclair first, Lauren next, Mac third, and Dick last.

It was a small room, but it was filled to the brim with potted plants and an array of cards and even a few colourful pillows and a teddy bear and balloons, as if to liven up the room. Sitting up on the bed was a small man with balding dark hair and soft green eyes. He started to say something to Mrs. Sinclair only to stop when he saw Mac.

"This is Mac, Daddy," Lauren introduced, coming to stand beside her dad and putting her hand on his shoulder. She clearly loved her father.

"T-thank you for coming, Mac," Mr. Sinclair said quietly, his eyes seeming to feast on Mac's face. She really needed these people to stop thanking her. The next one who did was getting sucker-punched.

She only nodded. What was there to say?
"Why don't we give you two some time alone?" Mrs. Sinclair suggested suddenly, splitting the thickening silence. She held her hand out for Lauren, who obediently left her father's side, giving Mac an encouraging smile. Dick followed after them, and Mac vaguely heard Mrs. Sinclair say something in confusion to Dick.

Her eyes never left her biological father's left shoulder.

"You're a beautiful young woman," Mr. Sinclair said.

"Thanks," Mac answered. It was quiet. She dared to look at his face. He didn't look too sick, but he seemed inconceivably small in that bed.

"What — what do you like to do?" he asked.

She shrugged. "I'm good with computers. I read a lot." Was there more? She had never been very good at listing off her hobbies and interests and favourite things.

"Oh? Well, I've never been good with computers, but I love to read. Do you have any favourites?" Mac shrugged again. "I've always liked J.D. Salinger," he went on.

"Franny and Zooey is pretty good," Mac agreed.

"Mac," he began slowly, "I want you to know that having to give you up, it was the hardest thing I —"

"We don't have to talk about it," Mac interrupted. She met his gaze. It was a mistake. "Actually, I, um, I have to go. I meant to get here earlier, but I have to — I have to go. It was nice to meet you."

"Mac —"

"Have a good Christmas, Mr. Sinclair."
She sped from the room like nobody's business. Mrs. Sinclair stood up from a stair stationed outside the room, confusion spreading in a frown across her face as her mouth opened to say something. Mac passed her without a word and continued down the hall, her eyes intent on the elevator. Lauren called out to her. Mac pretended not to hear.

She punched the down button and the elevator doors mercifully opened immediately. She ran in, but before the doors could close behind her, a hand stopped them. Dick stepped in. She didn't look at him. She could barely breathe. What was she doing here? These people weren't her family. Hadn't her mother made that clear? And Veronica, too?
She was doing a good deed, sure, but it wasn't her responsibility and —

"I just couldn't," she breathed.

"I know," Dick murmured. He reached out a hand hesitantly to touch her shoulder. He seemed to think better of it and dropped his arm, leaning back against the elevator. She wiped at the stupid tears audacious enough to gather in her eyes. "So," Dick said as the doors opened again, releasing them onto the first floor and soon-to-be sweet freedom. "How do you like surfing?"

vii.

Mac loved her family.

She did. Really. Deep, deep down, in the depths of her heart, she loved them. She might not understand them or have anything in common with them, but she loved them. Her father built her shelf after shelf for her books as she grew up, her mother helped her through that terrible summer, and her brother, well, that was more the sort of relationship best left unanalysed. The fact of the matter, really, was that if she were in a burning building, she wouldn't save strangers. She would save her family. Maybe that was wrong. But it was the truth. And if that wasn't love, what was?

She didn't know much about the concept of family, besides the idea that you were supposed to love them. She knew Veronica thought being someone's family meant being loyal to that person, no matter what. She knew Parker believed family were the people you loved because you were supposed to. She knew that Annalise, her best friend in New York, believed family was something you put up with until you were old enough to run away and stay away.

The semantics of it all, the details and the questions and the eternal truths, wouldn't really concern her — wouldn't even matter — if everything weren't so messed up. But what did family mean when blood lines were confused and some of your family wasn't supposed to be your family and some of your family were strangers and some of your family . . . it was just too confusing.

Most of the time Mac didn't think about it. But how could she avoid it now?

