So my surgery was delayed to next Tuesday due to illness, but fear not - I have a stash of chapters! And here is the next one, which gives us our first Betty POV...
Chapter song: Into The Fire - Sarah McLachlan
I'm disclaimed!
"Into the fire, I'm reunited..."
"Mother, teach me to walk again
Milk and honey, so intoxicating
Into the fire, I'm reunited
Into the fire, I am the spark..."
Into The Fire - Sarah McLachlan
Jughead: 20 Days Ago
I'm lying in bed, scrolling through Twitter to avoid a phone call that's more urgent by the second. Every time I open my contacts list, my stomach swirls with acid.
I know it's unfair to expect the worst on the other side of the line after four solid years of sobriety, but ten years of history haunt every interaction with my father. I love him dearly, but when he's drunk, he is cruel, his tongue sharper than any blade he could slit my throat with. Fists would be easier to forget.
I'm supposed to drive to Riverdale tomorrow, but I've yet to arrange the cover for my arrival. I've packed everything, ready to move to New York after this assignment's through. I've called my sister to check in, making sure my mother's drug habits aren't interfering with keeping a roof over JB's head and her belly fed with more than ramen noodles. I've even friended Archie on Facebook and made carefully planned posts about catching up soon.
Call him, Jughead. You're being an idiot.
"Betty knows him. She likes him. He must be sober still," I remind myself as I again pull up his number.
The evidence helps. I hit send, my hand shaking as I await the voice on the other side. Two rings, then three.
"Hello?"
"Hey Dad, it's me. How are you?"
"Jug! My boy! It's been ages. I'm good, real good. How are you?"
No slurred speech. He hasn't mistaken me for anyone else. Sounds like he's still on the wagon. My shoulders relax as I turn over, staring at the night sky through my bedroom window.
"I'm great. I got a job in New York, starts up in September."
"That one you were telling me about, the gopher gig? Congratulations!"
"Yeah, that one. And since it means I've gotta pack up and move states, I was thinking that it's been a long time since I've seen you. I was hoping… I mean, if it's not a bother—"
"You comin' to visit, Jug?"
His voice is brimming with hope, the hoarseness betraying the tears miles away. Dad's been asking me to come visit for years, but I've been admittedly hiding behind school as an excuse for my wariness. I miss him, more than I usually admit, but the instinct to flee nibbles at the back of my brain like a starving rat.
"I'd like to. Maybe for a few weeks? I was talking to Archie recently online and he mentioned going home for a visit and it just… It seemed like the right time."
"It's always a good time for you to visit, boy."
My fingers tug on my hair, the sharp pain suppressing the sudden wave of grief roiling within. The years we've lost are gone forever, and it will always sting.
"Thanks, Dad. Okay, so I'll hit the road tomorrow morning. Figure I'll be there by late evening. You're still a night owl, I assume?"
My father chuckles loudly. "You know it. That's when the night's just getting started, far as I'm concerned. I'll make up the spare room. Anything special you want me to have in the kitchen for you?"
"Just coffee. Lots of it."
"Some things never change."
He hesitates on the other end and I wait, knowing my father is a man of few words, someone who carefully considers every sentence uttered.
"I'm really glad you're coming to visit, Jug. I know last time wasn't the greatest. I was just kicking booze, and I could be a bear, and I'm sorry you had to see it."
"Better than when you were drinking," I counter.
"Yeah… Yeah, you're right. But it's better now. I wish your mom could make the same choices."
I sigh, thinking of my mother's refusal to entirely kick her drug habits. "Me, too. But you know that you can't make someone get sober unless they're ready to do it."
"That's the fucking truth, right there. Alright, Jug, I have some club business to attend to, so I gotta go. But I'll see you tomorrow."
"Tomorrow, Dad. I'll call you when I'm about an hour out, alright?"
"Sounds good. Drive safe, boy. I love you."
"Love you too," I manage before quickly hanging up.
