Disclaimer: You know the drill, I do not own Riverdale or its characters.
Prologue.
Present day. New York City.
Jughead:
There's a certain tropical airiness that runs through all my favorite summer songs. I've never really been a summer-down-at-the-beach kind of guy. Growing up in upstate New York, summer was always restless and chaotic – and over before you knew it. It never lingered long enough to truly make sense. Back then, young enough that life was still on hold – but old enough to long for it to start – I used to fall asleep on the pullout couch of my old man's double wide to the sounds of motorcycle engines, fighting neighbors, and the sound of my dad sleeping off his nightly intake of whiskey with a loud snore. I would imagine what the summer nights in the city would be like – the soft notes from the downtown jazz clubs winding its way through the air, the heat evaporating from the concrete sidewalks, the life I couldn't wait to lead.
I might have slept easier back then if I had known where I'd end up – or maybe not, I don't know. All I know in this moment, with Neil Finn proclaiming that "you can fight the sleep but not the dream" through the speakers, there is no comfort to be found between my very expensive Egyptian cotton sheets tonight. I turn down the volume, shrug on a t-shirt and get out of bed again for a 2:00 am smoke. The traffic sounds of the East Village through the open window usually calms me down at this time of night, but this is no ordinary case of heat induced insomnia.
I could call someone. Most of the people I know are awake all night anyway, working or partying. But just thinking about picking up the phone makes my skin crawl. Deep down, I know that the distractions of the city can do nothing for me tonight. It's a writer's night. A night for sitting on the fire escape, smoking until dawn. For listening to records and watching someone sway slowly across my bedroom floor as they close their eyes and lose themselves in the music.
No. Not someone.
Her.
It's a Betty Cooper kind of night.
My friends would probably piss themselves laughing if they knew how sappy I'm being. Then they would threaten to kick me out of the band if I don't take a long hard look at himself. Toni, in particular, would tell me to remember that I'm almost thirty years old now, for god's sake, and that even if my fans still think I have some credibility left, she sure as hell doesn't think so. "Age has made you lose faith in your convictions, Jug." She would say - and shove a guitar into my hands to stop me from picking up another cigarette.
And she's always right of course. Even when she's just teasing me.
Maybe I have lost the courage of my convictions. Maybe that's why I'm lying awake in bed - on a night so perfect for writing – unable to pick up a pen.