Chapter Text
His lips were so delicate when they trapped hers in the gentlest kiss he had ever given her. His hands were resting on her waist, so chaste, like it was the first time he was ever touching her. Under the mistletoe, under the controlled movement of his fingertips pressing into her skin and the softness of his green sweater, she could feel the strength of his heartbeat.
Just like a movie, a boy and a girl fell in love.
Just like a movie, snow fell from the skies.
(Just like a movie, it ended.)
13 YEARS LATER
“I had a great time.”
Veronica Lodge turns under her duvet, stretching. Opening her brown eyes, she blinks a couple of times to get used to the daylight coming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. From where she’s laying down, she can see the silhouette of a man getting dressed.
“What?” she asks lazily.
“I said I had a great time,” he says, wearing his best Wall Street smile. Veronica smiles too, especially when he comes closer to the bed, reaching out to touch her ankle under the covers. “We should do it again tonight.”
Veronica giggles, relishing the soft hands going up her calf. “Tonight is Christmas Eve, sweetheart.”
Sweetheart chuckles, hand on her knee now. “That’s fine by me. We can drink eggnog,” Veronica bites on her lower lip as she stares at his sweet face, brown hair falling on his honey-colored eyes. He leans in to kiss her. “I’ll even find you a mistletoe…”
She places a hand on his cheek. “Please, don’t,” she says, pushing him away a little. “I had a lot of fun too, but I think you should spend some time with your family. We can resume activities post-holiday season.”
He sighs, looking a little forlorn. In the scrutiny of daylight, rumpled and semi-naked, Sweetheart looks a lot younger than he did at the bar last night. “Do you promise to call?”
Veronica almost laughs. Poor, romantic soul. She wonders, for a minute, if crushing his expectations at such a sensitive time like the holidays would categorize her as a soulless person. Caressing his cheek, for good measure, she decides that she doesn’t care. “If I remember. Now, be gone. I have to get ready for work.”
She only gets out of bed when Sweetheart leaves. Having him around would certainly disrupt her morning routine, something she’d been perfecting throughout the years.
It starts with a tall glass of cold water and pressing the play button on her phone, making music filter through the speakers carefully placed around her penthouse. Veronica sings along to pop tunes and even French classics, as she picks out the outfit for her day and showers. Today’s choice is a selection of old boleros.
Doing her makeup is therapeutic and something she spends a great portion of her morning on: filling her brows, curling her eyelashes, perfecting her eyeliner, sharpening her cheekbones with contouring, and, finally, choosing the perfect lip shade to face the day.
Not that she requires makeup or wavy hair or heels to be beautiful — she never did, and women shouldn’t feel like they need any of this stuff, anyway — but in a world full of men trying to take her down at every step she takes, she has learned to stand with her chin up high and to use each and every weapon she possesses. And that includes her Louboutins.
Breakfast starts when the music goes off and business starts — she makes a Nespresso while checking for any absurdly important messages from her personal assistant; eats fruit and porridge while making that phone call to China before they shut down their activities for the day; brushes her teeth, and finally applies her lipstick while checking the stock market, which always, inevitably, gives her a headache.
But not today.
“Elio,” Veronica calls her assistant, Elio Grande, putting him on speaker as she finishes touching up her lipstick. “MedTech shares are lower than fifty-two percent. We need to go in with the deal today. Call for the board meeting.”
“Today is Christmas Eve, Veronica. I don’t know if—”
“Elio. Twelve billion dollars. If we seal this deal, every day will be Christmas Eve. Now, call the board. I want everyone that matters at the meeting table in one hour and decent coffee for everybody.”
“They’ll be there, Lodge.”
Veronica rolls her eyes, putting her phone and lipstick in her purse. She knows that Elio only calls her Lodge (or even Mini-Hiram, when he’s being particularly obnoxious) when he thinks she’s being too absurd about something, but she’s past caring — truth is, Elio should be grateful to hold such a great position in Lodge and Associates Investment House, after the dismantling of what was, once, Lodge Industries.
God only knows how hard she had to work to make her name mean something again.
“Merry Christmas, Miss Lodge,” the doorman greets her, a friendly nod of his head. Tony is gentle and makes her think of Smithers. Veronica smiles, forgetting her phone for a second. “The young gentleman that left your penthouse earlier left his phone number with me. Perhaps you might want it?”
Veronica chuckles. “Save it with the others, Tony. I might ask for it on a rainy day. Merry Christmas yourself. Can you tell someone to bring up my car? I feel like driving today. The streets are dry.”
“As you wish, Miss.”
The blue Maserati races through Central Park as she exits her condo on Park Avenue. It’s a clear day, despite the cold and the weather forecast promising a white Christmas for Manhattan.
Traffic isn’t that bad from the Upper East Side heading down to the Financial District. Veronica screeches her car to a halt in front of a building, turning the heads of some passers — as usual, people are shocked once they see that the one behind the wheel is a woman.
“Miss Lodge,” the security guard greets when she throws him the keys of the Maserati, wishing him a Merry Christmas, and marches towards the front hall.
Elio is waiting for her as soon as the elevator doors open to the floor — looking clean and good as always, a tablet in his hand. “Buenos días, boss. Everyone should be here in half an hour. Not everyone is pleased to be here in half an hour.”
“They’ll get over it once they open my Christmas gift for them this year, and you know why, Elio?” Veronica raises her eyebrows. Elio frowns, a bit curious. “Because my gift comes with ten zeros at the end. Mr. Campbell is in Chamonix with his wife and kids, and he’s willing to sign the contract by December 26th if I go to France in person to seal the deal.”