A tear slides down my cheek, and I swipe at the furious traitor. I'm too old for this shit. Too old to be crying over the childhood I was denied. I'm a man, now. I have a degree, and I've got a free ride for my Master's. I have a great job at a major paper. There's nothing to cry over here.
I just need sleep. I'm exhausted. That's all this is. I set my alarm for six and slide under the covers, pulling them over my head. I absently open up Facebook, flipping through Archie's photos. In an album added a month ago, I find a picture of him with Betty and Veronica. The women are flanking him in their bikinis on a beach in California. Betty's hair is in a loose ponytail, her smile carefree. Veronica's leaning in closer, the intimacy of their connection lying in Archie's hand planted on her upper thigh.
Summer escape with my two best girls, Archie had captioned it.
My sister and my mister! Veronica had commented with several heart emojis.
And two hours later, Archie was a lobster LOL, Betty's comment read. I chuckle, thinking back to childhood, when no amount of sunscreen could save my ginger-haired friend.
My chest aches as I wonder, for a fleeting moment, if this could have been my life, too. Could we have become a foursome of friends, taking impulsive trips to sunnier skies and going to prom and whatever else people normally do in high school, instead of taking their mothers to the ER and packing lunches for their kid sisters.
The past is gone, Jughead. The future is all you can control.
I set my phone aside and close my eyes. Tomorrow, Truman takes over. Tomorrow begins the life of a Jughead not yet jaded by the world and its failings. Tomorrow, I become the man who should be taking photos like Archie's.
Betty: 19 Days Ago
"Cheryl! I can't find the dress you said I could borrow."
I frantically flip through my cousin's side of the closet, desperate to locate something suitable for the Wyrm that also doesn't scream perfect little girl like half of my clothing. While Veronica's generous hand-me-downs over the years have helped me shake off the pastel pinks and yellows my mother forced upon me as a teen, tonight's outing is a celebration of Joaquin becoming a full-fledged Southside Serpent. I want to belong with the powerful women of the Serpent world, and, for some reason, nothing of mine seems good enough tonight.
Maybe because you're trying to impress Jughead?
I shake my head furiously, dispelling the thought. Why would I need to impress him? He's a co-worker, basically. A colleague. This entire meeting will be staged, right down to Archie tagging along to introduce us.
"Cousin of mine, did you bellow?" Cheryl asks, poking her head inside the closet.
"Yes! Where is that black dress you said I could borrow? You said it had lace and a halter top?"
Cheryl rolls her eyes, tsk tsk noises clucking from her tongue. "No, I said I could either lend you a halter top and a black leather mini-skirt or a lace dress, which happens to be in an icy blue to match my wicked heart."
She gently nudges me aside, flipping towards the back of the closet. "I bought her for a change of pace, but my trademark red always beckons me back. You can keep it, honestly. Ah, there you are!"
She tugs a hanger free from her extensive collection of garments, the pale blue peeking through the translucent garment bag. Handing it to me, she twists her damp hair over her shoulder and frowns at the rack.
"Now, to find my ensemble for tonight. I'll see if I have a perfect shoe for your outfit."
"Okay, sure. Thank you, Cheryl."
I stumble away to my bedroom, the dress carefully draped over my arm. When my cousin asked me and my sister Polly to move into Thistlehouse with her and Nana Rose after she cut ties with her parents, I was initially wary. Cheryl had spent the majority of our lives reigning over school and being a bitch, to be blunt. A year ago, everything changed between us. Jason's murder had shaken Cheryl, his twin sister. He was her best friend in the world, and her ally against their cruel parents. During the course of the investigation, it was revealed that the Blossoms and Coopers were distant cousins, and in the midst of the heartbreak of Polly's miscarriage, Cheryl had swooped in to offer love and support.
When Cheryl left home, choosing to live with her Nana, she had invited us to move in with her. "You're family," she'd affirmed, "and as much as I love Nana Rose, I miss having someone my age around me. I miss having a sibling."
