The conversation with Veronica was still on her mind days after as she waited for Jughead to show up.
He was later than usual.
It unnerved Betty how much this concerned her.
To calm herself down and settle the small part of her appetite that wasn't spoiled by anxiety, she set about making something for herself to eat.
She cooked more pasta than needed for one portion of spaghetti aglio e olio, the thought burrowing in the back of her head that Jughead would probably be hungry when he arrived.
As she transitioned from chopping the garlic and parsley to sauteing them, her mind ran blessedly blank. Cooking always had a way of relaxing her—measuring out the ingredients, following the recipe's steps, spooning her creation onto a smooth white plate.
But after putting the final touches on her dish and eating what little she could manage, her nerves returned. She gnawed on a stick of mint gum as tried to read a mystery novel Jughead had lent her, but she only got through a few pages at a time before she felt herself starting to pace the floor of her apartment.
Finally, around 9, she heard the buzzer from the lobby, and she half-ran to the foyer to beep him through.
When he knocked a few minutes later, she threw open the door to see him leaning against the entrance frame. He wore jeans, a white ribbed tank top, and an unbuttoned flannel shirt. A messenger bag slung over his shoulder.
Jughead shot her his usual smirk, but she could tell it was somewhat strained by the late hour.
"Hey cheerleader," he murmured.
He looked exhausted and she found herself melting for him, all the residual trepidations flying almost totally out of the window upon peering into his soft, tired blue eyes. It had to be preternatural, this dizziness she felt at seeing him.
"Long day, Juggie?" she asked sympathetically, holding the door open wider for him to pass through.
"You have no idea," he sighed, following her in.
When they made it to the living room, he ducked his head down to offer her a kiss hello. This was also new. Little signs of affection—lingering pecks goodbye in the morning, his hand on the small of her back as they navigated through bars and restaurants, her long legs spread over his knees when they watched movies on her couch.
It had felt like a natural development, but now in retrospect, she worried it was all overly domestic. That her easy acceptance was evidence she'd let herself fall for him, without even realizing. Or knowing if he reciprocated.
She couldn't help but sink into the kiss though, enjoying the feel of his warm lips pressing gently but insistently against hers. Even if the musk from his day at the garage was filling her nose. At least he'd changed out of his work shirt into the plaid flannel before coming over. Despite summer approaching, upstate New York could still get relatively cool in the evenings.
"You smell like car exhaust," she ribbed him when they grudgingly broke apart.
"I didn't have time to go home and shower," he explained, stifling a yawn.
"Just say you missed me too much you rushed straight over," Betty teased.
God, even with the thoughts of doubt swirling through her head, she found herself gravitating to their familiar bantering dynamic. Playing with him was too damn irresistible.
"Oh, no, I'll never admit that," Jughead chuckled.
"That's too bad," she needled him. "I was all prepared to offer you to use the shower here. But I guess not anymore."
"Oh, yeah?" he asked.
She raised her eyebrows playfully at him.
"Care to join?" he asked flirtatiously.
"I'm not dirty," she sassed.
"I'll make it worth your while," he boasted, his smirk now filling his whole face, his eyes losing their tiredness, replaced by unmistakable lust.
That smirk had once infuriated her. And to be fair, it was still beyond irksome. But now she craved it. Loved how it made her feel. What it could make her do.
She nodded, already feeling weak in the knees. He smirked wider, grabbing her hand and whisking her toward the bathroom.
Jughead turned on the shower faucet, a fog of steam filling the room, as he made quick work of undressing her from the green polka dot wrap dress and pretty nude bra and panty set she'd purposely worn for him. So much for that effort.
His clothes soon followed, the piles kicked off and abandoned to a heap on the floor of her bedroom.
Both of them naked, he lifted her over the curve of the bathtub. Before she could reach for him, Jughead pounced on her. Grabbing her by the neck and kissing her hard and demanding. He backed her up against the shower's tiled walls, his lithe, toned body covering hers.
A tiny whimper escaped Betty's mouth as his skin, now dripping in hot water, rubbed aggressively against hers, making sure she could feel every inch of him.
