Author's Note:

This story takes place a decade into the future of Riverdale canon. The core four are 26 years old, young professionals, and, oh yeah, all women. This chapter and all those to follow will explore their friendships, with a focus on the ups and downs of dating. The idea for a Sex and the City and Riverdale crossover occurred to me when Cynthia Nixon (Miranda Hobbes) announced her run for Governor of New York earlier this year. At first, I considered casting all characters who were already canonically female in the lead roles, but the beauty of the original TV show was the bond between the women, and I just didn't see that bond existing more strongly than between the core four. Hence the genderswap.

Jughead Jones (renamed "Forsythia") is the unstoppable, sarcastic, and outspoken Miranda Hobbes.

Archie Andrews (who will remain "Archie") is the optimistic, romantic, and goal-oriented Charlotte York.

Veronica Lodge is the ballsy, flirtatious, and independent Samantha Jones.

Betty Cooper is the adventurous, supportive, and insightful Carrie Bradshaw.

I truly hope you enjoy this one!

XO ForASecondThereWe'dWon

I

One Sunday in late spring, before the tourists had brought their canoes to Sweetwater River and their odour of coconut sunscreen to every confined public space, I sat down with my friends for Millennial Brunch―which was what I called it to feel trendy and what Veronica called it when she was looking for a jumping off point for a rant.

"We want to be seen as responsible and independent," she insisted, poking a finger hard into the worn Pop's menu we hadn't needed to read for over a decade, "but still permitted to ask for help. And not be underestimated!"

"Simple," I joked, catching Forsythia's eye.

"Yeah," she agreed, "do you want to start writing it up on protest signs, Betty, or should I?"

"Well, why don't you get a head start while I try to think of something to rhyme with 'underestimated.'" I put on an exaggerated frown, drumming my fingers on the vinyl tabletop of our booth. Forsythia tapped a finger against her nose―our old signal for being in cahoots.

"I don't think you need signs and protests to get people to respect you," Archie piped up, pouting and keeping her eyes averted from mine. She preferred to play by the rules and was well aware that among friends was the one place she wouldn't be rewarded for it.

"It's freedom of speech," Forsythia declared, taking the bait like always. I knew she harboured a secret hope of coaxing Archie over to her brasher and often more cynical point of view… and an even more secret hope that she'd never be able to. Forsythia needed somebody safe to rail against sometimes and Archie was practically handmade for the job.

"Don't waste your breath on her," Veronica cut back in, seizing the chance to be a little bossy, "she's delusional."

"I'm an optimist," Archie countered.

Pop Tate strolled over with a smile to take our orders. It was a quick turnaround for three coffees… plus an orange juice for the 'optimist.'

"Orange is very in this spring," I pointed out wistfully, having spent my pre-brunch hour trying to fall through the pages of Vogue magazine into a divine Naeem Khan party dress and/or the arms of one of the male models sporting Ralph Lauren on the opposite page. When none of my friends replied with an equally breathless comment on couture, I turned to Archie specifically. "We know, sweetie," I insisted, giving her a pat on the hand and the acknowledgement I knew she'd be craving for her last assertion.

"What's it like being an optimist musician these days?" Forsythia asked, managing to sound snide around the whole strawberry she'd popped into her mouth―swiped from my plate, naturally. I shot her a look, but she was having too much fun torturing Miss Eggwhite Omelette across the table. "Has the zeitgeist moved on from angsty love ballads? Is the glorious ancestry of punk receiving a dry sea burial in the now-evaporated lake of the nervous sweat of disenchantment?"

"Easy, Shakespeare." I cut her off with a wave. "Have some more coffee." I took my own advice, adding an obnoxious slurp to get a smile out of Veronica.

"I'm not a musician," our resident redhead contested, gaze locked on Forsythia's, "I just work with them."

"Yes―" we were used to Veronica's verbal shouldering, like we were being forced to the mirrored walls of a crowded elevator as she pushed inside, "―and the more pressing question is why haven't we heard more about these musicians, angsty or otherwise? And you know I don't want business details, so don't even try."

Archie rolled her eyes, her spunk waking up hours after the rest of her. Maybe it was the orange juice. I hiked my eyebrow like the last few inches of an over-the-knee boot and considered the pulp at the bottom of my friend's drained glass.

"You are strangely adept at not talking about business for someone who works in public relations," Archie pointed out, stating what had long been obvious to each of us at that table.

"That's my trick," Veronica said with a midnight smile, "never talk about business."

"So then what do you talk about?" Forsythia wondered aloud, swallowing a bite of my pancake. I gave her another dirty look.

"Sex," Veronica replied bluntly and shamelessly. "Ask Betty. She knows."

