Chapter Text
Betty groans into her pillow, a drop of drool smearing across her face. Her neck aches. Her shoulders feel stiffer than that cardboard she’d tried to fold into the recycling bin yesterday. (Was it only yesterday?)
Outside her window, birds chirp to greet the morning. She’s memorized their calls now. The trill of the American Robin. The squeaky calls of the Starlings roosting in the trees. The light snoring of the man to her left—
No. Try again, Betty. Listen again.
She shuts her eyes harder, shoving her face further into the pillow. Behind her eyelids, swirls of colour float through a sea of black. She must still be dreaming.
Try again, Betty.
Her breathing slows, her stomach pressing against the mattress with each inhale. The pounding in her ears fades out, and she listens again.
A car horn sounds out, lightly muffled by distance and some kind of barrier. Glass, maybe. There are no birds, but another person’s heavy exhale reaches her ears.
A man, in her bed. She isn’t dreaming. Betty scrunches her face up, tries to remember what she’d done last night.
She pushes her hips towards the edge of the mattress while listening to the steady rhythm of the man’s breaths. The flannel pants currently stuck to her sweaty legs are too big for her, the waistband falling down her waist as she moves.
Her eyes are still shut against the fabric of her pillow — an odd fabric, almost silky — but if she can’t see him, he can’t see her, she reasons. And that is a perfectly logical thought, honestly, for whatever-fucking-time-it-is-o’clock.
“D’you need water?” he mumbles, twisting around to face her better.
She sinks into the mattress, bones heavy and body frozen as her mind reels. Betty doesn’t need to open her eyes to recognize him. His voice, gravelly on a regular day, sounds even more scratchy first thing in the morning.
“Should be on the nightstand,” he adds on. “With some Advil.”
She turns her head, facing the sunlight and opening her eyes for the first time. There’s a sleek landline on her nightstand, along with a hideously modern lamp, a glass of water, and some pills.
“Sorry— Aleve. You take Aleve.”
The pale blue pills pop against the dark mahogany of the table-top. Sunlight refracts through the water in the glass, casting a rainbow onto the drab, beige-coloured wall.
He remembered. He remembered which painkiller she prefers. She shouldn’t be so surprised, really.
“Betty?” he hedges when a few moments pass, the two of them listening to the noise of traffic outside.
“There are no birds here, Jug,” is all she can manage to tell him. They’re too high up, too close to the center of the city.
“I’ll take you to see the birds, if you want.”
She doesn’t want to see the birds. She wants to be in her own bed, and not in some California King at a luxury hotel. She wants the curtains to shut on their own, to close the outside world off. More than anything, though, Betty really wants to cry.
~~~
5 years, 3 months, a few days, and a few more hours ago
They meet at a college party. An apartment party, where Betty only knows the host: her cousin Cheryl. But Cheryl’s off flirting with a girl named Toni, so Betty sits on the couch, shoveling popcorn into her mouth, watching people come and go from the front door.
She’s a little drunk, she’ll admit. It was the only way she could get herself to come to this thing alone. A shot of vodka, a bite of lemon, a glance at the people playing stack cup across the room. The cycle continued until she’d felt abundantly hammered and shifted to the couch, popcorn pilfered from the pantry in hand.
Betty’s not quite sure what to do at a party where everyone’s off in their own bubbles, playing or chatting or drinking with no need for an added participant. She checks her phone. Even with her blurred vision, she can make out the time. It’s only eleven, and she promised Cheryl she would stay until midnight, at least.
A shock of pink hair rushes by her, and Betty looks up as Toni pulls the front door open, greeting her friends. They all look fairly tough in their black leather jackets, spurred boots, and heavy silver chains. One guy’s accessorized his leather outfit with a light gray beanie, pulled low on his brow. He doesn’t take it off inside.
Finally, someone interesting. Betty sets her bag of popcorn to the side, brushes any crumbs off her denim mini skirt, and makes to stand.
“Betty, so glad I caught you!” Dilton Doiley shouts over the music, taking the seat to her right. “How ‘bout that Calc Three midterm, huh?”
She drops back onto the couch cushions, eyes glancing at Toni’s friends only to realize beanie dude has gone. Dilton rambles on, and Betty sighs. She reaches for the popcorn once again.
~~~
5 years, 3 months, a few days, and a few less hours ago
She stumbles down the stairs of Cheryl’s apartment building until her palms hit the front door. It doesn’t budge. Damn Cheryl’s fancy apartment building and its heavy glass doors. When she throws her hips into the door, pushing with her entire body weight, it swings outwards far too quickly, and she tips into the night.
The chilling October wind greets her, along with a gruff voice and a puff of smoke.
“Y’alright?”
He’s definitely the one who’d pulled the door out of her way.
“I didn’t need your help,” she says, crossing her arms over her chest to conserve some body heat. She’s staring down at the sidewalk, at her old, no-longer-white Keds.
He exhales slowly, the cigarette between his fingers glowing a dim orange. “Sure,” he assents, shrugging off her rebuff.
The quiet between them grows, neither one moving away from the other. Betty hasn’t stopped staring at her shoes, and she’s not entirely sure what she’s still doing here. She should walk home, or something.
He keeps blowing smoke out into the night sky. Betty isn’t as bothered by the smell as she usually is, but still she tells him: “You know that’s bad for you, right?”
He lets out a half-hearted chuckle. “What isn’t?”
Betty doesn’t answer.
After a few more seconds, she drags the toe of her right shoe across the pavement. When she pivots to face him, he’s already looking at her, eyes crinkled at the edges in amusement. She can’t stand the smirk on his lips. She takes a fortifying breath. “Goodnight, then, beanie boy.”
“Goodnight, ponytail girl.” With little fanfare, he puts the cigarette out under the sole of his heavy black boot. “Need any help getting home?”
The cold’s sobered her up a bit now, and the smell of his cig is starting to get to her. Her apartment’s only a few blocks down anyway, the street well-lit. “‘Course not,” she replies with a smile.