She secretly loved when Jughead acted dominant and took control. Something, she'd realized, he tended to do on nights after an extra hard day at work.
His tongue brushed against her lower lip, and she opened her mouth to him, moaning when he dipped it inside and began to stroke it against hers. She tried to pull him closer, her hands clinging to his shoulders, as his tongue eased in and out of her, the chase for it making her breathless.
Jughead brushed his erection against her slick heat, his fingers simultaneously swimming up into the loose locks of her hair, as he tilted her face to kiss her longer and deeper.
Her knees nearly buckled from the sensation, and she dug her nails into his back for fear of losing her footing.
Jughead let out a strangled noise and she could feel him hardening even further against her inner thigh.
"Turn around," he ordered her gruffly.
Betty did as directed, without arguing. She was quickly overheating.
She heard him fumbling with a bottle behind her and then she felt it. His hands crawling hungrily over her body, lathering her with the vanilla body wash. She shivered as he touched her, despite the sizzling stream of water and the rough warmth of his hands.
"Your body's fucking unreal," Jughead muttered, his soap-sudded palms moving down from softly squeezing her breasts to tracing her hourglass curves.
Betty let out a breathy little moan. She didn't know when it had started, but he'd been mentioning her looks more often during sex, and she really liked it.
Her breathing quickly grew ragged, as she felt him cupping her center, applying just the slightest of pressure.
"Do you like this, Betts?" he whispered in her ear, the water pounding behind him, as his finger probed her entrance, teasing her by running it up and down slowly. "Do you like how I touch you?"
"Yes," she panted.
"Tell me what you want," he said, continuing to torture her by refusing to go inside, his forefinger now twiddling with her clit, running the barest of circles over it.
"You inside me, Jug," she begged. "Please."
It wasn't just what she knew he wanted to hear. She was aching for him. Her whole body was thrumming in anticipation.
"How?" he demanded.
"Fingers, please," she whimpered, barely able to speak from the deliciously light circles he was kneading into the nub.
"That's it, baby," he growled.
Her upper body froze like an icicle at the pet name, despite the sticky arousal now coating her inner thighs even more intensely. He'd never ever called her something like that before. Something so explicitly affectionate. Was it a Freudian slip? Did he actually think of her that way? As his?
Before she could stop him or question it, his feverish lips found her pulse point and he slipped inside her. He nibbled on her neck, his fingers gliding through her eager wetness. The pleasure overwhelmed her and she lost any other train of thought. The feeling between her legs was desperate. She craved the absolute release only he could provide.
It didn't take long. Minutes later, when his thumb brushed over her clit, caressing it back and forth, the tension he'd been stoking in her snapped.
Her body clenched around him, and she gasped aloud, riding his fingers through the waves of pleasure.
Betty trembled as she came down and he slowly withdrew his hand, resting her forehead against the cool turquoise tiles in a bid to catch her breath.
"I want you," he growled as she basked in the aftershock of her orgasm.
She could feel the tip of his erection running against the entrance to her folds, and she moaned, once again yearning for him.
"Take me," she whimpered.
Jughead eagerly bent her forward, nearly pushing himself in, when he barked out a quiet, "Fuck."
She turned to look at him, her eyes half-glazed over, the ache between her thighs turning unbearable at being interrupted.
"I forgot to grab a condom," he sighed, releasing his hands from her hips. She could feel his frustration down to her core.
"I'm on the pill," she murmured. She had never gone off since the breakup. The insistence on prophylactics until now just a double precaution. But she couldn't care less at this moment. She implicitly trusted him. And god, she wanted him.
"You sure, Betts?" he asked huskily, his eyes burning as dark as coals. More aroused than she'd ever seen them.
"Yes," she breathed out. Her head was spinning. Every other thought was obscured except for the sudden need to feel all of him inside her. Without any barriers.
She turned back around and braced her hands against the shower tiles. His palms gently skimmed down from her waist to cup her butt. He spread her wider apart. And then she felt him. Slowly entering her from behind, sliding in until he was buried to the hilt.