I laughed, more in disbelief than discomfort. If there was anyone left for us to shock in this town, they must've just moved into Riverdale that morning. The diner was our regular, our headquarters, our grownup clubhouse and anyone who dined there frequently was sure to have heard it all from us and gotten over it long ago.

"I do not," I protested. "I… simply employ whatever journalistic wiles the situation requires for me to get the information I need."

"Flirtation. Seduction. Sexual politicking," Veronica translated for our two friends―one highly amused, the other blushing and attempting to primly tuck her short red hair behind her ears, "It's 20-goddamn-18 and I am a fucking feminist."

"Emphasis on fucking," Forsythia tossed out.

"So sue me," Veronica shot back, stabbing her salad so hard that I jumped in sympathy to it. Forsythia snorted a laugh at me then dodged the elbow I sent towards her ribs.

"I bet Forsythia knows as much about this as either of you," Archie theorized, splitting her omelette into neat sections with the side of her fork, "with the kind of novels she writes. Mystery is sexy and crime is passionate." This had me smiling.

"Archiekins makes a good point," Veronica decided, ready to re-establish team 'Varchie' whenever Archie took a turn away from the innocent. Our former New York socialite set the unsuspecting, hatted pancake thief in her sights. "Have any tall, dark, and handsomes been arrested by your beauty lately?"

"Tried to steal your heart?" Archie contributed, chipper as Snow White doing laundry with a bunch of rabid woodland critters.

"Made you use excessive force…" I lowered my voice into faux huskiness, "…in the bedroom?" Veronica gave me a stinging high five. Forsythia sighed good-naturedly, taking us in stride this morning. I noticed she'd finally started eating her own breakfast―toast with an impressive slathering of local blueberry jam.

"No one worth mentioning." She shrugged. "Maybe if I implied I wrote romance instead of crime?" Her glance around the table stopped dead, pun intended, on Veronica.

"No, honey. If there's anything a man hates more than a woman comfortable with homicide, it's a woman comfortable with her own sexuality."

"Then how is it you do so well?" I asked, honestly stumped. "The next time you run into Cheryl 'Bombshell' Blossom, you should ask her to hand over the nickname." The two had been sometimes rivals, sometimes the closest of friends in high school. Ten years since their dueling sweet sixteens, they retained the same dynamic as dominant forces in the ever-expanding world of Riverdale-based business.

"I'm armed to the teeth," Veronica explained. "They simply can't resist. It's like bugs to a zapper."

"Interesting mixed metaphor," Forsythia commented, keeping what I was sure to be a much lengthier reply to herself. "What's new in the arsenal?"

"Well," Veronica perked right up, pearls dancing where her collarbones bumped them, "I'm taking French lessons."

Archie gasped in delight.

"I'd love to learn French!" she confessed. Ever our Renaissance woman.

"I might take enough to qualify for a certificate, since we are the generation of the perpetually undereducated―" a commiserating grunt from the girl all in black, "―or maybe not. Right now my mind's more on consummation than conjugation."

"Ooh," I squealed, shaking my shoulders and crossing my ankles tight, "do tell, V."

"There's this guy in my class who drives in from Greendale for the lessons―"

"How do you know?" Forsythia asked, cross-examining the witness. I knocked her toast out of her hand for interrupting.

"Because if he lived in Riverdale, I would've fucked him already. The guy is cute. And his license plate has a Greendale frame." Her head tilted with the recollection.

"You scoped out his car too?" Forsythia verified.

"You talk like I'm some kind of amateur," Veronica replied haughtily.

"More about the guy!" I demanded. My unwisely gulped second cup of coffee was on a mission.

"As far as French goes," Veronica confided saucily, leaning in and lowering her voice to raise the intrigue, "he's bad at the language but fabulous at the kissing."

"You've already kissed him? I thought you only just started taking lessons?" Archie was confused yet hooked. If not for her impeccable manners, she would've have her elbows in her eggs. Pure, freakish self-control kept her hands folded in her lap.

"You should be more surprised that she's only kissed him," Forsythia suggested.

"I didn't want to overwhelm him, although I am an excellent kisser as well. I've had a lot of practice." Her eyebrows squeezed together fleetingly as she idly stirred her remaining coffee. "Wasn't I your first kiss, Archiekins?"

Archie blushed.

"You initiated it."

"You obviously had a crush on me," Veronica reasoned.

"Me and half the school," Archie replied defensively, shifting in her seat.

"At least that," Veronica assured us.

Forsythia snorted. I hissed in a breath; the sixth sense I had for detecting a Veronica game in progress told me the reaction hadn't been well-timed.

"Don't you do that," Veronica chided Forsythia, as I knew she would, "you kissed me too. Remember? That weekend at my parents' cabin."

"Also initiated by you," Forsythia stated with her brand of flat amusement.

"Well, they can't all have been me! B?"

