A/N: Hi Riverdale friends. New story! Hope you enjoy.

Chapter One

It was an unseasonably hot Chicago summer, Betty's yellow sundress sticking uncomfortably to her sweat drenched skin. In her four years in Chicago, there'd never been a summer this hot, and the entire University of Chicago campus seemed to come alive in the heat. The quad, sprawling green splattered with brown patches from the immense heat and lack of rain, was filled with students armed with their beach towels and picnic baskets. Betty had been one of them with a book a few days prior, the bridge of her nose turning bright pink from uneven sunscreen application.

After four years at the University of Chicago, Betty was finally saying goodbye. It was a bit sad to leave behind the people and city that arguably made her. Leaving home for college was simultaneously the most daunting and thrilling decision that she made in her twenty-two years. But now she was off to the next adventure: New York City.

"That should be all of it," her boyfriend, Archie, said, bringing down the hood of the car trunk with a loud whack. Archie's friend, Jughead, stuck his head out of the driver's side window and said, "Hey, careful with that. This car is a piece of art."

"This car is a piece of crap," Archie called back gamely. He reached for Betty's arm and pulled her closer to him. "Are you sure I can't buy you a train ticket?"

"I'll be fine," she said, rising on her toes to place a soft kiss on his mouth. "Besides, it'll give me more time to get to know your friend, Jughead."

"Call me when you get to New York?" Archie asked, arms tight around her waist.

"I'll call sooner."

Archie dipped his head down to hers and kissed her sweetly. She threaded her fingers into his hair, heart breaking as she thought to herself that this would be the last time they would do this for quite some time. Behind them, Jughead blared the horn and the pair reluctantly pulled apart.

"I think your friend is getting impatient," Betty said with a smirk, reaching up and brushing Archie's hair off of his forehead.

"This scene is very touching, but if we want to do this drive in one day we should get on the road," Jughead said, reaching out and adjusting his side mirror with his hand. It creaked in protest and Archie said, "Last chance for that train ticket."

Betty kissed him quickly and said, "I love you, Archie Andrews."

"I love you, too, Betty Cooper."

Behind the steering wheel, Jughead rolled his eyes. Archie walked Betty to the passenger side of the car and opened the door for her. After she slipped in, Archie said, "Now, don't go fall in love with some New Yorker."

Betty took his face between her hands and tenderly told him, "I couldn't if I tried."

Archie gave her one last kiss and then told Jughead, "Thanks again for letting Betty ride with you."

"It's not a big deal," Jughead said. "I had an empty passenger seat, anyway."

"Drive safe," Archie warned.

"Don't I always?"

Archie closed the door and Jughead hit the pedal, screeching down the street with a stricken Archie in the rearview mirror. Betty grasped the center console tightly, praying that she made it to New York in one piece. Jughead wasn't exactly an unsafe driver, but she wouldn't categorize him as good, either. He was impatient, switching lanes with mounting frequency after they pulled on the highway. After passing a large Cadillac driven by someone who looked north of her seventies, Jughead muttered, "Why can't people drive?"

"We're taking shifts with the driving, right?" Betty asked tentatively.

Jughead hazarded a glance toward her and said, "Is my driving making you nervous?"

Betty shook her head and lied straight through her teeth as she told him, "No, not at all. I just think it's only fair to split up the driving. You shouldn't have to do all of it."

Jughead shrugged. "That's fine by me."

"Good," Betty said, relaxing a bit at the knowledge that for at least part of the drive her life would not be in danger. "So, Jughead, tell me about yourself."

"There's not much to tell."

"That can't be true," she said. "Archie said you're a writer."

"Yeah."

"I am, too," Betty told him. "That's actually why I'm going to New York."

"To write?" Jughead asked.

Betty nodded enthusiastically. "For the New York Times. I still can't believe it sometimes. It seems a bit impossible, you now? But here we are. So, what about you? What do you write?"

"Just odd stuff here and there," he said vaguely.