Elio’s mouth hangs open. It’s kind of cute that people still underestimate her, especially before noon. “I’ll book a flight.”
Much later in the day, Veronica sits behind her desk, closing her eyes for a bit. She takes in a couple of deep breaths, letting the silence surround her for a minute. It’s been a long day of work, filled with meetings and stressful conversations, but everything is going according to plan.
She opens her eyes, sipping on some water as she wonders what her next task is — or if she even has one. On her desk, there’s an old picture of her with her parents, right after they moved back to New York from Riverdale, their big starting over. It was the last picture they ever took as a family.
From time to time, Veronica asks herself if she should have this picture on her desk, such a sentimental token of her past, but if anything, it’s a reminder of how things can change — of how time doesn’t stop for you to fix whatever’s broken. You’re always left to fend for yourself, anyway.
A knock on her door brings her back to the present. It’s Elio, who’s probably the last man standing in the office at this hour — it says eight-thirty on her watch. “Your mom wasn’t really pleased to hear you canceled on Christmas.”
Veronica chuckles. “I was just looking for an excuse to bail, anyways. Listen, I have a list of sixty things I want to do and spending the holidays with my mom and her boytoy is number sixty-one.”
“When will you forgive your mother for being weak?” Elio sits on the corner of the desk. Veronica doesn’t really appreciate when he does that but decides to bite her tongue.
“I would never condemn my mom for finding a hot beau after Daddy’s passing, even if he was our trusty driver,” Veronica says, leaning back on her chair a bit and sighing. “But the fact that she and Andre had been sleeping together even before Daddy’s passing never sat quite well with me, I’ll give you that.”
Elio laughs. “You’re free now. You’ll spend Christmas flying first class and then a couple of days in France.” He hops off the desk. “Okay, so before we go, unimportant calls of the day.” He takes a couple of crumpled post-its from his pocket. “Jenna from that NGO wanted to speak with you and thank you personally for the generous donation. Florence also called.”
Veronica points at Elio with a pen. “Oh, that’s not unimportant. My dresses are ready!”
“Sure. I’ll send someone to pick them up. And a guy named Archie Andrews wants to talk to you? His assistant said you could call after eight.”
Veronica stops fumbling with the pen, reeling back. “Archie Andrews?”
“I know, right? I tried to find him amongst our contacts, but there’s no one with…”
“No.” She interrupts Elio. There’s a crease between her eyebrows and a weird feeling in the pit of her stomach, like she’d been walking down the stairs and suddenly missed a step. “Archie Andrews was my high school boyfriend. What the… You said his assistant called?”
“Yes,” Elio says. “You, a boyfriend? For real?”
“I still lived in that small town upstate. I was trying new things. I don’t know. Trying to be a better person.” Veronica sighs, her mind wandering down memory lane. She can form a tall, red-haired figure in her mind, but over a decade later, it's hard to remember the details of his face. “Bit me right back in the ass, as I knew it would. Things got super ugly between us. He was my first and, mercifully, last serious relationship.”
“You just gave up on love because some bloke named Archie Andrews broke your heart back in sophomore year?”
Veronica’s gaze is drawn to the picture on her desk, her father’s face, his hand on her shoulder. It’s enough to snap her out of it. She chuckles. “I just took the road less traveled, Elio,” she says and then frowns when she notices her assistant reaching out for the phone and starting to dial the numbers written down on the crumpled post-it. “What are you doing?”
“Calling the guy.”
Veronica shakes her head. “No.”
“What?” Elio stops but then hangs up, making a face. “You two lived some crazy love story years ago, he reaches out and you don’t want to talk to him? Aren’t you even curious?”
“Please,” Veronica rolls her eyes. “It’s Christmas Eve. An old flame calling you on Christmas Eve? It’s probably a fit of nostalgia. His wife dumped him, and he’s drunk. Let’s call the one that got away? That kind of thing.”
Elio looks slightly disappointed.
“Don’t start. If you want romance, go home and watch some Lifetime movie. I have other things to worry about, like the multi-billion dollar deal in my hands right now.”
“Okay. But if you change your mind, the assistant said you can find him after eight, and, you know, it’s after eight.” Elio winks, leaving the post-it with the telephone number on her desk. He wishes her a Merry Christmas before leaving her alone with the small piece of paper staring at her like a ghost.
Veronica takes a deep breath and throws the post-it in the trash.
Much later that evening, Veronica exits the elevator, her high heels cackling against the marble floor of the empty lobby. The security guard, who sits watching the monitors, raises his head at the sound.
“Miss Lodge! Why didn’t you call down? I would’ve had someone get your car.”
Veronica looks outside. The promised snow has begun to fall, and the street looks very quiet as it gets painted white, little by little. Something happens somewhere in the space between her heart and her stomach, and she shakes her head. “Don’t worry about it, Frank. I think I might walk home.”
“Nice night for it. I’ll have Joe send your car home tomorrow, then. Merry Christmas, Miss.”
“Merry Christmas to you, Frank.”
Veronica puts on a pair of soft, leather gloves and a scarf around her neck, heading out into the crisp, night air. The snowflakes melt against her warm cheeks, tickling her, making her smile. She hums one of the boleros she was listening to this morning, something her parents used to dance to when she was very little, and they seemed very much in love.
bésame, bésame mucho… como se fuera esta noche la ultima vez…
She’s walking down the nearly empty streets, her hands inside her trench coat pockets, watching the windows of the closed shops along the way.