With our parents battling through a nasty divorce, Polly and I accepted. And while we sometimes butt heads, Cheryl has slowly lowered her guard with us, revealing a tremendous heart and fierce loyalty. I love her, even if I still catch myself waiting for "Cheryl Bombshell" to rear her angry head.
Hanging the dress on the back of my bedroom door, I nervously unzip the garment bag. Inside, I find a sleeveless A-line dress with a scoop neckline in a stunning shade of pale blue. It's a lace over satin style, with a band of see-through lace hitting close to the waist. I hold it up against myself, wincing at how it scarcely hits mid-thigh.
"This is so short!" I yell out to Cheryl.
"Hence why it is sexy as hell, Betty!" comes the reply.
My mother's voice is screaming in my head, telling me I'll look like a harlot, that I need to be modest to gain respect. My normal go-to at the Wyrm is a pair of dark jeans and a halter top or blouse, but Veronica has insisted we all dress up nicely for Joaquin's party. I'd argued it was a biker bar and casual was the watchword, but she refused to back down on her cocktail dress demands.
"This is way too much for the Wyrm," I shout, hanging it on the door. "I'm wearing jeans."
Cheryl appears at my doorway, still clad in her red kimono robe. In her left hand is a cropped black leather jacket; in her right hand, a pair of black knee-high boots with a heel.
"Cousin mine, it's all about accessories. Add a pair of pumps and an elegant wrap, and that dress will take you to the finest soiree. Add a sexy boot and a little leather, and she's ready to get down and dirty."
She slides the jacket over the dress on the hanger and holds the boots beneath it. I tilt my head and study the look, a smile creeping over my face. She's right (of course): the boots and jacket bring the look to a more casual, sexy vibe.
"No necklace, smoke out that eyeshadow and a nude lip. You'll be the sexiest woman there, besides moi."
Cheryl sets the boots down and disappears down the hall, presumably to pick out an outfit that will put mine to shame. I shut my door and settle at my vanity table, glancing at my outfit once more. I wonder what Jughead will think of me in this dress and immediately blush.
Get ready! No more daydreaming!
I turn my attention to my makeup, quickly applying primer as I reflect on the last few days. While it had taken me several minutes to recognize him—he'd changed so much in the last nine years—I had outright lied when I feigned not remembering Jughead. Of course I remembered him. Archie, he and I were inseparable in the summers of our childhood. Archie had been the outgoing, friendly guy, but Jughead had always been the quicker wit. And even when he'd pulled away in grade seven, I'd still find myself drawn to him in the schoolyard. In him, I'd sensed a darkness, an intimate understanding of what it meant to feel alone in a crowd. Archie's parents had split up, sure, but they'd never taken that out on their son. And while Archie had spent years envying me for my parents, I'd go home and scream into a pillow as they fought viciously, dragging Polly and I into their cold war as pawns.
Applying my foundation, I think of how he's changed: broader chest, tanned skin, his once tangled curls a messy, soft frame around his face. And those eyes… dear God! It had taken every ounce of self-control not to stammer and stare on that sofa in Veronica's suite.
While rationally, I knew my plan to fake-date was a perfect cover for his presence, I couldn't deny an ulterior motive. Aside from a doomed fling with Chuck Clayton and a boring courtship with Trev Brown, I'd been single for years. Oh sure, I'd had a few steamy Tinder hook-ups, but they were precisely that: sexual satisfaction only, no strings. Every guy seemed to shove me into a box of expectations too impossible to live up to. So what if I'd rigged things to spend a few weeks with a guy who actually knew me? No strings, no expectations—just good company while taking down a drug dealer and crime boss.
If we happened to kiss along the way, what a shame!
Give him a reason to look twice, a wicked voice whispers within.
Shuffling through my makeup collection, I smile as I spy the palette I long ago dubbed Dark Betty. Fuck it. If we're going to feign a meet cute, I'm going to knock him off his feet. Might as well sell the story, right?
Keep telling yourself that.