He nods, leans back against the brick of the apartment building. “See you around then.”
“See you,” she whispers back. It’s most likely they won’t actually ever see each other again, as is the case with so many of these party-adjacent encounters, but it feels nice to leave the possibility open, so she does.
Betty starts her walk home. When she glances back after her first few steps, he’s already gone.
~~~
4 years, 8 months, a few days, and a few more hours ago
Cheryl and Toni’s fling evolves into something more, a beautiful relationship that sees Betty attending brunches with them both on a semi-weekly basis. Cheryl picks up the bill each time, calls it “making Mummy and Daddy pay for what they did to me and JJ.” What exactly it is Aunt Penelope and Uncle Clifford did, Betty’s never asked.
The weekend before Toni and Cheryl’s graduation, Cheryl treats them all to one last brunch.
“I hope you don’t mind TT bringing a poor puppy along with us this time,” Cheryl tells Betty over the phone the night before.
“A puppy? At Balthazar? I’m not sure they’d let you bring one in,” Betty hedges.
“Oh, my naive little sunflower,” Cheryl coos. Betty’s never sure whether Cheryl’s epithets are condescending or commending. “I mean a young man, of course. He’s a lost soul — recently brutally broken up with — and Toni thought he could do with some cheering up.”
“Oh.” Betty blinks. “Alright.”
They leave it at that.
~~~
4 years, 8 months, a few days, and a few less hours ago
Betty recognizes the ‘poor puppy,’ as Cheryl had called him, nearly immediately. He’s still wearing that gray beanie, even now that the weather has finally started to resemble that of a warm, sunny spring season. He still doesn’t take it off once inside.
Betty’s light jacket rests on the back of her bentwood chair, and it nearly slips off as she scoots her chair backwards to stand.
“No, uh—no need to get up for me,” he soothes as he approaches, reaching his hand out to meet hers in a firm shake. Betty watches his face for any recognition, but sees none. No twitch of his brow, no narrowing of his eyes. Her gaze slips from his, embarrassed. She’s probably been staring a bit too long.
He pulls back and turns to Cheryl, but she hardly moves. She’s frozen to her spot, replaying the moment back in her mind. In the midst of all her observing, she realizes, she’d forgotten to tell him her name. It’s too late now.
After greeting Cheryl, he takes the seat across from Betty and leans over to press a kiss to Toni’s cheek.
“You’re late,” Toni deadpans.
“Hmm,” he agrees, tapping his fingers on the wooden tabletop. “Have you already ordered?”
“I told the waitress to prepare half the menu for you, if that’s what you mean.”
“You know me so well.” He grins, and it’s the first time Betty’s seen his face light up.
“Too well.” Despite her tone, a smile threatens to slip from Toni’s lips. “Now, Jug, this is Betty.”
“Right. Nice to meet you, Betty.”
He doesn’t smell like cigarettes today. He smells of pine sap, the same smell that permeates her mother’s backyard in the summer.
Betty’s fingers reach up to tighten her ponytail, and she nods at him. “Nice to meet you as well.”
He smiles at her then, and she thinks maybe their past encounter has jumped into his mind after all.
“I’m Jughead.”
He must have been more drunk than he seemed back then, because he doesn’t remember her at all. Or maybe he wasn’t drunk. Maybe she’s just unremarkable. Unmemorable. Inconsequential.
She nods in acknowledgement, then pretends to be busy fidgeting with the straw in her drink.
He doesn’t seem as devastated as Cheryl had let on. He’s a mellow person, for sure, but he’s cracking a few jokes with Toni, taking Cheryl’s disparaging commentary on Balthazar’s clientele well enough, and carrying a thoughtful conversation about the possibility of aliens and singularities all on his own.
When their food arrives, he watches Toni swap the home fries on her Eggs Benedict plate for Betty’s side of chocolate chip pancakes.
“I would have happily taken those off your hands, Betty,” he teases.
“I’m not the biggest fan of chocolate chip pancakes.” She shrugs, feeling the need to explain herself. “But Toni and I have a pretty good system going.”
“Oh, well, wouldn’t want to mess with your system, then.” His eyes are positively glinting now, unflinching as they stare into hers. She looks away, sipping down more of her cold drink before any heat can rush into her cheeks.
Cheryl points her knife at him. “No messing with any of Betty’s systems, you understand me?”
“Got it, boss,” he replies, and Toni sighs.
“Can’t bring you anywhere, can I?”
“Ouch, now you’re starting to sound like Trula.”
Cheryl and Toni grimace, and Jughead tilts his head down, suddenly focused on digging into his remaining stack of waffles. Betty notes that he does seem a bit like a puppy now, all folded in on himself like that. No one talks for the rest of the meal.
Cheryl stays behind to pay, and Toni leads Betty and Jughead outside onto the busy streets of Manhattan. When Jughead reaches for the box of cigarettes in his jacket pocket, Betty’s gaze follows every movement of his fingers. They’re long, bony, and practiced. When they bring the lit cigarette to his lips, she shifts her eyes to his.
“You know those are—“
“—Bad for you?” He says it with a sigh, as if too many people have told him this before. As if she was only one of many, and either way, he doesn’t care.
Betty feels herself pout, like a child. She straightens her shoulders before answering. “Well, they are.”
“No need to worry about me, Betts.”
“Sure.” Betty stabs her toe into the sidewalk. This time, she’s wearing nude flats, and it hurts a bit more than it did when she’d been wearing her Keds. She turns to Toni, who’s watching the door to the restaurant for any sign of her girlfriend. “Tell Cheryl thanks, alright, Toni?”
“Sure thing, Betty.” Toni waves her off. “See you at graduation?”
“Definitely.” Although Betty’s only a junior at NYU, she’s invited to attend as part of Cheryl’s family.
“See you then.”
“See you,” Jughead echoes, waving Betty off with the cigarette burning in his hand.