It was snowing just like this in Riverdale, that Christmas morning in December, so many years ago. She remembers the weight of his necklace hanging from her neck. A&V Forever, he had engraved on the locket. She remembers how holding it in her hands was like holding her own heart and how suddenly it felt so right, handing it to him, giving it away.
She remembers the smile on his face when he saw her on his porch. She remembers how it all cracked a couple of months later, how it all fell apart — how the heart she gave him was returned all battered and bruised and how she had to spend years fixing it.
Honestly, who did he think he was, asking her to call him?
There’s an open deli shop at the end of the block. Veronica crosses the street and heads towards it, without thinking it through. She said she’d quit it, but it’s been a long day.
The deli shop is brightly lit. There’s only Mr. Wong (if the deli name says something about it) behind the counter, a woman with a baby in her arms shopping for milk, and a drunk department store Santa looking for something at the liquor display. Veronica gets closer to the cashier.
“Lucky Strikes?” she asks, opening her purse.
The bell at the door chimes, announcing another customer. Veronica turns her head as Mr. Wong gets her cigarettes and asks if she wants the blue or the red pack. The man who just walked in is a good-looking Latino, with a strong jawline and that sleek-back hair Mexican heartthrobs normally rock.
“Red,” she answers the cashier. The guy comes closer to the counter too, stopping right next to her.
“You do the lotto here, right?” the man asks, and Mr. Wong creases his eyebrows, stopping midway as he was reaching to get Veronica’s pack of cigarettes. He nods. “Cool, because I got a winner! Paper thin but good as gold.”
The deli shop owner stops what he’s doing and turns to the hottie. Veronica sighs, impatient. “You got a winning ticket?” Mr. Wong asks.
“Yep. 06. 14. 18. 48. Four numbers, right there. That’s two hundred and thirty-eight dollars! Merry Christmas and shit!”
Mr. Wong barely looks at the ticket that’s been handed to him. “This ticket ain’t good. You drew on the lines with the pen.”
“What are you talking about? Just look at the ticket, esé!”
“I heard about this scam! You drew on the lines with the pen!” Mr. Wong almost yells and throws the ticket back. The baby in the woman’s arm starts to wail, and Veronica feels her heart start to race just a little faster — somehow, this quiet Christmas Eve just started to feel not so quiet.
“You keep looking at me and you don’t look at the ticket!”
“Get out of here! Next customer!”
She feels her cheeks a little hot. “I was the previous customer, actual—”
Hottie — though, perhaps he needs a new name — interrupts her when he slams his fist against the counter, startling everyone. The drunk Santa starts to walk in their direction, bottle of liquor in his hand, and shit, this is starting to get out of control. “Check the fucking numbers, you stupid —”
“Get the hell out, wetback, or I’ll call 911!”
Wetback?! Veronica’s mouth hangs open. She’s unsure of what to do — leave or call the police herself or stop the drunk Santa from smashing that bottle against the guy’s head — but then he reaches inside his leather jacket. Her heart stops when she sees it — a gun. A silver 38, shining in his hand, being shoved into Mr. Wong’s face.
“I’ll give you a reason to call 911! Now, look at the fucking ticket!”
Veronica doesn’t really think — or maybe she does. But something, some stupid bravery, or fear, or a throwback from her past tightens her chest, and she gets in between the counter and the guy, right in front of Mr. Wong so the gun is now pointed at her. The woman with the baby screams in horror.
“Okay, cálmate!” she says. He’s not so tall, but she’s still glad to be wearing her high heeled boots. He frowns, curious, the gun pointed at her forehead. Fuck, she thinks. “How much did you win? Two hundred and what?”
“Stupid-ass baby girl in leather pants and thousand-dollar boots, it’s collateral damage. That’s what you wanna hear on the news?!” he asks, narrowing his brown eyes. “Do you wanna die?!”
Veronica holds her breath. If she tries to knee his groin, she’ll get her head split open, and Mr. Wong will get her brain splattered all over his counter. That’s not the kind of Christmas red anyone is after. She stares back at him, sustaining his gaze. “I’m not a baby girl. I’m a businesswoman. I’d like to buy your ticket. How much is it worth?”
“Two hundred and thirty-eight dollars.”
“I’m gonna reach inside my bag so I can give you three hundred dollars. You’re gonna keep this gun away and buy me a pack of Lucky Strike Red and keep the change. Are we all set?”
There’s a moment where Veronica doesn’t know if her words got to him. But throughout her young life, she’s seen what real evil looks like, and this isn't it — this guy is just a little lost. He takes a step back and puts the gun inside his jacket, raising both his hands. She exhales heavily and reaches inside her bag to take out three one-hundred-dollar bills. Everyone at the store watches, silent, — except for the baby — and confused, as she hands him the money.
“Give him the cigarettes, sir,” Veronica says to the store owner, running her gloved hand through her hair. Mr. Wong says nothing, just get her the pack and quickly gives the guy the change.
“Ticket was good, esé. You too had your chance.” He shrugs, getting the cigarettes and the money. “C’mon, Veronica. Let’s get out of here.”
She frowns deeply, following him out of the deli. Outside is so much darker — her heart is racing, and she wonders if what just happened was real.
“How do you know my name is Veronica?!” she asks. This is all really weird.