"That kiss was all you," I said, remembering an early milestone of our acquaintance, "but it did help me get onto the River Vixens, so I'm grateful." My smile couldn't counteract her obvious dejection.

"You could try waiting for them to come to you," Archie offered meekly, lining up her cutlery on her empty plate. The chips of the diner china didn't stop her from treating it like it was her own personal wedding pattern.

"Never," V vowed, tossing down her napkin. "In fact, I'm going to class early. That way, I'll have extra time to decide whether I want to sit at the back to stare at the guy, or sit at the front so he can stare at me." She rose from her spot next to Archie.

"Miss Considerate, ladies and gentlemen," Forsythia joked, throwing back the last of her coffee. "What do you even need to take French lessons for anyway? You're basically fluent."

Veronica laid payment plus tip beside her plate and gave her friend a sparkling glance.

"Being the big fish in the small pond has always been my thing. Au revoir!"

Forsythia frowned at me as I scrambled up.

"Did she just calls us fish?"

"Um," I hastily buttoned my jacket, "I don't know, sweetie, but she promised me a ride and she's leaving without me. You two good?" I asked quickly glancing from Forsythia to Archie.

"Forsy's walking me to work," Archie told me. "Now go! Catch her!"

I grabbed my work bag (Michael Kors, because a girl can be practical and still have great accessories) and raced after Veronica to the waiting town car, cursing, as always, the gravel parking lot and its incompatibility with my almost exclusively heeled shoe collection.

Not long after, Forsythia was making a very grownup trip to the Riverdale Central Bank. The bank, our nicest, was located in the downtown that had timidly emerged over the last decade and was still shyly hiding its too-modern concrete boulevards beneath flowers wildly tumbling from identical manufactured planters. The natural and the artificial, the old and the new, hand in hand in our little town. For Forsythia, leaving smudged fingerprints on the sturdy glass door when she pushed inside, the old was the student loan she was forever chipping away at. The new, the cute teller behind the counter.

"Hi," she gushed, displaying none of her usual crabbiness since getting to the bank early in the day meant no lineup. "I'm hoping you can give me a hand with my student loan repayment."

He was polite and obliging. She was ready with the necessary paperwork. It was a model exchange to showcase the merits of keeping human employees in banks instead of switching entirely to machines and eliminating a job commonly filled by members of the Millennial generation. Throughout, the teller remained attractive enough for Forsythia to divulge her educational background, making sure to keep it in the context of the loan. She was sure he could see how attaining a Bachelor of Arts in English, then undertaking a year of law school, then dropping out to enrol in the Masters program for Creative Writing could add up, particularly the law school, despite her brief stint there. Her teller―she was feeling proprietary by now, having volunteered details of her life, which she classed as date-like behaviour―smiled and pulled the black-clad daydreamer back to earth.

"I see you're set up to make regular monthly payments and that you have an excellent record for making them on time." He flashed some tooth.

"Yes," Forsythia acknowledged, practically melting into the cool counter, "but what would really be more convenient for me would be to switch to less regular payments of less uniform amounts."

"Is there a concern that you won't be able to pay back the loan?" The smile flattened out. Forsythia laughed to herself. Imagine, someone thinking she might be poor. And she hadn't even gotten to the part of her backstory where she'd lived in a trailer park.

"No," she smiled indulgently, "that's not it. I'm paid in lump sums, followed by smaller amounts that come a little less predictably. I can only allocate a certain amount of that larger sum to my loan, otherwise my budget is thrown all out of whack."

"If you'd like, you can make an appointment with someone here who will be happy to assist you in re-evaluating your budget." A less flirtatious, more perfunctorily courteous smile rose on his face. Smiles like those were one of the things Forsythia hated most in the world.

"I don't need to re-evaluate my budget. I understand my expenses and how they line up with my lifestyle. I'm a writer now," she stated shortly, taking back her papers and re-creasing them with a precise fingernail, "a moderately successful one, actually, and that's not a regular job with regular working hours."

"Perhaps you could get a regular job while you remain in the process of repayment. It could be some time."

Her teeth clamped together.

"You know," she hissed after a moment, "I'm so glad we met today. I write crime and the trouble with having so many vivacious, intelligent friends is that I seldom find a prototype for my corporate stooge characters. So, thanks."

Forsythia strode from the bank with a smirk rising above her lifted chin and a plan to phone the loan centre directly.

Across town, in an area thus far overlooked by that great contemporary force 'gentrification,' Veronica and I had nearly arrived at my destination. Less neglect from the municipality and a generation that had grown up to make better choices than their parents meant the Southside wasn't the seedy underbelly it had once been, but a definite look remained. Veronica avoiding making eye contact with that look by keeping her tinted window fully rolled up and her angular, avant-garde Prada sunglasses on.

"I feel like I'm riding with a movie star," I joked.