She spent Christmas morning opening presents with her parents and brother, then met Wallace and Veronica for a lunch with their recently married parents, and Mac was beyond relieved to see that Logan had brought Dick along, too. At least Mac wouldn't be the only one out of place. He waved in the most dorky way when he saw her, and she waved back half-heartedly, smiling despite herself.

Veronica glanced back and forth between them. She smirked. Mac glared. Dick trotted over to them, reaching out to pat Veronica's stomach. "You'll have a bloody stump if you even try," Veronica said. Dick didn't seem intimidated.

"Your threats don't work on me anymore, tiny blonde," he said. Veronica did not look amused.

When Mac finally managed to escape from the various Mars and Echolls and Fennels, she wasn't alone for long. Veronica slowly lowered herself to sit beside Mac on the steps of the back porch. "You went to see him, didn't you?" Veronica asked softly.

Mac nodded. "It didn't go well." It was quiet. "I hate Christmas," she finally said.

"There is no Santa Clause?" Veronica asked knowingly. Mac glanced at her, and she could see past bitterness in Veronica's eyes. However happy Veronica's life may be now, her past would always be there. Mac found a kind of sick solidarity in that.

"Doesn't look like it," Mac replied. It was quiet for a long time.

"For what it's worth," Veronica finally said, "I was wrong. You were right to go see him. It was the right thing to do. Your situation isn't the same as mine." She paused. "I've been thinking, and maybe . . . maybe it doesn't have to be either or."

"What?" Mac asked, frowning slightly.

"What happened with your parents and the Sinclairs and you and Madison . . . it was all a big misunderstanding. Nobody is the villain. Maybe you don't have to choose one family over the other. Maybe all this means is that you get two families."

Mac had never thought about it like that. "This is sure an abrupt turnaround," she finally said. It was better to turn the focus on Veronica. "What changed your mind?" She raised an eyebrow at Veronica, who smiled, staring at her lap for a moment and then meeting Mac's gaze sheepishly.

"I've just been thinking about everything you're going through, and with all the changes that have happened in my life lately . . . the other night, Logan said — he just said something that made me think. You're given a family. But you get to choose family, too, if you want."

Mac nodded. She didn't really know what to say.

Veronica snorted suddenly. "Listen to me. I think I'm spending too much time with Logan. He's such a bad influence on me. I'm so much less badass these days."

Mac laughed aloud, and she let Veronica coax her back inside. If she could choose her own family, could she choose Veronica?

viii.

Mac learned how to be a sister. It went like this:

She was doing some work in her old bedroom. If her mother caught her, she would be disappointed that Mac just had to work even on break, despite the fact that Christmas was two days ago and the only reason Mac was still in Neptune was because her mother had tricked her into not buying a ticket until the day after New Year's.

The doorbell rang, and Mac assumed it belonged to one of Ryan's numerous friends. The boy was way too popular for his own good — he was an actual jock, God forbid. Mac had been complaining to Dick the night before, and he had agreed that jocks were awful.

He was so full of it sometimes.

"Cindy?" Her mom popped her in the door. "You have a visitor." There was something in her tone. Mac looked up and found herself face to face with a timid Lauren. "I'll just let you two talk." Her mom was gone, shutting the door behind her.

"Hey," Lauren greeted, shifting from one foot to another.

"Hi," Mac said, slowly closing her laptop. "Look, if this is about the other day — I'm sorry I had to go so soon, but I. . . . " She didn't really have an excuse. "It's okay," Lauren assured. "I can't even imagine what I'd be doing if I were in your shoes. My parents are my parents, you know? It'd be weird to imagine it another way." Mac nodded. Slowly, timidly, Lauren sat on the edge of her bed.

"It must be hard," Mac said, trying to be sympathetic. She was so bad at this sort of thing — there was a reason she avoided it as best she could. "I mean, with your dad being sick and everything." She paused. "High school's hard enough, right?" She laughed awkwardly, inwardly cursing herself.

"You could say that," Lauren agreed, smiling softly. "I mean, I have all these plans. I got into Cornell, and I was going to study abroad for a semester in Rome — I want to learn Italian — and I . . . I," she blushed suddenly, looking down. "I had all these plans. But I don't know if I can leave my dad when he's so sick."