“I call all you pretty girls Veronica,” he says, smiling charmingly. She notices he’s opened the pack of cigarettes and is serving himself one. “Sorry for saying you were stupid. I guess you are really smart, after all.”
Veronica falls into step with him. A part of her knows that this guy obviously knows her name for other reasons. She also knows he has a gun, and that she shouldn’t be walking with him. He’s probably leading her into a trap. She has too much money. She can’t just walk around with strangers who have guns. Yet…
“You look relaxed for a girl who just had a gun pointed at her head,” he mentions, the cigarette hanging from his lips, reaching inside the jacket again. He doesn’t pull out the gun, just a lighter.
“There’s no way I was going to die in a deli shop.” Veronica watches as he lights up the cigarette. He hands the pack and the lighter to her. Folded over the pack, there’s the infamous lottery ticket that started it all. It’s probably a fake one, but she’s not going to check. “I just had a gut feeling that you wouldn’t hurt me.”
“You sound pretty sure of yourself,” he says, blowing out smoke. She nods. “So, you’re telling me that you’ve got a gun to your head, and you didn’t think for one second that maybe, just maybe, you should’ve taken a different path? Maybe not say anything? Maybe not stop to buy cigs?”
“I don’t do that,” Veronica says, lighting up her cigarette. It fills her lungs with toxic smoke. She knows it’s something harmful, but it’s a bad habit she picked up when Hiram passed away. “That’s not for me.”
“Okay, Veronica. Nice doing business with you.”
He starts walking a little faster, a bounce in his step. Veronica almost lets him walk away. “Hey!” she calls, still very much intrigued. He turns around. “What do you want, carrying this gun around, anyway? You’re just going to do something you’ll regret.”
“Thought you didn’t believe in regrets,” he says. Veronica chuckles.
“I’m just saying that you look like a smart guy. There must be programs out there, opportunities… I don’t know. If you want, my company donates a lot of cash to some NGOs that…”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute. Are you trying to save me?” he asks, half-frowning, half-laughing. Veronica almost rolls her eyes. “Do you think I need saving?”
“I don’t know,” she shrugs, taking another drag. “Everyone needs something.”
“Yeah? What do you need?”
“Me?” She frowns.
“You just said everyone needs something, so what do you need?”
Veronica looks down for a moment, smoke flying in her eyes. She wonders what’s even going on — she’s suddenly thinking again about that moment on the porch, over a decade ago, her cold hands around his warm neck. I know that I need goodness in my life, she hears her own younger voice echoing inside her brain. I need you in my life. Sighing, and pushing the memory away, she looks up at the guy.
“I’ve got everything I need.”
“Wow. It must be great to be you.”
“I’m not talking about— Listen, I’m just saying that with honest hard work and--”
He smiles a little, shaking his head. “I have seen enough. Merry Christmas, Veronica.”
The guy really does walk away this time, leaving her puzzled and alone with her cigarettes. He turns around at the corner and disappears.
Veronica calls a Lyft home after all. She feels incredibly tired, and her muscles are cold and sore. There are dozens of missed calls on her phone — mostly from Hermione — and messages from Elio, giving her the flight details for tomorrow.
She takes off her clothes, washes her face, and brushes her teeth. She wishes she had the energy for a bath and for packing, but she just feels drained. She gets under the covers, turning around to hold her pillow, and falls asleep almost instantly, hoping that she’s not disturbed by any dreams.
Veronica stirs comfortably. Her pillow is warm and soft under her cheeks. She takes in a deep breath, smiling pleasantly — she loves waking up feeling well-rested, and she needed it, since she has a flight to catch in a few hours.
Opening her eyes changes everything.
She’s not holding her pillow. Her head is resting on someone’s chest, and his arm is heavy on her waist. He’s breathing quietly, sound asleep. Veronica feels confused and then panics — she remembers going home and falling asleep alone. Did she call some disposable lay in the middle of the night? Did that weird guy do something and —
She freezes. She’s too scared to look up and see who she’s sleeping with. She’s too scared to look around the room. She —
“Mmm, five more minutes, Ronnie,” the man says in a sleepy voice. Veronica’s heart skips a beat. He stirs, pulling her closer to him. She knows that voice. No one has called her Ronnie, ever since she’s sixteen. She’d also recognize those abs anywhere. What the fuck is she doing, laying in Archie Andrews’ arms?! “It’s Christmas…”
Option one: she’s dreaming. No, this is actually a nightmare. She looks up, trying not to startle him, and yes, it is him — older, with scruff on his jawline, his red hair all tousled against the pillow. Veronica’s heart hurts.
Option two: someway, somehow, she got drunk to the point of no return, found his number back at her office, called him in the middle of the night — oh, my God — and ended up here. She looks around, her heart still hurting, to figure out where here is.
It’s Fred Andrews’s old room with its charming little bay window, but it looks different — cramped and lived in, clothes and toys all strewn about, family photos on the dresser. A dresser, not a walk-in closet?
Option three: what the fuck?
She jumps when the door burst open. A little girl, who’s about six, walks into the room carrying a boy who might be just a little older than one. They’re both wearing Christmas-themed pajamas, and she can barely carry him. “Jingle bells! Batman smells! Robin laid an egg! Lalala, lalala!” the little girl sings.
Archie chuckles, and let’s go of her, sitting up. “Oh, who’s here?” he asks, affectionately. The smile on his face is warm, and he doesn’t look uncomfortable with any of this — he takes the smaller kid into his arms, and the little girl gets in bed with them as if she does it every morning. She starts to jump.