Betty doesn’t respond. This time, she merely smiles before setting off for home. And she doesn’t turn around.
~~~
4 years, 8 months, and a few less days ago
She doesn’t see him at Cheryl and Toni’s graduation, and Betty assumes he’s busy with his own family. Toni lets slip that he’s moving to Washington, D.C., to pursue a career as a reporter, and Betty finds herself unbothered by the idea that she’ll most likely never see him again. Some people aren’t meant to be permanent fixtures in our lives. Most people, in fact, only cross our paths for a moment or two, without leaving any marks. Only time will tell how much of a mark he’s made on her, and Betty wonders if she’ll ever think of him again. If he’ll ever think of her. And then she forces herself to think of something else. To think of the thesis proposal she has yet to finish, of the grocery list she needs to write down, of that guy Adam who asked her out in line at the coffee shop yesterday.
Maybe Adam’s a guy who will leave a few traces on her life. A few ink-stained handprints on the fabric of herself. Maybe not. Either way, Betty will be just fine.
~~~ ~~~
2 years, 7 months, and a few more days ago
Jughead’s forgotten how much he dislikes bars. He won’t say that he ‘hates’ bars, as he used to, because he is an adult now, and adults don’t use the word ‘hate.’ (Well, they do, but not in relation to bars.)
His co-workers have finally managed to wrangle him into joining them for post-work drinks, but only because his repertoire of believable excuses has run dry. It’s summer now, which means half-days on Fridays, far more sunlight in the afternoon, and no possible reason for being “too exhausted to trudge to the bars at this hour, in the dark no less.”
(He’s also run out of socially acceptable reasons to wear sherpa-lined jackets and a knit beanie everywhere, so Jughead is more sure than ever that he very much ‘dislikes’ summer.)
“What’ll you have?” Jeremy asks, probably not for the first time. Jughead will admit he’s been a little too distracted to pay attention—mainly by how much he truly does not want to be here, among a crowd of twenty-somethings drunk off happy hour-priced cocktails.
“Just a water, thanks, Jeremy.” He throws in a half-hearted smile to appease the man. He still hasn’t told any of his coworkers why he never drinks, and he doesn’t plan to. His father’s alcoholism is none of their business.
“Aw, cheer up, bud.” Reggie wraps his arm around Jughead’s shoulders, slapping him on the back before letting his hand come to rest. A dude-bro who covers the football beat, Reggie Mantle had not originally been on Jughead’s “befriend immediately” (or ever) list. Then Veronica had taken a liking to him, and Jughead had been forced to spend an inordinate amount of time getting to know the guy.
Even Reggie doesn’t know about Jughead’s childhood, despite him dating Jughead’s best friend, and that’s why Jughead keeps Veronica around — she’s protective, maybe even loyal to a fault, and Jughead values that. Seems some of himself in that.
“Vee will be here soon, and then she’ll force you to have some fun,” Reggie continues, as if this is a compelling argument for sticking around.
“I might head out soon, actually.” He’d leave a few bills with Jeremy, then hand the water over to Reggie with a reminder to drink some throughout the night.
Reggie sits back on his stool, a frown settling over his features. He looks like a kicked puppy, his shoulders slumped and eyes wide, and Jughead has never been able to figure out how such a big man can make himself look so small.
“Stay a few more minutes, alright? What time is it right now anyway?” Reggie taps on the phone laid out on the table between them. It’s Jughead’s, and there’s a notification for a message that he missed a few minutes ago.
Betty Cooper sent you a friend request.
“Who’s Betty Cooper?” Reggie asks immediately, and not entirely quietly.
Jughead shushes him, then clicks through to the Facebook app. He doesn’t even remember the last time he was on here, having made the account purely for extracurricular reasons back in undergrad and not having used it since.
He only remembers ever having met one Betty, and he clicks on the profile picture to see if it’s her. He recognizes her immediately, even if her hair is no longer in its signature ponytail but rather down and curled over her shoulders. She’s smiling at the fluffy orange cat in her arms, and Jughead can’t help but smile himself.
He accepts her friend request, then sets his phone back down on the table. Reggie’s looking at him with a knowing expression.
“It’s not like that, Reg.”
Reggie laughs. “Come on, man. You don’t just look at someone like that and not have any feelings for them.”
“Since when do you want to talk about feelings?” He doesn’t mean them to, but the words come out sounding sour. Rotten. Jughead reaches up to tug at his beanie before realizing it’s not there. He can’t even tug at the sleeves of his sherpa for comfort, and the thought pops back into his head: He needs to get out of this place.
Reggie holds his hands up. “Alright, no need to get defensive. But I resent that, you know. I’ve worked on myself. I talk about my feelings now.”
“I know you do, Reg.” Jughead sighs, apologetic. “I just— I just need to get out of here, I think.”
“Fine, yeah, but we’re gonna talk about this later.”
“What are we talking about later?” Veronica comes up behind them, sliding her arms around Reggie’s neck and tipping forward to place a kiss on his right cheek.
“Jughead’s mysterious girl friend.” Reggie turns to face her, wiggling his eyebrows as he shares this piece of information.
“Ooh, I’m going to need a name here.” She’s nearly vibrating with excitement, so Jughead gives in.
“Betty Cooper,” he tells her, then starts to stand. “But no more questions, because I am now officially leaving.” He nods at Reggie, then Veronica, and slides the glass of water over.
“Night, dude.”
“We are so talking about this later, Forsythe.”
He doesn’t startle at the name. Not anymore.
“I’ve been made aware, Veronica.”
He’s dropping the singles off with Jeremy when his phone chimes once again.
Messenger
Betty Cooper: Hey, it’s Betty. Not sure if you remember me, but we went to undergrad together? I’m Cheryl Blossom’s cousin.
He’s gripping his phone with both hands when the second message comes through.
Betty Cooper: Are you still in DC by any chance?