Mac nodded. "This might sound like a line," she said, "but your dad probably wants you to go. Dad's are like that." Lauren gave half a smile.

"He says that, too. But . . . with Madison — she couldn't handle it. She just left. She's stopped taking my parents' calls and . . . I love her and everything, because she's my sister, but she's just run away and that's not what you're supposed to do with family." She bit her lip, and Mac knew she was prepping herself to say something more.

"See, the reason I came here today is to apologise. I'm sorry I jumped you in a department store and put all this on you. I just . . . I said it was for my dad, but it wasn't, really. It was for me. I wanted a sister, and Madison isn't here, and I thought maybe you could . . . I don't know. It was stupid." She stood up. "But I just wanted to thank you for . . . for coming to see him. I know it meant a lot."

"Yeah. Sure." Mac gave a small smile.

"I guess I'll just . . . I'll see you."

"Right," Mac said. "See you."

Lauren looked as if she might say something else, but she seemed to think better of it, and she left. Mac never did get back to work; she couldn't stop thinking about Lauren's short, sudden visit. She got the idea later that night, and it was all executed easily enough. She called Veronica, explained what she wanted, and Veronica was more than happy to help. "But don't expect too much," Veronica warned.

Mac waved off her mother's questions, promising to be back the next day, and then took a direct flight to the San Antonio International Airport. With the information Veronica had found in hand, Mac had the taxi drive her a few miles into the city from the airport, and before she knew it, she was there, facing Madison. "Oh, my God." Madison said, standing in her apartment door with a look of confusion and slight repulsion on her face. "What are you doing here?"

"I'm here to do what your family won't," Mac said, crossing her arms determinedly over her chest.

"Oh, is that so? And what is that, exactly?" Madison leaned against her door frame, looking for all the world like the brat Mac had spent her childhood despising. She didn't understand where Madison came from. She was nothing like Mac's own family, yet she was nothing like the Sinclairs, either, not as far as Mac could tell.

"Bring you back to Neptune. What you're doing, Madison? Running away? Avoiding it? You're going to regret it. If you don't say goodbye to your dad, if you're here when he dies —"

"Okay, stop. This is so not your business." Madison started to shut the door. Mac stuck a hand out and stopped her.

"Yes, it is. It's my family, too."

Something flickered across Madison's face. "They told you, too, huh?" she asked, pursing her lips.

"Actually, I found out in high school. Remember that party of yours I showed up at?" Madison didn't say anything. "I was just having a look-see at the life I should have had. But that's not the point. Look, I don't like you. I never will. But your family are good people. And you need to go home and be with them now and help them."

"If you care so much," Madison said, her lip curling, "why don't you? They're your family, aren't they?"

Mac really wanted to hit her. "I'm not who they need. I'm not the one who your father wants to say goodbye to. I'm not the one your mom needs comfort from. And your sister — she needs a sister. I can't be that person." She tried to hold in her frustration. "I can't visit them and help them through this. And it's not my job to. It's yours. You're the daughter they raised and took care of and supported. You're the daughter who needs to be there to comfort them and to say goodbye. You.

"Can't you just do this one good thing for them? Can't you?"

Mac half expected Madison to shut the door in her face again. It didn't matter if she did. Mac wasn't leaving until she got what she wanted. But Madison didn't try and shut the door. Her shoulders sank a little. "It's not that easy," she said.

"Nobody said it was easy," Mac replied, not batting an eyelash.

Madison glanced off and then looked back at Mac. "My dad — he's, like, the only person who's ever really loved me. He doesn't care that I'm not, like, a total nerd freak like Lauren, and he's not always disappointed in me the way my mom is, and he . . ." She stopped, as if considering who she was talking to. "I'm just not going to watch him die, okay? So go back to whatever loser hole you crawled out of." She glared. Her brief moment of humanity was gone.

Mac didn't care. "If he's the only one who's ever really loved you, maybe you should show him that he wasn't wrong to. Maybe you should prove that you're just as good as Lauren. Maybe you should prove for one moment that you're not a heinous bitch." She might have gotten a tad harsh at the end.