“Rise and shine!” She smiles, her braids flying around her face. Veronica probably can’t hide the confusion on her face. Archie is just cuddling the little boy, who’s patting on his face with his tiny hands, and this whole scene is so —
A dog — who looks exactly like Vegas — comes trotting into the room, attracted by the noise, barking and faithfully jumping on the bed too. It’s wearing a red bow around its neck. “Nevada!” Archie laughs, when the labrador tries to lick the little boy. “Get down!”
The dog obviously doesn’t listen to him.
“Daddy, it’s time to open presents!” the girl says, full of energy. Daddy? Veronica feels like she’s going to pass out at any second. “C’mon! Mami! Wake up, it’s Christmas!”
Mami.
The little girl looked at her and said Mami.
That’s it. Veronica gets out of bed, stumbling over her shoes. It’s not the Louboutin boots she was wearing the day before — they’re nice, leather, but no red soles. She glances at the bed. Fred Andrews’ bed. It’s not a king-size; it’s not even a queen-size. The little girl, the baby, Archie, Nevada, they’re all cramped on it like there’s nothing wrong in the world.
This is a nightmare. This is definitely a nightmare. She doesn’t know what to do to wake up. She’s wearing a silky nightgown and that’s not what she was wearing when she went to bed last night. Veronica looks around, quickly grabbing a robe off a chair and throwing it on.
She takes her boots and it’s about to get out of this room, running, when Archie reaches out for her hand. “Ronnie?”
Veronica turns around, by instinct. He wraps his fingers around her wrist, bringing her closer. Maybe that’s it. Maybe with eye contact, she’ll wake up. Maybe with eye contact, he’ll scream and realize that she’s not supposed to be there too.
But Archie just smiles at her softly, still groggy from sleep, and his thumb flicks over her wrist, caressing her skin. For a second, she’s afraid that he’s going to kiss her. “Coffee,” he says, simply, letting her go.
Maybe she needs to leave the house in order to wake up. That’s logical. She runs down the stairs — the Andrews house is not unknown. It’s been slightly redecorated here and there, but she doesn’t pay any attention to that.
When she reaches the living room, a Christmas tree sits in the middle of the mess, and there’s a bevy of gift underneath it, four red stockings over the fireplace. She can still hear the bed squeaking upstairs, the little girl’s laughter, and Archie’s baby voice as he asks What is this dog doing on the bed?
Veronica sees a coat by the door. She quickly slips it and the boots on, when she hears the sound of a key turning in the door. She stops, looking at the front door, not sure of what to do, when it swings open.
Mary Andrews walks in, her arms laden with wrapped gifts. She looks older, her hair with a few streaks of silver, and she’s wearing glasses. She does not seem surprised to see Veronica. “Sweetie! Merry Christmas! I came as early as I could with the snow, and all…”
She hugs Veronica the best she can with an armful of gifts. “I see.” It’s all she can say, her brain still plotting her escape.
“Where are my grandchildren?” She ignores Veronica’s terror and places the gifts under the tree. “This place is quite messy. Charlie! Artie! Grandma’s here!”
Charlie. Artie. That’s the kid’s names? This has way too many details for something that isn’t real. Where is her phone? Mary starts going up the stairs unceremoniously, and Veronica takes the opportunity to dash out the door, so sure that stepping outside is what she needs to get out of this mess.
But all she gets is a huff of cold air. Elm Street is covered with white snow, and it’s like she stepped back in time. Veronica shakes her head, looking around. Where is her phone?! Where is her car?!
In front of Archie’s garage, there’s a minivan parked. She supposes she has no time to look for her Maserati — it’s probably still at the company, anyway, because this is all a big, fat joke. She goes back inside for a minute just to grab the car keys that she spotted before, and darts back outside.
If leaving the house didn’t work, getting to her actual home will. Veronica races to the blue Dodge minivan sitting in the driveway. It takes a long time to start, and she’s not even sure she knows how to drive any car that doesn’t run faster than a racehorse — especially one with a baby car seat in the backseat — but she’ll have to.
It’s almost a two-hour drive from Riverdale to New York City. She needs to stop to pee and drink water, and you’re not supposed to have this kind of necessities in dreams. She does get there eventually — the road is weirdly empty, and so are the streets of Manhattan.
Veronica is tired and cranky when she pulls over in front of her building in Park Avenue. Tony, the doorman, and his familiar face, is a sight for sore eyes. “Tony, thank God,” she says, leaping out the minivan. She’s aware that she’s still wearing a robe under her trench coat and cheap boots.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Entrance is for residents and guests only.”
Veronica chuckles. “What are you talking about? It’s me, Veronica Lodge. Penthouse. Ring any bells?”
He doesn’t move.
“You keep all my booty call numbers in a drawer in case I ever need them?” she tries. Tony frowns, extremely disconcerted, and Veronica almost rolls her eyes at his false moralism.
“If you need any help, Miss…”
“Oh, Madre de Dios, I don’t need any help. I need to go to my home!” She sighs. “You know what, fine. I’ll go to my office, and I’ll get the manager to call you and tell you who I am before he fires you. I am tired of this fucking Christmas joke that you all decided to be a part of!”
Frustrated, she turns and goes back to the minivan. She takes in some deep breaths before trying to start the car again. Veronica feels Tony’s eyes on her as she tries and tries to get the fucking Dodge to work — she can’t wait to go back and screech her Maserati right under his nose.