~~~
2 years, 7 months, and a few less days ago
He’s late. There’s blood dripping down the side of his hand, and he’s late.
He knew he should’ve asked them to re-laminate his press badge. The jagged edge had cut him a few times before, but never like this. And never right before an important meeting.
“Hi, sorry,” he pants, rushing towards the woman seated at the table by the window. There’s a napkin dispenser on the tabletop, and he reaches for a handful like a bloody gremlin, wincing as the paper comes in contact with the gash in his hand.
“Terrible accident?” she ventures.
“Oh yeah,” he nods, still blotting at his hand with the stack of napkins. “One of the tigers escaped from the Smithsonian, but I wrestled it back in right away — that’s probably why you didn’t hear about it in the news, actually. I was lucky to get away with such a small injury, I mean, you should see the other guy.”
He quits rambling, then looks up at her. She’s suppressing a small smile, eyes dancing.
“No, actually, um.” How to explain this? “I guess you could say it was an occupational hazard.” His voice lilts at the end of the latter sentence, and it almost comes out like a question.
“Paper-cut, then? Seeing as it’s such a serious injury.” She’s fully smiling now, and it’s a knowing smile. A teasing one.
“Very funny. Laminate-cut, unfortunately. I should probably have them make me a new sleeve.” He points down at the badge dangling from the lanyard around his neck.
“Oh, I could do that for you.” She’s fully serious now, leaning forward to get a closer look.
He finally sits down in his chair, and the badge sinks below table-height, out of her view. “You laminate? I mean, you have a laminator?”
“I take stationery very seriously, Jughead.” Her tone makes it clear his questions had been more than offensive. “And laminators are the kings of stationery. Or, well, the royalty of stationery.” She shrugs, leans back further in her chair. “There’s really no need to assign anything a gender, let alone an inanimate object.”
She’s searching his face for a reaction to this statement, he knows, so he shrugs back. “Not going to argue with you there.”
Her smile grows wider, more brilliant, and Jughead has never felt so proud of a sentence he’s uttered before. They’d skipped proper greetings due to his frantic application of first-aid, so Jughead decides to steer the conversation back to where it should’ve begun.
“So, Betty, what brings you to DC?”
She hesitates before responding. “Law school, actually.” Her head dips, almost as if she’s afraid of seeing his reaction this time. “I’m, uh, considering coming to school here in the fall and just thought I’d visit first. Make sure this is where I want to be.”
“And you’re meeting with me because you knew I’d be the city’s selling point?” He’s teasing now, but there’s an ounce of truth beneath the sarcastic, self-deprecating statement. Ever since he’d received her texts asking to meet up for coffee, he’d been wondering why she’d reached out. Why him? They’d barely spoken both times they’d met. And he’s gotten the sense she’d been so drunk she doesn’t even remember the first time.
Which is fine with him, really. He hadn’t come out of that first — or second, for that matter — meeting thinking they were meant to be soulmates, or even friends. Jughead Jones doesn’t make friends like Betty Cooper. He has tattoos, leather boots, and an old motorcycle sitting back home next to his father’s trailer. She wears pink cardigans.
“I know you were joking, but kind of, yeah.” Her gaze is unwavering as it fixes him in his seat. “I don’t have family or friends here, and I wanted to know that someone in DC would have my back. Outside of the law school, I mean. And Cheryl — or Toni, I can’t remember who now — had mentioned you were here, so I thought I’d just reach out.”
With her hair pulled back into a low ponytail, he can see the heart-shaped earrings she has on, and he can feel the goosebumps raising on his arms again. His body knows just as well as he does: She’s too good for him.
But he’s not about to be a jerk, so he nods in understanding, then settles his non-bleeding hand over hers. “I’ll be here for you, Betty.”
Her face crumples with emotion, her smile watery, and he can’t have her crying now, so he adds, “You know, in case you ever need someone to bail you out. I heard you’re a real trouble-maker, Cooper.” He raises his eyebrows for emphasis, and she chokes out a laugh, swatting his hand away.
“Enough of your bullshit, Jones.” She scoots her chair back, then makes to stand. “I invited you here for coffee, so let me buy you some coffee. You take it black, I presume?”
He hopes his surprise doesn’t show too much on his face. “How’d you make that out?”
She waves a hand to gesture towards his entire being. “Just matches this aesthetic you’ve got going on, you know? That brooding, loner, ‘the world sucks and people are terrible and we’re all going to die eventually’ aesthetic. Leather boots and thrifted beanie to match.”
He’s a writer for a living, but the only response he can come up with is: “The beanie isn’t thrifted.” She merely laughs at him before setting off for the counter, and he guesses he deserved that.
“So — black, yeah?” She asks again, once he’s followed her.
“Yeah,” he agrees, and it’s barely audible over the low rumble of the café’s other patrons.
At the counter, she orders a black coffee for him and an Americano for herself.
For some reason, he feels the need to comment. “Wouldn’t have put you down for an Americano, Betts.”
“Not all of us are so easy to read, Juggie,” she chides.
When he reaches into his wallet for a twenty dollar bill, she pushes him out of the way and taps her card against the reader. For the first time, he notices the tattoo of an arrow peeking out from under the hem of her left sleeve. This time, when a chill crawls over his skin, it feels electric.
“Plus, you know, when in Washington…”
He grins, and they shuffle along in line. “You certainly are an enigma, Cooper.”
“And don’t you forget it, Jones.” She pokes a finger into the center of his chest to make her point, then sets about putting her card away. “But we’re all multi-dimensional in our own ways, right? You must like cheesy romcoms, or give amazing hugs, or wear silly sweaters at Christmas, or something like that.”
He’s quiet, watching her eyebrows pull together as she concentrates on the task of finding her wallet inside her purse again. When she looks up, intrigued by his silence, he averts his eyes.
“Come on, Juggie, you can tell me.” She pauses to think, then her eyes light up. “I know — do you have a favorite flower?”