Still sensitive from her first orgasm, Betty hissed at the delicious friction against her walls.
He began to push and pull in and out of her, one hand clutching her hip, the other running down from her shoulder over the silky skin of her back.
Eager to feel as much of him as she could, she felt herself bending lower, her hands gripping the rim of the bathtub as he continued to move inside her, steady and strong.
"You're so sexy like that," he groaned, thrusting in harder and deeper, wanting to savor the feel of her but unable to stop his pace from accelerating. "You feel so fucking good."
"You feel incredible," she mewled.
He rewarded her praise by curling his fingers down from her hip to find her waiting clit.
"Oh, god, Jug," she moaned, as he stroked the nub.
The combination of him filling her to the brim and his fingers on the delicate bud was more than enough to throw her over the edge.
"Come for me," he demanded, the pulse between his calloused fingers a tell-tale sign she was about to splinter apart.
She did as he ordered, shuddering through the high, the tingling sensations racing so furiously through her legs that she almost collapsed.
Jughead's choppy thrusts were all that seemed to keep her upright, and he came hard on the heels of her own climax, spilling his load into her with a low, hoarse groan.
Taking a series of long, intense breaths, Betty gingerly lifted herself back upright, trying not to shift her weight too much, as Jughead remained half immobile inside her.
When he, too, managed to get his bearings, his eyes fluttered open and he slowly pulled out of her. She felt him drawing her close, moving them back directly under the shower nozzle.
Wordlessly, he washed the traces of himself from between her thighs, and Betty ignored the panic rising in her throat at the intimacy of the gesture.
He used her body wash to clean himself quickly, before shutting off the shower spigot and shooting her a drowsy but satisfied grin.
She walked out of the shower first, enveloping herself in a fluffy white towel. She quickly tied her wet hair up, before offering him the spare one.
He took it and wrapped it around himself, stepping onto the bathmat to dry off.
"That was amazing," he spoke up a few moments later, following after her as she ventured into the bedroom.
Betty nodded, shivering. Her mind was in a million places. The intensity of her orgasms. Jughead calling her baby without hesitation. The instinctive way her body had reacted. How gorgeous he looked right now, tiny droplets of water dribbling down his neck from his still wet hair. It all unbalanced her.
"You cold?" he asked.
"Huh, a little," she answered absentmindedly.
"Here," he said, grabbing his discarded flannel from off the floor and placing it around her shoulders.
"Thanks," she whispered.
She chided herself for snuggling into the shirt on impulse. Wearing his clothes was disconcerting. But refusing would just make it more awkward, she told herself. Plus, the flannel was warm and smelled like his cool wave deodorant she not so secretly loved. She let the towel fall from her frame as she buttoned up the shirt. She plucked a fresh pair of cotton panties out of her dresser drawer and slipped them over her legs.
Behind her, Jughead fished clean boxers and an unworn t-shirt out of his bag.
Betty continued to fuss with the buttons of the flannel as she watched him.
"Living room?" he asked, glancing over at her when he finished dressing.
"Yes," she agreed, hanging their wet towels back up to dry.
When they made it to the couch, he looked up at the clock on her wall, noticing the late hour.
"It's almost 10," he noted with an apologetic grimace. "I guess it's probably too late to order food. I hope I didn't make you wait to eat."
"No, I cooked earlier," she murmured, pausing before offering, "There's actually leftovers if you want."
"Really?" he asked. "That'd be great."
"Of course," she said, standing up and walking toward the kitchen to heat him up a plate.
She returned a few minutes later, laying a placemat on the coffee table, and placing the pasta dish atop it.
"Thank you, Betts," he smiled, already twirling his fork through the spaghetti.
This all seemed very girlfriend-y, from wearing his shirt to feeding him. It terrified her on just about every level. But her nurturing instinct was too overpowering. She felt almost compelled to take care of him.
Betty watched him practically inhale the food, snickering to herself. His eating habits had grown on her.
Jughead noticed her staring at him and he smirked, slurping down a strand. "It's really good."