"French may be on my schedule for the day, but it won't be spoken in Cannes."

"Oh, you never take me anywhere fun," I pretended to complain. I actually suspected my friend would gladly fly me to an international film festival if I had the time and the ability to accept outrageously expensive gifts from anyone who wasn't whichever celebrity crush I was mentally involved with at that moment. Last I'd checked, Michael B. Jordan still didn't know my name and plane tickets would therefore not be forthcoming.

"It's not about where you're going, it's who you're with," Veronica countered with a dry sort of wisdom. My eyes narrowed.

"Somehow, I don't feel like you're talking about me. Or even to me." I waved a hand in front of those sunglasses of hers and she snatched my wrist from the air.

"Stop that. And of course I'm not talking about you."

"Um, ouch."

"Sorry," she sighed. "I just can't get the French class guy out of my head. "After I screw him, I'll be much more bearable to you and the others."

"I assume you have a plan for that."

"It has to be tonight."

My eyebrows floated up like chiffon in a breeze.

"'O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou!'" I quipped, quoting the Bard.

"Actually, it's my schedule. I just can't squeeze him in any other day this week."

"I'll refrain from pointing out the obvious pun."

Veronica angled away from me, chin in her hand as she stared out the window, or possibly just at her own reflection.

"I haven't had a free evening since I was eleven years old. For the sake of my social life as much as my sex life, I need him to fill this opening!"

"Now you're tempting me on purpose."

She glanced over. Smiled slightly.

"Maybe. Any chance the source you're meeting for this interview will give me reason to tease you in future?"

"I doubt it," I laughed. "He's about a quarter century too old for me and a gang member."

"Wait," Veronica frowned, "you're interviewing a gang member about the gang in the gang's established headquarters? Is that safe?"

"I've been assured the place is pretty dead until happy hour."

"Which is when for those guys? Noon?"

"Don't worry, sweetie," I assured her as we pulled up at the Whyte Wyrm bar, "I'm not one of those pocket-protector-journalists. I've been through plenty and I can fend for myself."

"Well, call me if you need help―" I began to nod, "―but call Archie or Forsythia if you really need help because I'll hopefully be busy banging mon beau garçon."

She didn't deserve much more than an eye roll, but I still pecked Veronica's cheek before climbing out of the car.

At the up-and-coming music venue where Archie spent all of her days and many of her evenings, she wasn't so much fending for herself as Fender-ing for herself―admiring with wide eyes the instrument her latest booking was gripping with a rock star's erotic nonchalance. Scheduling gigs, selecting that special singer or band to hold each month's residency, immersing herself so deeply in the local and 'just passing through town' music scene that she'd had to give up holding her breath and just start swimming… this was the perfect job for Archie. Usually, she was too excited to learn and fall into impromptu jam sessions to feel nervous, but she'd been orbiting the room all morning, staring at this guy over a clipboard.

After taking another phone call (the phone rang like crazy in the mornings because their acts weren't yet famous enough to sleep past noon), Archie told herself to get it together, pointlessly smoothed her impeccably ironed culottes, and strode over at the brisk pace of the young professional.

"Hi there," she began with the friendly smile that was one full half of the reason she'd been hired there (the other being split between her clearly extensive and passionate knowledge of music and her sheer persistence). "You have a beautiful guitar."

The man, who was all long hair, tight jeans, and Steven Tyler with a better-proportioned face raised an eyebrow at her.

"You play?"

Not talkative, Archie figured, taking it in stride. That was ok. So many musicians preferred to speak through their music.

"Yes," her smile widened, "I do, actually. Acoustic though, not on one of these." Unable to help herself, Archie reached out and trailed a finger down the neck of the guitar. The man attached to it smirked.

"You wanna…?"

The meaning of the invitation was clear.

"Oh! Please! Do you mind?"

He was already slipping free of the strap, lean body moving with a hypnotic looseness, so Archie discarded the clipboard that had been her armour atop a nearby amp. The guy―Harrison, she recalled―settled the instrument in her arms, flipping the strap over her head. Crossing his arms, he stared at her.

"Well…?"

An imprecise gesture invited her to play. Archie did, cautious on unfamiliar strings, but finding her rhythm. When she glanced up after a dozen bars of "And Your Bird Can Sing," Harrison looked smug. Instinctively, Archie frowned.

"You're not bad." His eyes went to her torso, just not anywhere the guitar covered.

"Thanks," she said slowly, too polite (and too aware that she was at her workplace) to tell him to unzip his stupid tight pants and shove the backhanded compliment up his ass.

"I could teach you some stuff. I mentored this girl near Nashville for a while."

Her eyebrows rose as she feigned being impressed. He'd just played the ultimate sleazebag combo: condescension, attempting to evoke jealousy, and name dropping a city that loomed large in the world of music.