He does. “Sunflowers,” he responds, enunciating the syllables slowly, as if he’s only just regained control of his motor functions.
Back when his parents were together, they lived in a small house in a small neighborhood. Their neighbor, an old man with an even older wife, brought them cucumbers, tomatoes, and lettuce from his garden whenever he could. The garden was surrounded by a moat of sunflowers, tall and towering, and occasionally he’d snip one off its stem and add it to the pile of produce meant for the Joneses.
When he thinks of sunflowers, Jughead thinks of those times. Times when they were struggling, but happy. When bright orange flowers turned towards golden rays of sunlight and pale blue skies, and eventually got sent to the Jones household, where Jughead’s mother used the dead ones as all-natural Brillo pads.
Betty’s smile is as bright as his memory of those times. “Personally, I’m a fan of Lilies,” she whispers, as if it’s a secret he’s meant to keep close to his heart.
“There should be a ton of those blooming over in Kenilworth Park this time of year,” he mentions, and her brows lift in surprise as she reaches for their freshly-made coffees on the counter.
“You see—we all contain multitudes, Jughead. How do you know about the flowers in Kenilworth Park?”
He shrugs, taking his drink from her. “I go there to get away sometimes. Breathe in fresh air, listen to the birds.”
“You’ll have to take me, then.” She nudges his shoulder with hers as they walk back to their table. “When I’m back in August.”
“You’ve decided you’re definitely coming now?”
“Like you said, Juggie, you’re a selling point.” Her eyes are kind, her voice earnest. Jughead nearly forgets how to walk for a moment.
“Why wait until August, then?” He tries to keep his voice even, hide his curiosity, even as he asks a question that reveals far too many of his cards. She doesn’t seem to catch on, though, as she sinks into her chair. He takes a long sip of his coffee in relief.
“I’ll be in Boston for the summer, living with my boyfriend. We’re trying to spend as much time together as possible before I leave for school.”
He struggles not to choke on the coffee, and it burns the entire way down his throat. “Makes sense,” he finally manages, and she nods in agreement.
“It’ll be tough, the long distance, but we can do it. It’s only another year until he’s done with his MBA, so, you know.” He pretends like he does. “Plus, I’ve got you here to keep me company now.” She waves her cup in the air with excitement. Jughead’s surprised none of the Americano splashes onto her top.
He’ll be even more surprised if they do actually stay in touch over the next year. She’ll be busy with school, new friends, possibly roommates, and a long-distance relationship, while he’ll be working away at his articles and battling Veronica and Reggie’s multi-pronged attack on his current relationship status.
But he doesn’t tell her any of this. He listens to her ramble about her summer plans, echoes her sentiments about how lovely their coffee date was, and hugs her goodbye at the end of it.
He nearly forgets about the laminate-cut entirely until he walks back into his office for some old files.
Reggie’s leaning against the wall, posed next to the water cooler like some model out of a black-and-white Abercrombie & Fetch magazine from the early aughts. He gives Jughead a once-over.
“Way to dress up.” He nods in approval, used to Jughead trudging in wearing old converse and denim jackets. Today, he’d gone with a cobalt blue sweater, gray slacks, and the leather boots. Jughead doesn’t feel up to examining the reasoning behind that decision.
“Might want to take that bag to the dry cleaners, though,” Reggie points out. “Looks like you just got done investing a crime scene, dude.”
Where Jughead had been gripping the strap of his messenger bag, the fabric had turned a deep red. Streaks of burgundy litter the front flap. When Jughead re-examines his hand, he finds the gash gaping open once again.
~~~
2 years, 4 months, a few days, and a few more hours ago
The row-house is a powder blue, bright and vibrant and contrasting with the red brick paving stones of the front patio. It’s a beautiful home, with a wrought iron fence and dark oak door. Jughead feels almost silly standing in front of it in his old gray t-shirt and faded blue jeans. Betty had said to dress “casual,” but this place is anything but.
“Jughead!” Betty pulls the front door open, the hem of her dress swishing above her ankles. A split in the skirt runs the length of her right leg, and Jughead forces himself to look up. Golden hoops dangle from her ears. Definitely not casual.
“Hey, Betts.” His voice is strained, and he clears his throat as he hands over the gift he’d brought along.
“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” she scolds, brows knitting as she looks down at the bundle in her arms.
He shrugs. “It’s just bread, wrapped in a warming blanket. Really not a big deal.” The blanket has a woven-basket pattern on it, which Jughead thinks is pretty neat, but he doesn’t tell her that.
“Well, we appreciate it,” she responds, smile bright as she looks back up at him. “Come in, come meet everyone.”
“Everyone” consists of Ethel, Betty’s roommate, and a handful of friends they’d made during orientation week. They’re all spread out across the kitchen and living room, a large space flooded with light from the bay windows by the front door.
Trev, a football-player-with-a-heart-of-gold type, stands up from the couch to introduce himself. He shuffles around as he speaks, almost nervous, and explains that he’d like to represent athletes in the future. Specifically college athletes, against the NCAA. Jughead briefly thinks Reggie would be a great person to have around for this conversation, and nods along until it’s his turn to introduce himself.
He’s barely opened his mouth when Betty swoops in, all bouncy curls and tanned legs. Jughead tries to keep his focus on Trev, but Trev couldn’t be more distracted, eyes brightening in her presence.
“This is Jughead,” she explains, “my friend from NYU. He works for the Post, right, Juggie?”
She nudges him with her shoulder, and he turns back to Trev.
“The Washington one, not New York, but yeah.”
“A reporter?” a voice comes from the kitchen. A tall man sways towards them, red solo cup in hand, and he already seems fairly drunk despite it being early in the evening. “You never know when one of those could come in handy. My boyfriend in college was a reporter, actually.” He switches the drink to his left hand before reaching out with his right. “Kevin Keller, pleasure to meet you.”