Eventually, the car starts, and she can drive away — even if not too spectacularly — towards the company’s building. She pulls over right in front of it and runs up the stairs, bursting through the revolving doors.
Frank, the security guard, is right where she left him yesterday, behind the desk. “Frank!” she calls. He looks confused when he sees her. “You are not going to believe what’s happening to me today. Is Elio here?”
“Miss, the building is closed today. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
Veronica’s head falls. “Frank. I don’t want to remind you that I’m Veronica Lodge, president of the company.”
“Look, sweetheart, I don’t care if you’re Madonna. It’s Christmas, and as I told you, the building is closed,” he says very calmly but stands up behind the desk.
“And like I told you, I am Veronica Lodge. Veronica Lodge,” she raises the tone of her voice. Frank keeps staring at her as if she’s crazy. “As in the Lodge and Associates Lodge, Frank.”
“There is no Lodge and Associates in this building, Miss.” Frank frowns. Veronica heaves out a breath. This is unbelievable. She walks towards the elevator, and Frank runs after her. She’s about to point at the Lodge and Associates name at the big metal board next to the doors, but then, she stops.
Grande and Associates Investment House it says, right where her company is supposed to be. And, right under it, President: Elio Grande.
She looks at Frank, and then back to the building directory. The security guard is now looking at her like he pities her, and she— How can this be happening? This is what she worked for her whole life. It can’t really disappear like that.
Veronica feels like she needs air. She murmurs something and gets out of the building like a zombie. She feels desolate. If this is really a nightmare, she’d like to wake up from it now. She asks God to wake her up.
She’s crossing the street, ignoring the minivan, when a thought crosses her mind. Maybe she did die in that deli shop yesterday, and this is her personal hell. Veronica can’t even process her own idea when she hears it — the sound of its wheels accelerating. She looks over her shoulder and sees it, then, coming in her direction.
Her blue Maserati.
It reaches her very quickly, stopping inches from her. Veronica’s heart jumps. She turns to see the driver, and it’s— “Be careful! You don’t want to end up dead!”
It’s the Hottie. The Latino from the deli shop last night. He’s behind the steering wheel of Veronica’s car, and he’s wearing a nice, tailored suit, nothing like the ragged, leather jacket from last night.
Veronica moves over to the passenger window in shock and starts slamming against it with her palms until he rolls it down.
“Hola, Veronica.”
“That’s my car! You stole my car!”
“Not really, honey. It’s not your car. Not right now, anyway,” he says, smiling in the same charming way. She hates everything about him. “I know everything is really bizarre right now, but just hop in. I’ll explain everything to you.”
Veronica hesitates. This makes no fucking sense, but he is the only person who seems to recognize her and to acknowledge that, well, this makes no fucking sense. Whatever, she thinks, getting into the passenger seat of her car and closing the door.
He smiles, joyfully driving off in a burst of acceleration. Veronica puts on the seatbelt. Apparently, she isn’t dead. “What the hell is happening to me?!”
She didn’t want to, but she’s panicking. For real. Her breathing is short, and her eyes are prickling with tears. It’s been years since she’s had a panic attack. It hasn’t happened ever since her father died.
“Oh, honey, calm down. Try to take some deep breaths,” he says, sounding sweeter than he should. She does try, stupid tears rolling down her face. She hates being emotional. “Listen, my name, in this universe, is Fangs Fogarty. You’re going to have to remember that.”
“What did you do to me?” She dries her tears ferociously. Fangs just keeps driving around the streets that are, slowly, being filled again.
“I didn’t do anything. You brought this upon yourself.”
“Brought this upon myself?! I didn’t do anything! I tried to help you!”
“No? C’mon, Veronica. I’ve got everything I need,” he mimics her, using a slightly higher voice. Veronica swallows hard, trying to control her breathing. “I never regret anything…”
“Just because I’m pretentious you got me stuck into a permanent acid trip?!”
Fangs chuckles. “What you did in that store, last night? That really moved me. Brave princess. Everyone else sees their lives pass in front of their eyes, but you just wanted to make a business deal… That shit was inspiring, Veronica. I was proud to be assigned to you.”
“Assigned to me?! To do what?!” Veronica sniffles. She feels that her breathing is coming back to normal, and now she just wants to punch his pretty face. “I want my goddamn life back!”
“I’m sorry, Veronica. But, like I said yesterday, I’ve seen enough. This is what you need.” He says, shrugging, “You’re going to experience a glimpse.”
“A glimpse?!” She frowns. “A glimpse of what?! What glimpse?!”
“Look, eventually, everyone gets one. Some take a couple of seconds. Some take a little longer.”
Veronica hides her face in her hands, annoyed. “I asked a direct question, Fangs. A glimpse of what?!”
“Figure it out, honey. You’ve got plenty of time.”
“I don’t have plenty of time. I’m in the middle of an important deal. I have to catch a flight in, I don’t know, three hours. So, tell me, what is it going to take for you to give me my life back?! How much money are we talking?”
Fangs creases his eyebrows. “Does it look like I need your money? I don’t make the rules. I just make you follow them. And one of the rules is that you can’t get your life back because this is your life until you figure it out.” He stops the car, suddenly. Veronica realizes they’re right back where they started, in front of the company’s building. The minivan is right where she parked it. “Don’t worry about your flight or your deal.”
“So, you suggest I go back to that house with my ex-boyfriend and his kids, his dog, and his mother?!”