"Maybe some other stuff too." Again, his gaze took a nosedive from her face, plunging firmly into her cleavage. "We'd have lots of time… if I got residency here."

She'd heard him playing all morning and, without the attractiveness he no longer seemed to possess, she was able to realize he wasn't that good.

"Good luck with that," Archie replied with a beaming smile and a voice so positive it zinged the way she doubted the strings of this wannabe's Fender ever would. Then she returned to the phone, slid a notepad towards her, and brainstormed some ideas for the venue she would open someday.

"Toute la classe, ouvrez vos cahiers à la page 14 et complétez les exercices."

Veronica smiled to herself. She'd worn their teacher down again, answering every question and twirling the language around her classmates like it was a ribbon in the hands of a rhythmic gymnast. It wasn't her fault that the man provoked her by so obviously dialing it in every lesson. Where was the creativity? Where was the variety? Where was the passion? This was the langue de l'amour, for fuck's sake! Fine, she'd fill her workbook and sit smug in her victory. Both of those activities required little enough effort that she could arrange her pencil-skirted legs at the best possible angle for viewing at the same time.

It was no wonder her mark across the classroom wasn't getting any better at French. He was already staring at her. She might have corrected him right then if they'd still been in middle school or if he wasn't her type; the first option was almost more likely considering her current type was fairly broad―not in shoulder, in definition. Veronica was like a cunning flower, evolving rapidly to attract greater or fewer prospective targets. She popped her shoe off and dangling it from her toes. The man's gaze was already spreading up her body like butter on a hot baguette. Internally, Veronica thanked god for the apparent lack of a foot fetish. She was extremely open-minded sexually, but she still had her dislikes. He was rewarded with a wink. So far so good.

"You know," she told him when class was over, hand planted possessively on the door of his car (it wasn't an accident that she hadn't called for her own), "you're never going to learn anything if you don't pay attention."

"Who says I wasn't paying attention?" He touched her hip. She laughed flirtatiously to encourage him to leave his hand on her.

"Well, no one could say you aren't well-versed in body language." Veronica let her hand slide across the glossy red surface, stepping closer to him. "But what are you going to do about the French lessons? You butcher that language like the peasants butchered Marie Antoinette." Close observation and a kiss dominated from his side had taught her that he was the kind of guy who could handle honest criticism.

"I can always sign up for another course." He shrugged amiably, leaning an elbow on the car's roof. "The real dilemma is what to do in the meantime." An inviting smile and a gaze that shifted from her eyes to her lips.

"What was it Miss Antoinette said so famously? Let them eat cake?"

"Meaning?"

"Have dinner with me tonight," Veronica proposed.

"Done," he agreed easily. "Any cuisine but French."

"Thanks again for coming to meet me for my lunch break," Archie said, laying down her salad fork and squeezing Forsythia's hand before she could pull it away.

"It's nice sitting down to eat," Forsy shrugged, unwilling to get sentimental. "Gives me a break from wandering the streets like a vagrant or a writer in 1920s Paris."

"Or a vagrant writer in 1920s Paris," Archie suggested. Forsythia nodded in her direction to acknowledge a point scored. She took a big bite of her pastrami sandwich, dodging Archie's look of distaste. "I'm not sure what I should do."

"Kick him in the nuts," Forsy advised, mouth full of deli meat.

"No," Archie gave a dismissive wave. "I don't care about Harrison. After he performs tonight, I'll make sure he isn't invited back. I mean I'm not sure what to do about me. He kind of rattled my confidence."

"Let me kick him in the nuts," was Forsythia's second option.

"I just can't understand a guy like that. He barely noticed me until he deluded himself into thinking he was better than me. At which point, he was really interested. Can you explain that to me?" she demanded, suddenly huffy. Forsythia glanced up from her pickle, alarmed at being called on to offer a serious answer. Archie assuaged her fears by ranting on. "And then I'm somehow the one left feeling inferior even though I know I'm a better guitarist than he is!"

"And a more decent human being," Forsy contributed. Archie took the compliment with a pitiful nod and stabbed a cucumber slice onto her fork. "The guy is wrong, ok? He's only getting to you because feminism is still grappling with the idea of male validation. Some throwback part of your brain is telling you that his praise is important and his criticism is valid."

Archie frowned.

"Well, that doesn't make me feel better."

"It will if you understand how to counter it," Forsythia reasoned. "Your own logic tells you he was a moron. The other thing to do is find validation from people who actually know you and appreciate how phenomenally talented you are. Then you'll remember that you're good and people who don't have shitty superiority complexes are well aware of it."

"How are you so wise?" Archie asked, a little bit jokingly, mostly not.