“Jughead Jones,” Jughead responds, shaking his hand. When Kevin’s brow quirks up at Jughead’s name, Betty steps in.
“Kevin’s going to be a civil rights lawyer.”
Kevin takes a sip of his drink, then nods. “I was going to be an entertainment lawyer, but then I thought, you know, I should probably be fighting for the rights of all gays, not just the ones in LA.”
“Ah.”
Betty lets out a small laugh, lightly swatting at Kevin’s arm as if to scold him for the joke. “Kev and I met the first day of orientation, and we clicked immediately. It was actually his idea to have this little housewarming party.”
“No better way to meet people.”
“But he refused to host,” Betty teases, “despite his apartment having the most beautiful rooftop view.”
Kevin waves a dismissive hand, the sleeves of his glittery button-up shimmering with the movement. “I already told you, B, I cannot have the people from 10B seeing me day drunk already. I need to keep up some air of mystery—some mystique.”
Betty chuckles, then side-steps to make room as another person joins their group. Ethel bumps into Kevin when she slots into place, and he steadies himself with a grip on her shoulder.
Shorter than everyone but more than making up for the height difference in frenetic energy, Ethel bounces on the tips of her toes as she smiles up at Jughead.
“I’m Ethel, Betty’s roommate. I’m not sure if Betty’s mentioned me?”
Betty sneaks a smirk at Jughead, and he’s not sure what it means. “Yeah, uh, she did. It’s nice to finally meet you, Ethel.”
She stops bouncing and reaches for Kevin’s solo cup. He lets her take it, and she downs what’s left of the drink.
“Likewise,” she responds, then points at the empty cup in her hand. “Did you want something to drink? We’ve got a ton of stuff, I’m going for a refill, and I can get you pretty much anything.”
Jughead notices Trev’s cup is also empty, but he won’t bring it up if nobody else does.
“I’ve got it, Eth, but thanks,” Betty tells her, jumping in. Her fingers flit down to meet his wrist, and she tugs on his arm to drag him towards the kitchen.
“Nice to meet you all,” Jughead reiterates, nearly tripping over his feet as he follows her, turning around to wave at Ethel, Kevin, and Trev.
Once they’ve stepped into the kitchen—a small, tiled room towards the back of the house—Betty leans her weight against the counter, hands gripping the faux-marble top. He can hear her giggling under her breath.
“What?” he asks, confused. He’s standing a few steps away from her, taking in the bottles of soda and alcohol littering the table tucked into the corner of the room.
She laughs again. “You should’ve seen your face, listening to them. It’s like I talked you into joining me in the ninth circle of hell.”
Had he really been that transparent? “I wasn’t, I mean, I didn’t—“ He takes a deep breath, gathers himself. “I’m sorry, Betty. I hope your friends don’t think I was being rude, and I didn’t mean to make you feel bad for inviting me. I’m glad you did, really.”
“I don’t think they noticed.” She moves from her spot against the counter, and now she’s picking up discarded solo cups and stacking them together. “And I know they can be a lot, but they should mellow out in a bit. They were just really excited to meet you—Ethel especially.”
Something tightens in his chest. “Yeah?”
“Yeah, I think she really likes you.” Betty’s smirking at him again. “I haven’t spoken to her about it, of course, but I haven’t seen her act like that around someone before.”
“I doubt— I mean, I don’t think—”
“Yeah, you’re right, it’s probably nothing.” Betty stops cleaning up spilled drinks and toppled cups, but she’s still smiling at him like he knows nothing at all, and Jughead stuffs his hands into his pockets. “Speaking of Ethel, actually, I did forget to ask if you wanted anything. I know you don’t drink, but we’ve got water, soda, juice.” Her eyes search the room for other options. “Tea? Coffee?”
His fingers reach for the small carton deep in his pocket. “I think I might just head out for a smoke.”
“You know how I feel about that.” She’s frowning now, and he almost regrets saying anything at all.
“Yeah, I do.”
When he doesn’t say anything else, she shrugs. “Suit yourself, then. But don’t run out on us when you’re out there, alright?”
It’s an olive branch, he supposes, and he takes it.
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Betts.”
~~~
2 years, 4 months, a few days, and a few less hours ago
“Are you nervous about it?”
They’re sitting together on the couch, Jughead leaning against the armrest while Betty sits firmly in the center, her legs propped up on the coffee table in front of them. Two paper plates are stacked next to her feet, greasy with pizza oil.
The party’s started to wind down, as people have tired of dancing and socializing and taking more shots than advisable. Ethel’s busy keeping the peace between two people arguing over the aux, and Betty’s long given up her attempt at being the perfect hostess.
“About law school?” Her eyes glaze over as she ponders the question. “I am a bit nervous, I guess, but also excited. I’ve heard all the horror stories, all the people who say it pushes you past every limit, but I think I’m prepared for that.”
She fidgets with the tasseled throw pillow to her right.
“It’s going to be so much work, and I won’t have much time for anything other than school, but I tend to thrive on being that busy. If I’m not pushing myself, if I’m not filling my schedule with work, I don’t feel like myself.”
“You know that’s probably—“
“Bad for you?”
“I was going to say, something you should work on.”
She turns to face him, and Jughead feels a laugh escape his chest. She smiles back, but her eyes soften with a certain sadness. Jughead feels the urge to reach out and settle his hand over hers. He shoves his fingers under his thigh instead.
When she speaks again, it’s almost in a whisper. “I know it’s not healthy, pushing yourself until you break, basing your sense of self and worth in your productivity. But that’s pretty much how I was raised—by my mother and, let’s face it, by the capitalist society we live in—and it’s hard to break out of that.”
In the silence that follows, Jughead’s hand twitches under his leg. He takes a moment to find the right words, and when he does, they’re just as quiet as hers.
“I just don’t want you to burn out, Betts.” The sun has settled low in the sky, its flickering light turning the darkness a pale pink. Around them, people are finishing up the last few bites of food. “I know you’ll be busy, and we won’t be seeing each other much, but you’ll let me know if you need a break, yeah?”