"Whatever," Madison snapped, and she slammed the door too quickly for Mac to stop her. Mac sighed, bent down, and slipped the plane ticket under the door. She left. She was betting on a long shot, she knew, but it was all she could do.

When she boarded the plane, it was to see Madison yelling at the steward about the way he was handling her suitcase. Mac didn't let Madison see her smile as she passed by, neither saying a word to the other.

When she was back in Neptune, she dug up some old pictures of her that her pack rat mother kept in the attic. She stuck them in the pages of her yellowed, once beloved and much read copy of Franny and Zoey, and attached a small note — typed, because she had terrible handwriting, and dropped it off at the front desk of the hospital.

Lauren, Sorry I couldn't stay longer. I'm on my way back to New York in a few days. This was one of my favourite books when I was little. If you haven't read it, you definitely should. I thought maybe your parents would like the pictures. When you get to Cornell, look me up. It'll be nice to have family close by.

Best, Mac.

ix.

Mac blinked at Dick owlishly for a moment.

"What?" she finally asked.

"I said, wanna go out tonight?" he repeated. He didn't seem fazed by her surprise.

"You mean," she said slowly, "on a date?"

He nodded. "Don't worry, though," he assured, "we can totally have sex afterwards, 'cause that's awesome." Mac stared at him.

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"As a heart attack," he said.

Mac narrowed her eyes. "Did Veronica tell you to take me on a date?"

"What? Like I couldn't come up with that on my own?" He scoffed. "It's like you only like me because I'm a sex god." Mac continued to stare. "If you must know," he finally said, "Logan asked if we had actually gone out, and then said if I actually liked you, I should take you out, like, to some place nice and stuff. So, what do you say? Pick you up at seven?"

This was her last night in Neptune. "Sure," she agreed. What the hell, right? "Seven."

Mac wasn't sure what surprised her most about that night: it was a complete toss up between Dick arriving on time, Dick wearing a tie, Dick actually knowing what was happening in the political world, and Dick suggesting they walk along the beach after dinner.

Mac took her shoes off and walked barefoot in the sand. She hadn't been out on Dog Beach since college, and it was a little strange. It reminded her of high school more than Hearst, and she spent most of her adult life trying not to think about high school.

"You okay over there?" Dick asked. "You've gone quiet."

"Can you not stand silence for five minutes?" she replied.

"I can," he argued. "But why would I want to?"

She shrugged. "I was just, I don't know, thinking." He nodded sagely. She smiled. The sun was setting, and the sky was dyed red. "Let's sit," she suggested suddenly. She didn't want to walk any further and have to hike back to Dick's car in the dark.

"So how am I doing?" he asked as he plopped down on the sand beside her. "Oh, wait, hold on — stand up." Frowning, she stood, brushing sand off her skirt. He took off his jacket and spread it out. "Okay. Now sit." He grinned up at her.

"That's very gentlemanly of you," Mac said, biting back a full-fledged smirk as she sat down.

"I try," Dick replied gallantly.

"Well, you're very impressive," Mac assured, only teasing a little.

"Yeah. This is actually the first legitimate date I've been on in years."

Mac glanced at him. "Seriously?"

He bobbed his head. "What can I say? The ladies just want to jump me."

She shook her head at him, and the conversation that followed was soft and easy. She explained the situation with the Sinclairs, about Mr. Sinclair calling just to talk and how she had agreed to stop by the hospital before her flight tomorrow, and then a soft lull fell and Mac was about ready to suggest they head back to the car when he asked, his voice careful, "Do you ever think about him?"
She didn't have to ask who him was. "I work really hard not to think about him," she said. "If that counts."

"Yeah," he said, tracing the lines on his right hand with the fingers of his left. It was quiet.

The words began to surge out of her in a way they hadn't ever really before, not when she was confessing deep, dark secrets to Veronica, not when she was opening up to Bronson or Max or Jerry or anyone, not even when she was seeing a therapist the summer before Hearst.

"The truth is I can't move on and I — I don't know why." He didn't say anything, but she didn't really need him to. "It's like I . . . when something like — like everything with Beaver — when it happens, you're supposed to move on. You're supposed to realise that not everybody will hurt you and you don't have to be scared of growing close to people or opening up to them or loving them. And I'm not scared. I was, but I'm better now. And you're supposed to know it's not your fault and there was nothing you could do to stop it and understand that and accept it and I — I have.