"I kissed a lot less people in high school than you did," Forsy teased. "You find yourself alone with your thoughts enough, eventually you figure a few things out." She crammed the end of her sandwich into her mouth and shot Archie a wide pastrami smile.

"Apparently one of the things you didn't figure out was how to use a napkin," Archie said with a sigh, passing her own across the table.

"So, you work for the paper?" asked the middle-aged man in the leather jacket. I smiled gradually, looking up from reviewing my interview notes. I always meant to tape these things, but when the time came, found I couldn't kick the habit of recording by hand.

"I sell pieces to the paper," I clarified, "but I'm freelance, so technically I work for myself."

"With those legs, you're working for me too."

"Please," I implored, rolling my eyes.

He bent forward.

"Please what?"

I tilted my head, letting my loose blonde hair brush my shoulder. The guy had given me plenty of good information for the story I was currently chasing and we both knew it. Elation led to flirting without any bite or intention.

"You need a permanent gig, you can take over for my wife," he continued, leaning back in his chair with a silly grin.

I laughed and took a sip through the straw of the lemonade I'd ordered at the bar. It was tooth-achingly sweet and fresh from the can. I'd need gum to tide me over until I could brush my teeth.

"Why, does she need a break from you?"

"You bet she does, hun. Wanna know what made her so tired?" His eyebrows raised and wiggled.

"Besides the conversation?"

"Oh, you're tough, sweetheart." He laughed along with me then shifted in his seat to retrieve the wallet from his back pocket. He thumbed out a few bills and tossed them on the table. I gave him an appreciative smile. It wasn't every interviewee who treated me. Rough around the edges or not, this old gang member was a gentleman. "Seriously, you need me to talk to somebody for you at the office there, you let me know."

"I appreciate that, Tom," I assured him, using the fake name he'd proffered to remain an anonymous source. He wrapped the table with his knuckles and ambled out of the bar.

As I sat down at a new table―deeper into the corner, with worse lighting but better privacy―I found myself reflecting more on what I hadn't written down than what I had. I slid out my laptop and opened the document I would now be able to complete, thanks to today's extensive interview. Became distracted again by the end of my conversation with 'Tom.' What I was really good at, not because of training, just naturally good at, was talking sex. The investigative drive was something I'd always had. It had led me to the Blue and Gold in high school and a journalism major at university. Researching, coming up with questions, and then finding the right person and the right method necessary to get the answers had always been satisfying in a very clean, perfect way. So why had I lately been hungry for more? With all the expectations on our generation to tank the housing market or never escape our own collective anxiety, I couldn't help but wonder if the real question wasn't if we were ready to fail, but if we were ready to succeed.

Feeling restless and short-tempered after her lunch with Archie (not because of Archie, but because of how she'd been treated), Forsythia cut through downtown onto a quieter side street. With a deep breath, she entered the independent bookstore she'd been trying to patronize as much as possible since hearing a rumour that Riverdale would be getting its first ever Barnes and Noble. That particular fact wasn't the reason for her visit, however. Anyplace with a lot of books was a haven for her and she never allowed her usual negativity to follow her in. The small staff that rotated through running the store likely represented the entire population of Riverdale who didn't know Forsythia first and foremost as an angry, argumentative cynic. For all she knew, they assumed she was sweet like Beth, not wretched like Jo.

Giving the older lady behind the counter a friendly nod, Forsythia wound deep into the store. She was Alice, exploring Wonderland. She was Richard III, dizzy and confused on the battlefield. She was Amir, looking to the sky for kites to ignore the trouble around her. Turning down an aisle well-known to her, she scanned the shelves for 'J.' Here, she was F.P. Jones III, published author.

Forsythia crouched to inspect the shelf second from the bottom. With amazement, she fingered the spines of her books.

"Fancy seeing you here," she whispered to them, though she knew herself to be the only customer in the store and the woman at the cash to be half-deaf. "You're not going to try to tell me how to rearrange my budget, are you?" Forsythia waited a moment, a wry smile on her lips. "I didn't think so."

She tugged off her coat and folded it on the floor to be her temporary nest, then sat back and perused. Never having thought much of the saying 'don't judge a book by its cover,' she tilted several novels with interesting spines out of their spots to better examine the jackets. The book's age, author, or subgenre within the Mystery umbrella didn't matter to her. All was fair in love and superficial judgement. Alighting on a likely candidate, Forsythia snatched it from the shelf and crossed her legs, hunkering into her mobile reading nook.

Around an hour later, her knees popped horrifically as she unfolded herself and went up to the till to pay for her find; this was why she made her selection carefully before purchase―her position had always been that if you crack the spine, you buy the book. After a quick chat and a short trip to see the most recently arranged display of novels by "Local Author F.P. Jones III," Forsythia was feeling every bit as appreciated as she'd told Archie she should feel.