"Well, what type of stuff?" Betty asked, unrelentingly earnest in a way that Jughead, frankly, found unnerving. He didn't like to talk about his writing with other people, particularly people he barely knew, but figuring they had eleven plus hours left together in his car, he grudgingly offered, "Creative non-fiction."

"Like Truman Capote?"

Jughead was mildly surprised by her response and murmured, "Yeah, like Truman Capote."

"I read In Cold Blood when I was in high school. The writing was so vivid that I had nightmares for weeks."

There was a stretch of silence and Betty said, "I'm surprised I didn't meet you before today. Archie said you two grew up together?"

"Yeah."

The car made a loud banging noise and Betty jumped in her seat. Jughead was unfazed, and told Betty, "It does this all the time. It's the muffler. I wouldn't worry about it."

"Have you had someone look at it?" Betty asked gingerly.

"No, mechanics always screw you over. They tell you that you need something replaced when all you really need to do is tighten a screw."

"Sure," Betty said in a small voice, swallowing a yelp when the car's tire hit a rough patch of road.

"Besides, I grew up around cars. My dad never took them into the mechanic. He fixed everything himself. So, it's the muffler. Trust me."

It wasn't the muffler. About four hours and one lunch at a greasy spoon later, Jughead and Betty stood on the side of the highway, smoke billowing out of the front hood of Jughead's car. Jughead pulled his grey beanie off his head and tugged at his dark hair.

"I'm really sorry, Jughead," Betty said, laying a hand on his arm. "Do you have Triple A or something that we can call?" Jughead gave her a look that clearly insinuated that was a stupid question, and Betty quickly said, "I'll look up nearby mechanics on my phone."

Jughead walked over to the car and laid a hand on the hood like he was calming a wild animal. He crouched forward and murmured, "I'm sorry, Lola. I should have taken better care of you."

It wasn't lost on Betty that Jughead apparently named the car, and she gently asked, "How long have you had this car?"

"About ten years," he said, turning around and leaning back against it. "It was my dad's first. And when he…" Jughead trailed off, "…it came my way when I was 18."

The car clearly had some sentimental value to him, and Betty said, "Maybe they can fix it?"

Jughead shrugged.

"But until then, maybe you shouldn't lean on it?" she gingerly said. "It is still smoking pretty badly from the front hood."

Jughead looked over at the front of the car where the smoke now rose in large plumes. "Yeah, you're probably right."

Betty scrolled through her phone and found the number of a nearby mechanic. He drove up in a dusty old pickup truck and after taking one look under the hood said, "This not going to be a one day fix. I hope you guys have somewhere to stay."

Jughead and Betty exchanged an uneasy look. After telling the mechanic that they did not, in fact, have a place to stay he offered to drop them off at a nearby motel. The place with its velveteen couches and plain wood paneling clearly hadn't been updated since the 70s, and it had the distinct vibe of a spot where a murder could have very possibly occurred.

"This place looks straight out of The Shining," Jughead murmured, carrying the one bag he'd pulled from himself from the car. Betty followed him, large suitcase trialing behind her.

"It's just for one night," she reminded him. "The mechanic said that the car will be ready tomorrow afternoon."

Jughead stepped up to the front desk and said, "We need two rooms for tonight."

The elderly man behind the counter pulled a large book of room assignments from somewhere beneath the desk. A pair of glasses hung around his neck and he slid them onto the bridge of his nose.

"Are we in a time warp or something?" Jughead whispered to Betty.

"Shh," she chided, gently swatting his arm.

"Sorry, but we only have one room available," the man said, eyes seemingly doubled in size from his glasses.

Jughead gave Betty a questioning look and she said, "It's fine. We need somewhere to stay."

Jughead nodded. "Okay. Yeah, we'll take it."

Unsurprisingly, there was no elevator and Betty struggled up the stairs with her suitcase to reach their fourth floor room. Jughead offered to carry her suitcase but Betty said, "I've got it."

Jughead watched her ascent from the fourth floor landing and said, "Are you sure? Because it doesn't look like you've got it."

