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Veronica still dreams about their kiss, sometimes.
The subconscious mind is full of desires the waking mind is trying to suppress. Veronica is aware of this, she took an AP Psychology class and got a 4 on the exam, so she’s pretty much an expert. It’s natural to fantasize about attractive people, and all of her friends were so attractive, they could all be models, even east of the Allegheny (though not east of the Hudson). Even Jughead would clean up well if he took off his ridiculous hat and wore something that wasn’t grunge-plaid.
And fantasies are fantasies and dreams are dreams, and it’s easy to explain away a subconscious desire that presents itself in a dream, and much harder to explain why Veronica sometimes found herself drifting off in mid-conversation after her eyes were caught by the straps and hooks of Betty’s bra, visible through the thin knits of her shirt.
(She starts buying Betty sweaters. Bright, colorful, appropriate for any holiday, with heavily embellished collars and floral motifs and cable knits. Betty loves them and wears them often, and Veronica doesn’t get distracted as often.)
It’s just her mind, mistaking the love that Betty generates so easily. It’s her mind, her body, so unused to unconditional love that her instinct is to make everything sexual and sexualized. Her life can be hell, but that’s Riverdale, not her relationships. This is the problem of growing up with narcissistic sociopaths as parents and in the sharp-as-hell world of the Upper East Side. You mistook any kind of affection for sexual love, because that was all that was available. (So said her Upper West Side psychologist.)
What she feels for Betty must be philia, not eros, and her mind merely miscategorizes friendship as love, that makes total and complete rational sense, and it would explain everything, except sometimes she feels Eros lifting her hair off the nape of her neck, whispering in her ear that this part of Betty’s body is exposed almost all of the time and wondering how it would feel to touch her there, to gently tug her hair out of its habitual ponytail and run that silken gold through her fingers.
The kiss was an impulse. The kiss was an instinct. The kiss was because of Cheryl’s dismissive attitude, because Veronica didn’t want Betty to be disappointed. Because even though she had just met Betty, she wanted to make sure all of Betty’s dreams were fulfilled, because Betty deserved it.
(Because even then, just having met Betty, she wanted to be the one to make Betty’s dreams come true.)
But that would be selfish, putting Veronica’s desires ahead of Betty, and what Betty wants is not just more important than what Veronica wants, but axiomatically better than what Veronica wants.
These are things that Veronica feels that she knows that Betty doesn’t reciprocate. Betty does not need to atone for her past misdeeds over and over again, for a girlhood spent selfishly in search of pleasure. Betty is able to repair what is broken. Betty does not get distracted by Veronica’s body, Betty does not wonder how Veronica tastes. Betty does not dream of Veronica and wake up heavy and hot and wet.
Betty loves Jughead with every fiber of her being. This is as true a fact as gravity holds everything down. Betty would never cheat on Jughead: to do so would strip her of her essential Bettyness. Betty is Good, Veronica is trying to Be Good. Be Better like Betty. These are the rules of the universe in which they live.
In reality the kiss was only a few seconds long and Betty wasn’t prepared, her lips parted not out of desire but surprise. It was a performance, a display, a statement quickly walked back. And soon after, Betty found Jughead and Veronica found Archie, and they are kismet, they are soulmates, they are endgame and it’s right and righteous and good.
But in her dreams, she kisses Betty and Betty’s mouth is soft like a peach and opens like a flower. Her questing tongue darts lightly into Betty’s mouth and finds it full of sweetness. She is a honeybee who has found the nectar and is electric with purpose. Her hands find Betty’s breasts, so heavy and soft, and explore their outlines, feeling with wonder as Betty stiffens, softens, melts into her embrace, wraps her hands around Veronica’s own body. Her touch is feather-light and sets Veronica aflame. She whispers, “I want you, too.”
And when Veronica wakes, she doesn’t get up, she stays as she is, her fingers tracing her own body as she recaptures the feelings within herself, where they’ll continue to stay.