While the coincidence held in her mind as pleasant rather than sappy, she decided to hurry out and phone her friend at work. They could extend the call by pretending Forsythia was a client, they'd done it before. Looking down and extricating her phone, she wasn't watching the person passing by the shop as she went out the door. Phone in hand a second later, Forsy felt a kind of reverse-déjà vu, like she'd missed something she was supposed to see. She glanced up, not across the street, but to the right, down the sidewalk. Only the figure's back was visible to her, but it was familiar somehow. Except… maybe they'd done something different with their hair?

On the Northside, Archie had also spotted a familiar figure.

"Hey, Dad," she greeted, walking into the kitchen of her family home.

"Archie! How ya doin', kiddo?" Fred turned from the stove, dishtowel still wrapped around his hand from gripping the lid of a boiling pot.

"It's been… not my favourite day."

"You want to talk now, or tell me over supper?" He held his arms wide open, offering two option and looking like he was ready to give a hug if need be. Fred frequently stood that way around his daughter.

"Honestly," she laughed, "maybe never, but over supper works too. How can I help?" Archie deflected, glancing over the detritus of her father's cooking in an attempt to identify the meal he had in the works. Looked like spaghetti.

"Thankfully, you're just in time to chop up some garlic for the sauce." Fred returned to the stove, coaxing the cooking noodles slowly down into the boiling water so as not to snap them. On another burner, thick red sauce was simmering. It was always homemade and always a little different. Tonight, Archie spotted torn up basil leaves.

"Smells amazing," she complimented, rolling up her sleeves and choosing a knife for her task. The cutting board was already out.

"I know," he acknowledged, "and if it weren't for you, it wouldn't be getting any garlic." Fred leaned over and kissed Archie's forehead.

"Yeah right. I think you could manage without me."

"Ah, no way, Arch. No way."

They cooked in harmony for the handful of minutes it took to be finished, then Fred dished it up: noodles, generous ladling of sauce, decorative basil leaf on top. Archie grabbed parmesan from the fridge and the grater from a cupboard and carried them to the table.

"You know what I found last night when I was doing some cleaning upstairs?" her dad asked as they were sitting down to eat.

"Please don't say something embarrassing right now," Archie pleaded, thrusting her fork into her spaghetti. songwriter

"Your old songwriting notebook!" Archie groaned and hit her head against the table next to her bowl.

"Careful of your good clothes, Arch," Fred warned. "But isn't that great?"

"Depending on the year they were written, probably not."

"Oh come on, everything you wrote was fantastic! Why don't we read some of them after dinner and you can try to remember how the melodies were supposed to go? At least it'll give you a laugh." He gave her an encouraging smile.

"Thanks, Dad," Archie replied, throat suddenly a little thick, but probably not from the sauce.

"I love you, kiddo. Now put something green on that plate, would ya?" he said, steering his daughter away from tears. "What do you think a salad plate's for? You come for dinner in this house, you're gonna eat some vegetables."

"Maybe if you have good dressing," she bartered, giving the large wooden salad bowl a contemplative look.

"You don't need dressing! Grate some parmesan on there! Jeeze, kid, you gotta come home more often."

"I think I can manage that."

"Now that is music to my ears."

Over at the chicer end of Riverdale, raised in worldliness and commercial renting cost thanks to the Lodge's ownership of many of the buildings, Veronica and her French class beau sat down to a late dinner. She was impressed by his choice of restaurants; the place had been well-reviewed by a local food snob in last Saturday's edition of the Register. Once they were seated, Veronica's eyes may have swept the pages of the menu with indecision, but the sultry glances she gave her dining companion over the top of the menu said she knew exactly what she wanted. They ordered, received their dishes, and with each bite, Veronica's foot snuck a little higher up her date's calf. He reached under the table and squeezed her knee then, after the shortest pause, felt a little higher to the hem of her skirt. Approaching victory and a rich red wine made Veronica grin.

After eating, she allowed him to guide her to the adjoining bar through the hazy swirl of entrancing Spanish music, his broad hand warm on the small of her back through her blouse. As soon as they'd settled on their stools, his hand was back on her thigh. Confidently, Veronica leaned back, laying her arm along the bar and ordering drinks for the both of them. The bartender asked to see her ID.

"And I didn't even pay him to say that!" she joked, leaning into her date's touch as she retrieved her birth certificate from her wallet. She passed the card across the bar without shifting her gaze from her companion's.

"No."

Veronica turned. Her birth certificate was pressed back into her hand. She frowned, not overly used to hearing that word from anyone.

"Excuse me?"

"I'm not serving you. I think that's a fake." He tapped a finger on the photo of her face and Veronica snatched the card away.

"It most certainly is not!"

"Sorry, babe. Not tonight." The bartender crossed his arms, voice pitched like he thought he was letting her down easy.