"But for some reason," she told him softly, her eyes trained on the waves that crashed quietly on the beach. "I just can't move on. I don't know why."

"Maybe you don't want to," he suggested.

"No," she said. "No. I do. Of course I do."

"You say you do, but what if you're afraid to 'cause — 'cause then you'd forget?"

How could he say something like that? "I could never forget," she argued. "Never."

"You can't forget, because you won't move on. But maybe you won't move on, because you don't want to forget, because it's all you have left." She finally looked at him, frowning.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean . . . as long as you remember him, you're, like, paying tribute. The rest of the world has moved on and forgotten and he's just one more troubled kid, just one more psycho murderer with a troubled past. But if you remember him, remember all the bad but also all the good and all the pain and how it was all so fucked up . . . if you remember him, it's something. And you can't do anything for him, and you couldn't ever, really, but you can do this. So you don't forget. And you don't move on."

She stared at him as he stared out at the water. Their positions were reversed now. How long had he thought about all of this? "Are we talking about me or you?" she asked quietly.

He turned to her, a kind of crooked, weary, the-world-is-a-fucking-hell-hole smirk on his face. "Does it make a difference?"

"No," she whispered. "Probably not." They both gazed out at the water. "Who do you remember?" she asked. "Beaver or Cassidy?" She nearly choked on the names, but they managed to reach the air and hang in front of them.

"Both," he said. His voice was thick. "Both."

"What if . . . what if we only remember the good one?" she asked slowly. "What if we — what if we . . . if we let ourselves forget the bad part of him, and remember the good?"

"Which one was good and which was bad?"

She had thought about it before — a lot. She wondered how often he had. "Cassidy," she finally answered. "He wanted to be Cassidy. And he wanted to be good. So we remember Cassidy, the boy who was good. Cassidy." The name tasted forbidden on her tongue. "Cassidy," she whispered.

"And we forget Beaver?" he asked. She nodded. He did, too. It was quiet for a long time. "I never liked Beavers. Who the hell has teeth like that?" She smiled, and she leaned her head on his shoulder, and the water splashed forward and sunk her ankles into the sand.

x.

When Mac was thirty-two years old, she married Dick Casablancas. It started with a phone call. It went like this:

"I've been thinking," he said as she stretched out on the couch, the phone held between her head and shoulder as she dug a fork into her microwave dinner. This had become something of a weekly ritual between her and Dick, talking on the phone. They had been doing it for most of the two months since her return from Christmas vacation in Neptune. She would call when she got off work at night, and they would talk as she ate dinner.

"About?" she prompted, settling down against the arm pillow.

"Moving," he said. "I think Neptune has lost its shiny veneer for me." She snorted. "It's about time."

"Where do you think I should move?" he asked. "Singapore? London? Australia? I don't know much about the ol' out back," he momentarily took on a bastardised Australian accent, "but they've got to have killer waves, right?"

"Probably," she said. "Although, personally, I think in Singapore you would fit right in. I hear it's very popular among the blonde bimbos of the inherited wealth variety."

"Excellent!" She could imagine him pumping a fist in the air, and she smiled at the thought, amused. "And if Singapore doesn't work out," he said, "I could set up shop in the Big Apple."

She paused in her dinner, her fork halfway to her mouth. "New York City?"

"Is it not the Big Apple? Damn. Big Peach?"

"No, it's the Big Apple." She set her fork down. "You know," she said slowly, "if you came here, I might find the time to show you around." She reached for her wine glass on the nearby table.

She could hear the grin in his voice. "That's what I like to hear."

Six years later, they got married. After the ceremony, when Mac finally managed to convince Veronica that Dick hadn't proposed because he knocked Mac up, Mac watched as Logan, sighing dramatically, gave Veronica a twenty dollar bill.

"I so told you so," said Veronica smugly, pulling her mini-me and Mac's flower girl into her lap and adjusting the squirming little girl's tiny flower crown. Mac only rolled her eyes.

Dick hadn't proposed because she was pregnant.

But she was now. (She'd tell Veronica later.)

Fin.