She slumps further back against the couch, then leans into his side, her shoulder coming to rest against his. It’s almost comforting, having her weight on him.
“Of course, Juggie,” she says through a yawn. Her eyes flutter shut and her breathing steadies, and he doesn’t dare move.
He stays there until she awakens, the sky dark outside, her guests gone. Ethel’s out helping a few friends find their way home.
“You didn’t have to stay,” she tells him, almost shy, her hands wiping at her tired eyes as she sits up.
He doesn’t know how to tell her that there’s no world in which he would’ve disturbed her sleep, especially not to leave her behind on the couch, home alone. He tries his best.
“I told Ethel I would.”
Her response, a small “Oh,” falls heavy into the space between them. When she gets up from the couch, he follows suit. They stretch their legs in silence.
She bends down to pick up the used plates from the coffee table. “I should go text Adam, let him know I fell asleep. I’ve probably got a few missed calls by now.”
He can only nod, his hands back in his pockets, his shoulders hunched.
“Well, uh, thanks for the party, Betts,” he manages.
She looks up at him with sleepy eyes and a tilted smile. When she steps into his chest, arms outstretched, he doesn’t flinch.
“Thanks for coming, Jug,” she whispers, breath hot against his shoulder. Her arms are wrapped around him, her warmth spreading through the thin fabric of his old t-shirt. An electric shiver runs down his back.
~~~
2 years, 3 months, and a few days ago
Jughead invites her to his birthday dinner. It’s only fair, he thinks, after she’d invited him to her housewarming party. It has absolutely nothing to do with Veronica badgering him about finding other friends.
“I thought you said she was coming,” Veronica comments drily, a careful eye roving over her new manicure. Her nails are a dark eggplant color, the same shade as her shirt. (It’s a fancy kind of shirt, with a white collar and pearl buttons, but if it has a specific name, Jughead doesn’t know it.)
“She just texted me. She’s running late,” Jughead responds, turning his phone back off after shooting Betty a text to say that there’s no rush.
“I could’ve told you that much.”
“Aw, come on, Ron,” Reggie appeases, scooting his chair closer to hers. He leans in conspiratorially, lowering his mouth to her ear. Jughead can still hear him across the table, because Reggie Mantle has never learned the definition of the word “subtle.” “This gives us the chance to grill him before she gets here. Really dig in.”
“We’re just friends,” Jughead clarifies. He’s lost track of how many times he’s told them this today alone.
“I don’t see you inviting any other ‘friends,’” Veronica uses air-quotes here, “to dinner. In fact, in all the years I’ve known you, you’ve only ever told me about your birthday. And, by extension, Reggie. What’s so special about this girl?”
“You told me to invite someone,” he defends himself, eyes flickering around the restaurant in search of the blonde-haired someone who could save him from this conversation. Wherever she is, he hopes she’ll get here soon.
Veronica shoots him a pointed look. Admittedly, it wasn’t the best defense.
“You sure this isn’t you shooting your shot?” Reggie asks, and based off his earnest expression, Jughead can tell he’s using these words unironically.
“She has a boyfriend, guys,” Jughead finally admits, and even he can hear the defeat in his voice.
“A serious one?”
“They’ve been together over two years now. So, pretty serious.”
“And he’s moving here with her?”
“Next year, after he’s finished his MBA at Harvard.”
Veronica’s brow arches at this information, and Jughead cannot tell whether she’s intrigued by the hint at a long-distance relationship or by the Harvard name-drop.
Reggie whistles. “This Betty sure knows how to pick ‘em, huh?” Veronica jabs her elbow into his side, and he moves his chair back away from her with hurt on his face.
“Like I said, we’re just friends.” Jughead sighs. “Can we drop this now?”
“Of course, Torombolo,” Veronica coos, and he’s not at all assured.
When Betty finally rushes into the restaurant, coat drenched and hair matted to her head by the rain, Veronica lights up again.
“Bettykins! So nice to finally meet you. We’ve heard so much about you.” Her voice is smooth, her mannerisms practiced. Jughead nearly groans at her antics, but Veronica shoots him a withering look, and he accepts his fate.
At the end of the night, after he’s deposited the leftovers in his fridge and found his way into bed with a content ache to his bones, his phone alerts him to a new text. It’s from Veronica.
“I think Bettykins and I are going to be the best of friends,” it reads. Jughead shoves his phone back onto the nightstand without a response.
~~~
1 year, 10 months, a few days, and a few more hours ago
“You’re all wet,” Kevin notes, unimpressed.
With the hand not holding grocery bags full of ice cream, Jughead gestures at the rain falling around him. “I left the house in a rush, forgot an umbrella. Can I come in?”
The rain continues to pour, soaking his beanie, as he waits on the doorstep.
“Did he bring the ice cream?” Ethel yells from inside the house.
Jughead hands Kevin the grocery bags, then follows him inside. His shoes squeak with every step, and he stops to take them off. “I still don’t understand why you’d need ice cream in an emergency. Let alone this much of it.”
“Oh, this is an emergency of the heart, Jones,” Kevin explains, setting the pints out on the kitchen counter. “Betty’s been going through about a pint a day, and we finally ran out.”
Jughead wants to ask why Kevin couldn’t have gone out for more himself, but he refrains in favor of inquiring after Betty.
“Is she okay?”
He’d been wondering what their so-called emergency was, and why Ethel was the one texting him about it, but Ethel’s messages had been so urgent he hadn’t bothered to ask any questions.
“She hasn’t left her bed since Thursday night.” It’s Sunday afternoon now. “Honestly, a shower would probably do her more good than all this sugar and dairy.”
Nonetheless, Kevin pulls a spoon out of the cutlery drawer and hands it to Ethel.
“Adam broke up with her,” Ethel whispers as she walks by Jughead and out into the hallway, spoon and pint of Cherry Garcia in hand.