“Figure it out, Veronica,” Fangs says, reaching over her to open the passenger’s door. “I can’t stay any longer. I’ll show up when the time is right.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” she closes the door again. “You’re not going to leave me alone in this situation that you put me.”
Fangs sighs. “You’re right. You know what, I’ll tell you everything,” he says, driving a little further so he can park in front of the minivan. “But not here. Let’s walk a little and get some air, maybe have another smoke? Your pack is in the glove compartment.”
Veronica glances over at him, and he nods. She opens the glove compartment and finds all the things she thought she left in her penthouse the night before — the pack of cigarettes, two already smoked, the lighter he forgot, and the folded lottery ticket.
He opens his door. She unbuckles her seatbelt then and hops out of the car, but then realizes that this was a stupid move when his door slams back shut.
The Maserati takes off with a blast.
Son of a bitch, Veronica thinks, standings there as she listens to the sound of the shifting gears disappearing.
The wind whips up, and Veronica shivers. She looks at her company’s building, then at the pack of cigarettes in her hands, and, finally, at the minivan.
She barely pulls over in front of the Andrews’s house, a headache pounding behind her eyes, her stomach growling, when her heart jumps. There’s someone knocking on her window. Veronica rolls it down, startled.
“… Betty?!” She barely hears her own voice. Betty looks as beautiful as ever, her hair half-up. Veronica doesn’t really know what to do at the sight of her high school best friend. She does not, however, seem very friendly.
“Do you have any idea how worried everyone is?! How come you take off on Christmas morning without taking your phone?! I’m pretty sure Archie is down at the police station, right now—”
Veronica opens her mouth but ends up gasping for air. Betty’s expression immediately shifts from hostile to concerned. “I don’t feel so good,” Veronica says, pressing a hand to her eyes.
“Okay,” Betty says, opening the car’s door, and barely steering Veronica out of the driver’s seat. “C’mon, V. Archie can’t see you like this, c’mon. I promise I won’t call him yet.”
Betty wraps an arm around her shoulder and walks her to the Cooper’s house, which hasn’t changed at all since their teenage years. “I found V!” she announces when they are already going up the stairs. Veronica glances into the living room — Hal, Alice, and Polly are sitting on the couches. She also sees a good-looking stranger, dark-haired and dark-skinned, with Arabic features, immediately getting up and walking towards the stairs. He looks very much concerned, but Betty shakes her head firmly. “She’s okay, Sayid. We’ll just have a chat, and then I’ll call Archie,” she says.
“Okay. Hey, stranger!” The Sayid guy stops and smiles at her like they’re friends. Veronica feels sick. Betty takes them up to her pink childhood bedroom. Different from the house next door, that apparently is now Archie’s, Betty’s parents still seem to be living in this one.
“What happened, V?” Betty sits her down and touches her hair, very patiently. “You’re still in your pajamas.”
Veronica looks at her. In real life, Betty and Veronica’s friendship fell apart a little after Archie and Veronica’s relationship — Betty couldn’t accept Veronica taking her parents' side in their projects and accused her of being untrustworthy, so when the Lodges moved back to New York, it was like they had never happened. Like Veronica never had a best friend.
Feeling her tender touch makes Veronica want to cry again. All these people turned their back on her, thirteen years ago. She pushes Betty’s hand away. “I’m just having a really crappy day.”
“I wrote an article about how the suicide rate doubles during the holidays.” Betty smiles. Veronica doesn’t think it’s funny, at all, and only raises an eyebrow. So, Betty became a journalist? “That’s not what you need to hear. What’s going on? I know that with me moving to Los Angeles with Sayid we don’t get to talk as much, but…”
Veronica shakes her head.
“Okay.” Betty sighs. “So, what is it? Work? You told me Pop’s wasn’t doing that great…” Veronica frowns. Pop’s? Does she work at Pop’s? Is she a waiter? There’s no shame in that, but... “It’s not Archie, is it?”
Veronica looks down at her hands folded on her lap. For the first time since she woke up, she realizes there’s a ring on her left hand — a wedding band on her ring finger. Her throat aches. “Archie’s my husband,” she whispers, half-realizing that. It’s not the most surprising thing in this whole scenario, but it doesn’t help the horrible pain in the pit of her stomach, like heartburn.
“Eleven years now.” Betty chuckles. “I still can’t believe you two got married at eighteen. It’s okay if you feel overwhelmed occasionally. Married to your high school boyfriend, kids… Sometimes, you might wake up and think, is this the life I dreamt about?”
Eighteen. She got married at eighteen, freshly out of high school, she supposes. Veronica sniffs, shaking her head. “You would be surprised,” she whispers. And then, a thought runs through her head. “It’s just two kids, right?”
Betty chuckles, covering Veronica’s hand with her own. “Listen, remember what you told me last year, when Jughead came back from the dead with those bikers, and I almost ruined everything I worked so hard for?”
Veronica blinks. Jughead and the Serpents, she forgot completely about that. She looks up at Betty, expectant. She has absolutely no idea what happened to them, not in real life, and not in this one. Except that, in this one, she does know that Betty has seemed to move on quite well.
“You said: don’t screw up the best thing that ever happened in your life just because you’re a little unsure about who you are. Okay?” Betty squeezes her fingers. “Go home, V. You know that Archie needs you more than anything else in his life.”
Veronica washes her face in Betty’s old bathroom, avoiding looking at the mirror. She feels disgusting, tired, beaten. Thankfully, Betty tells everyone to let it be when they go down the stairs, and she can cross the yard between their houses without anyone else talking to her.