She hustled up the last few steps, face red and panting from the exertion, and noisily dropped the suitcase in front of him. "Like I said. I've got it."

Jughead smirked and opened the stairwell door leading to the corridor of rooms. Jughead glanced at the tiny piece of paper dangling from the room key – Room 408 – and walked down the hallway. The room was at the very end of the hallway, a flickering "Exit" sign casting a strange red glow on Jughead's face.

"Let's see what horrors await us inside," he said drily.

The room was remarkably normal given the general state of the rest of the motel, and Betty let out a sign of relief as she dropped down on the edge of the bed. She reached up and smoothed her hair away from her face. It was after she reached for her purse that she realized she was sitting on the only bed.

"I'll sleep on the floor," Jughead said.

"You don't have to," she said immediately. The floor didn't look very comfortable nor did it seem particularly clean. She could see a smattering of crumbs nestled against the bottom of the nightstand.

"Archie and I are pretty close, but I don't think he'd be okay with my sharing a single bed with his girlfriend."

Betty couldn't really argue with that.

"I'm going to call him quickly and let him know what happened," Betty said. "I don't want him to worry."

Jughead nodded. "Do you want to find something to eat here after? I'm starting to get hungry."

"Yeah, sure."

After a gourmet dinner of Kraft mac and cheese and Chef Boyardi from the vending machine, Betty and Jughead attempted to find something on the television to fill the rest of the night. Betty convinced him to share the bed with her for the TV watching, assuring him that Archie would find nothing circumspect about such an arrangement. Nearly every channel had too much static to watch, but Betty finally found some station playing Casablanca.

"I love this movie," Betty said, pulling her knees to her chest. "Have you seen it?"

"Of course I've seen Casablanca," Jughead said. "Any self-respecting writer has. It's the perfect example of restrained storytelling. They don't give you everything, but you get just enough of the story to fill in the missing pieces."

Betty watched Ingrid Bergman walk into Humphrey Bogart's club and murmured, "I always loved Ingrid Bergman. She's so beautiful."

Jughead nodded and spoke along with Humphrey Bogart as he said, "Of all the gin joints, in all the towns, in all the world, she walks into mine. Now, that is dialogue. It's clean. Direct. To the point."

"It sounds like there may be a playwright in you, Jughead," Betty said.

"No, I can't stand actors. They're too into themselves."

Betty laughed. "Whatever you say, Jughead."

The movie played on and as the final scene unfolded, Jughead casually asked, "Who would you have chosen? Victor Laszlo or Humphrey Bogart?"

Betty considered it for a moment and told him, "I think I'd make the same choice that Ingrid Bergman made. I'd choose Victor Laszlo."

"You're kidding," Jughead said incredulously. "You'd choose Victor Laszlo over the most passionate love of your life?"

"Passion fades," Betty said logically. "I'm sure Ingrid Bergman and Humphrey Bogart's characters loved each other, but that type of love doesn't last. It's fleeting. What she had with Victor Laszlo was stable."

"It was boring," Jughead chimed in.

"It was safe," Betty finished. "And I can understand wanting that."

Jughead shook his head. "I can't believe you'd choose Victor Laszlo over Humphrey Bogart."

Betty shrugged and said, "To each their own, I suppose. I'm guessing you'd choose Humphrey Bogart?"

"Without a doubt," Jughead said. "Fleeting or not, what they shared was real. Why settle for anything less?" He was silent for a beat and then said, "Anyway, we should probably go to sleep. Long day tomorrow."

"Yes, we should," Betty agreed. "Are you still refusing to sleep up here?"

"Yes, Betty, I am," Jughead returned easily, tugging the comforter off the bed and folding it into a makeshift sleeping bag. He admired his handiwork and said, "Good enough."

"If something crawls on you, I'd like it known that I offered you the bad numerous times."

"Noted," he said, slipping beneath the comforter. He took off his beanie and put it on the nightstand. "Good night, Betty."

She reached over and turned off the light.

A/N: I hope you enjoyed this!