“He what?”
Kevin nods as he stacks the other pints in the freezer. Cold air diffuses into the rest of the room, and Jughead’s starting to freeze, wet clothes sticking to his skin.
“I think it finally hit him that Betty’s going to be in DC for the next few years, possibly more. He told her he hates it here.”
Adam had visited in February, over the Presidents Day weekend. Betty had seemed so excited about him coming down to see her.
“You’re telling me he didn’t realize she’d be here, in the city where she goes to law school, for the next three years?”
Kevin shrugs, shutting the freezer door. Jughead pulls his damp sweater off his chest. “If you ask me, something else is going on there, but Betty hasn’t said a word. I’m not going to push her.”
“Yeah, ‘course not.”
“Thanks for the Ben & Jerry’s, though. We would’ve died without you. No one else was picking up.”
Jughead shoves his hands in his pockets, lets a raindrop fall from his hair onto his cheek.
“D’you want an umbrella for the walk back?”
What he really wants, he thinks, is to stay here and make sure Betty’s okay.
“Nah, I’ll catch the metro at Union. It’s only a few blocks—I should be fine.”
Kevin looks him up and down. He sets a heavy hand on Jughead’s shoulder, looks him in the eye. “I’ll have her text you as soon as she’s feeling better, alright?”
“Yeah. Yeah, thanks, Kev.”
Kevin pulls away, then punches Jughead’s shoulder lightly. A grin spreads across his face. “No problem, bro.”
~~~
1 year, 10 months, a few days, and a few less hours ago
Betty Cooper: just wanted to say thanks - for earlier
Jughead Jones: I didn’t do anything, really. other than run in the rain to bring you some ice cream
Betty Cooper: when you put it like that, it sounds quite romantic
Jughead Jones: Oh it was, especially when Kevin opened the door
Betty Cooper: I hope he was nice to you :(
Jughead Jones: he was a proper gentleman. almost swoon-worthy
Betty Cooper: mhmmm, is there something you’d like to tell me, Juggie? you know you can tell me anything, right?
Jughead’s fingers still on the screen. Another time, he decides, at a better time.
Jughead Jones: you feeling any better now?
The ellipsis bubble pops up a few times, then disappears. After a few moments, a text shows up on his screen.
Betty Cooper: still not great, but definitely better. thanks for checking in on me
Jughead Jones: no problem, Betts
Betty Cooper: I still can’t believe Ethel texted you to bring me ice cream. I only gave her your number for emergencies !!
Jughead smiles at his phone, lets himself relax further into his pillow. He’s in bed now, attempting to warm up after the journey back home.
Jughead Jones: in her defense, it was one
He pulls the covers further up around him.
Jughead Jones: i’m glad she reached out, though
Betty Cooper: yeah?
Jughead Jones: yeah. now get some rest, Cooper. you’ve got class tomorrow
Betty Cooper: ugh, don’t remind me
He sends her the same text again, and she dislikes it.
Betty Cooper: why do you never listen to me
He knows she’s joking, but surely, she must know—
Jughead Jones: I always listen to you
The weight of his response settles on his chest, collapses his lungs. When her text comes in, he can breathe again. Barely.
Betty Cooper: sure, Juggie, but we should really go to bed. you’re being distracting, and i’m not sure if you know this, but i’ve got class tomorrow ;)
~~~ ~~~
1 year, 7 months, and a few more days ago
“What is that?” Betty asks, her heart in her throat and a hand clutched to her chest. It’s a distinctly “Alice Cooper” move, one she’s noticed herself pull more often as she’s gotten older, and Betty jerks her hand back down to remedy the situation.
“What is what?” Veronica asks, searching around the tabletop for any offending item. She sighs when her gaze lands on the diamond ring on her left hand. “Oh, that.”
“Yes, that.” Betty points at Veronica’s ring finger. “Ronnie, is that what I think it is?”
Veronica slips the ring off with ease, setting the stunning piece of jewelry down next to her glass of water. The nonchalance of her mannerisms is almost astonishing; Betty thinks she could probably pay off her student loans with a ring like that.
(If not all of them, then at least the ones she took out to afford law school last year.)
“It’s not actually an engagement ring, Bettykins. I’ve been apartment hunting with Reggie, and realtors find you much more trustworthy when you’re engaged, that’s all.”
Betty finds it hard to believe anyone could find fault with Veronica, ring or not. She’s wearing a Chanel skirt-suit to brunch, while Betty sits across from her in a floral button-down and jeans.
“Well, I’m happy to hear that.” Betty lets out a small laugh as she rearranges the cutlery in front of her. “I don’t think I’m ready for my friends to start getting married. So many people in law school are older than me, or already have life partners, and I just feel like that’s not where I’m at. If my friends start moving on with their lives too, then I just— I don’t know what I’d do.”
“Bee, no one’s moving on without you,” Veronica reassures her, voice soft and rhythmic. It’s comforting, being around Veronica. Betty’s needed space to rethink her relationships, both romantic and platonic, since the breakup in March, and Veronica’s been a calming influence throughout the process.
“Yeah, I know.” Betty shrugs, still looking down at the empty white plate in front of her.
“And maybe it’s cliche to say, but life isn’t a race where everyone is running next to each other, sizing each other up as they move down the track. People don’t follow one set path, and there isn’t a shared goal line. We’re all just making the choices that we think will make us happy from one day to the next, and that happiness looks different for everyone.” Veronica slips the ring back on her finger, then takes a sip of her water, eyes focused on Betty. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine,” Betty tells her, forcing a smile onto her face.
“Of course you will be, Bettykins.” Veronica’s eyes are kind. “You’re Betty Cooper. You’re a badass.”
Betty laughs as a waiter approaches the table for their orders.
“All that being said, though, Reggie and I are definitely going to get engaged by the end of the summer.”
When the waiter finally reaches them, Veronica orders first. For some reason, Betty has a hard time finding her voice.