Betty hugs her when they get to the Andrews’s house. It feels very much the same as the last hug she’d ever given Veronica, thirteen years ago. Veronica taps Betty’s back lightly and watches her blonde hair sway when she walks back to her parents’ house.
Taking a deep breath, Veronica steps inside the warm living room. The door is unlocked. She looks around, taking in the mess, and it doesn’t take her long to notice that Archie is there too, dressed now, sitting on one of the couches.
He gets up immediately when he sees her. His hair is sticking up from all the times he ran his hand through it, and his eyes are red-rimmed like he’d been crying. Veronica has no idea what to do with that. “Are you okay? Are you hurt?!” he asks firmly, crossing the space between them in one or two steps.
“I’m fine,” Veronica says, her voice hanging by a thread. He blows out a breath.
“Do you have any idea what you put me through today? You walked out at 7:30 in the morning, didn’t tell me where you were going, or even that you were going. You left your phone here, your wallet! You took the car! I called everyone you know! I called the hospitals. I went to the police… I…”
He stops, rubbing his eyes. Veronica hasn’t seen him in such a long time, and she doesn’t know — she doesn’t know what’s going on, or what to do, or to say. The ring on his left finger is exactly like the one on hers, reminding her that she does owe him some sort of explanation. “I’m sorry.” It’s all she’s got.
“You’re sorry?” he says, sniffing. “I’m glad you’re sorry, Veronica, because you missed Christmas. You missed the pancakes, the presents. You missed me having to find a fucking good excuse to tell Charlie why her mother wasn’t here on Christmas. What kind of a person can abandon their family on Christmas? What kind of—”
“I said I’m sorry!” Veronica breaks, and Archie stops, watching her curiously.
“Where were you?” He asks, very serious.
There’s no point in lying to him. Or trying to make up some excuse. They’ve been married since they’re eighteen, so he probably knows her very well. “I was in Manhattan.”
“Manhattan? Why were you in Manhattan?”
“Because that’s where I live, Archie! This will sound nuts, but this — I woke up this morning here, with you, but this isn’t my house. I’m not anyone’s mami. I’m not your wife. None of this,” she opens her arms, glancing around, “none of this is real, and I…” she stops, tired.
Archie looks disappointed. But then, he swallows hard and takes another step towards her. Veronica has nowhere to go — there’s only the closed door behind her — when he scoops her into his arms, hugging her tightly. “Stop saying nonsense, babe,” he says, his mouth pressed to her hair. He plants a kiss there, and then another to her temple. Veronica doesn’t know what to do, petrified inside his arms, tears prickling in her eyes again when she breathes in and takes in his scent. It hasn’t changed one bit.
“I love you so much,” he whispers, kissing her cheek. “Don’t do this again, okay?”
Veronica instinctively turns her face around. She’s not ready for him to kiss her, not right now, not when she probably smells and tastes bad, not when she feels so goddamn fragile. Maybe not ever. “Okay,” she manages to whisper against his chest.
There’s noise coming down the stairs, and it makes them pull apart. Veronica barely has time to breathe, away from his arms, when she spots Charlie running down the stairs. She’s not wearing Christmas pajamas anymore but a pretty red dress with a white sash around her waist. “Mami! You’re back!” she says, excited, throwing her arms around Veronica’s legs.
Veronica swallows hard. She can’t remember the last time a kid hugged her, or if that has ever even happened before. She doesn’t know how to react, so she just touches the little girl’s head, her fingers landing on the large, soft raven curls of her hair.
Charlie looks up, then. Her eyes are large and brown, exactly like Veronica’s, but there’s something in her face that also resembles Archie. They exchange a look, and Charlie’s eyebrows knit together. “Mami?”
“Mami needs to rest, baby,” Archie says in a soft voice, placing both his hands on the girl’s shoulders and steering her away. Veronica exhales — finally, no one is touching her. “Ronnie, why don’t you lie down for a bit before we get ready for the Blossom’s Christmas party?”
“The Blossom’s Christmas party?” she repeats. Charlie, now resting against Archie’s knees, keeps looking at her like she knows something isn’t right.
“Yeah. Mom is with Artie upstairs, and she agreed to stay with the kids for the night.” He winks. It doesn’t even look like he was mad at her five minutes ago. “Take a shower and rest. I’ll wake you up in one hour or so. And you!” Archie says, suddenly taking the little girl in his arms, making her squeal and laugh. “Let’s take Nevada out for a walk around the block, what do you think?”
Watching them close together, Veronica realizes that their resemblance lies in their lips — the shape of their smiles is just the same.
Veronica goes up the stairs, to Fred Andrews’s old room. In the en-suite bathroom, she stares at the mirror, determined to collect herself. She has never looked so disheveled in her entire life.
The bathroom is small. In the cabinet, there are skin creams and makeup but also Archie’s after shave lotion and his razors. Their toothbrushes match. Everything seems to be bought from Walmart, packs of six for five dollars. Nothing is high quality. Nothing is hers.
She looks at the mirror again, her face revealing a forlorn sense of displacement. None of this is real. Archie doesn’t love her. He’s just a stranger who broke her heart a decade ago. The girl sharing his smile and her eyes doesn’t exist. The woman with bags under her eyes and hollow cheeks, staring back at her, might not even be herself.
Veronica goes back to the bedroom, throwing herself in the messily made bed that she left this morning and cries until she falls asleep.
tbc