"You see that table?" Veronica angled herself to be sure the pain in her ass could see around her, and pointed. "That's where I just had dinner, which I enjoyed with a glass of wine. Are you telling me that across the room I'm 26, but at this bar I'm only 20?"

"I'm not here to debate, just to make and serve drinks."

"So serve a drink!" she suggested, straightening up into the posture she used when it was time to make demands. The bartender looked bored. "Did you happen to read the name on the birth certificate you were just holding?"

"Remind me," he sighed.

"Veronica Lodge." An apathetic stare. That was that for Veronica. She could be denied a drink, argued with, embarrassed in front of a hot date, but she would not accept that this man did not know who she was. She stood, fishing the car keys from her date's pocket herself, with an extra caress of his thigh for not butting in and trying to play the hero. "You must be new to Riverdale if you don't know the name Veronica Lodge," she informed the bartender. "I wouldn't bother unpacking."

"What now?" her date queried as they headed for the exit. His tone said two things: he was impressed and he was horny.

"I happen to know a place with a well-stocked bar cart," she hinted.

In the car, red like the wine she'd so recently legally consumed, Veronica gave her date precise directions to the Pembrooke, sliding her hand into his lap. Unlike most Millennials, this one owned real estate.

I stuck around the Whyte Wyrm until late, surprising the hell out of both myself and the bartender. He was warming to me by a few hours in and I had managed to finagle a small mountain of onion rings off what we '90s McDonald's kids would've called the 'secret menu.' It turned out that a bar full of gang members was just a bar full of people plus a lotta leather, making them smell more like the fall portion of my shoe collection than your average crowd, which was fine by me. Besides, I had always liked people.

One story completed and emailed in to my wrangler at the Register, I still had that bigger idea on my mind. In fact, by the time I packed up my things and headed out for the night, the idea was swelling like the bubble I blew with my gum to vamoose the onion breath from my deep-fried dinner. Out in the fresh, chilly air of late May, I dialed straight up to the top of the newspaper food chain, getting Hiram Lodge on the line. Neither of Veronica's parents lived in town anymore, her father preferring to maintain control over his slew of businesses from New York. He knew my number and picked up right away. In another minute, he was also picking my brain. What I was pitching him was… unusual. Intriguing. I might have been on to something. I was getting pure magnate stream of consciousness and it all sounded positive. I scrunched my hair in one hand while keeping a grip on my cell with the other. He wanted to think it over properly so it would be best if I collected some of my thoughts about this sudden ambition of mine into an email, which he would like to read as soon as possible. That sounded peachy to me and I told him so. Then I hung up and squealed triumphantly, earning me an odd look from a woman stomping out her cigarette near the door of the bar.

"Love your jacket," I offered. "Fringe just always comes back around, doesn't it?" Goofily, I made a loop with my finger. She responded by staring at me for a long minute and going back inside. I shrugged to myself and decided it was time to call Veronica and see about getting a ride home.

"Crap!" I yelped, remembering before I could even dial that she was decidedly not an option for me tonight. If, by chance, she did swing by here in a car, my getting into it might result in an accidental ménage à trois.

Disappointment vibrated the very ground I stood on (in shoes that could've bought everyone in the bar behind me a round… a few times over), then it rumbled up my chest into my ears. Shockingly, it wasn't disappointment at all, it was a motorcycle and, you know, sometimes a guy on a bike just does something to a girl.

Said guy avoided the parking lot and pulled up about a meter from me, driving like an action film stuntman trying to hit a mark for the camera. I thought it couldn't get much better, but then he pulled off his helmet and dark hair fell into his eyes. I was a sucker for dark hair. He swept it straight back with one hand. Very Keanu Reeves.

"What are you doing here?" asked the stranger, slash man of my dreams, slash Harlequin romance cover come to life. "Selling Girl Scout cookies?"

"Yeah," I replied playfully, "you want Trefoils or Thin Mints?" I snapped my gum and grinned.

He had one of those faces that looked like it maybe didn't do a lot of smiling, but he gave it a little exercise for me then.

"I'll think about it on the way." He hefted his helmet up from his lap.

"On your way where?" I asked, stumped.

"To wherever it is you need to get to, as long as it's not your boyfriend's house…?"

Blushing with pleasure, I shook my head, letting it rock forward to face my shoes as I bit my lip.

"Let's go," he said, extending the helmet towards me when I looked up.

A little stunned from my phone call, the very vivid presence of the gentleman on the bike, and one too many onion rings, it took me a second to realize that I should have said no. Instead, with that fabled Millennial sense of entitlement, I seized the opportunity for belated teenage rebellion and climbed on.

To be continued...

Veronica's sunglasses: . _ultravox_ 64U_E1AB_

The dress in Betty's magazine: /collections/spring-summer-2017/products/look-35