That relaxed her slightly and she offered him a shaky smile. "What should we watch tonight?" she asked.
"Want to continue the Conversations with a Killer series?" he proposed.
She frowned. "I don't know. I thought the Ted Bundy one lacked any real perspective."
"You say that about every documentary you dislike," he ribbed her.
"I do not," she protested.
"Do too," he chuckled.
"Come on," she asserted. "It's so obsessed with trying to understand Bundy that it elides any real discussion of his victims. And then after four hours it basically arrives at the hypothesis that he's unknowable."
"Well then it's not lacking in perspective so much as reductive," Jughead argued, the twinkle in his eye hinting he was trying to goad her.
Betty brushed off the attempt. "Let's agree to disagree."
"I thought you liked Berlinger," he teased, refusing to yield.
"The Paradise Lost trilogy is a masterpiece…"
"Agreed," he interrupted.
She shot him a glare, but he simply grinned.
"As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted," she continued sarcastically, "I also appreciated the Crime Scene series, even though I thought it was flawed. But Bundy and the Jeffrey Epstein doc left a really bad taste in my mouth, so I…" she trailed off, her jaw dropping in shock.
She'd been so engrossed in their argument she hadn't heard the door unlocking or the padding of footsteps. But, suddenly, standing in the entrance to the foyer was Glen, a mid-size suitcase idling beside him.
"Babe?" he questioned, his brown eyes angrily darting back and forth between her and Jughead on the couch.
"Glen," she froze, her insides flipping over. This couldn't be happening. "What are you doing here?"
"What am I doing here?" Glen practically yelled. "What is this dude doing here?"
Betty recoiled at the shout, but slowly clambered to her feet.
From the corner of her eye, she noticed Jughead rising too. He looked mostly unfazed, but she could see from the way his fists were clenched he was annoyed.
"What's going on?" she asked quietly, trying to reason with Glen.
As much as her brain called out to her to scream at him for the horrible way he'd left, for barging in on her tonight, the deepest, most insecure part of her was still afraid of antagonizing him. After all, there was only one real reason for him to be here now.
"What were you thinking?" she added softly.
"I was thinking that I'd made a huge mistake. That I can't believe I just left you like that. That I missed you. That you missed me, too," he proclaimed, his voice growing soft, affectionate even, until it once again rose in agitation. "What I wasn't thinking was that I'd find you here with some random guy!"
Betty swallowed, trying hard not to let the smattering of tears that had collected fall. She didn't understand why Glen's halfhearted attempt at remorse was able to have this effect on her.
"You have no right to be upset," she said, keeping her tone even.
"No right?" Glen boomed. "I've been under the impression this whole time you were heartbroken and sick over me leaving. Why else would you send me a message crying, telling me you'd do anything for me to come back?"
At first she didn't compute what he was saying, but then her eyes pinched shut, the words from the pitiful drunken voicemail she'd all but forgotten suddenly gurgling on her tongue. Betty flushed as she remembered just how pathetic she'd been in the immediate days after he'd left. How desperate for him to return. She glanced from Glen, his expression smug and self-righteous, to Jughead, whose nostrils were flaring.
The thoughts jumbled in her head. If Veronica was right about Glen returning, then it followed she was also right about this thing with Jughead going nowhere. Maybe Betty was lying to herself. Maybe these last few weeks had been nothing but a pretty little daydream. Maybe she really did miss Glen. Maybe he was what she wanted. Her mind felt like a muddied incoherent mess. A bell inside ringing so shrilly she couldn't think clearly.
"I—I barely remember sending that," she sputtered.
"Well you did," Glen stressed. "So imagine my surprise now to find you whoring yourself out to the first bidder."
"Hey, watch your mouth," Jughead finally spoke up, taking a protective step forward.
"This doesn't concern you," Glen snarled at him.
"When you insult her it concerns me," he declared. His voice was ice cool, but Betty could identify the rage simmering behind his blackening irises.
It frightened her. She knew she needed to separate them, or else this night would deteriorate even further.
"Jug…" she whispered.
"What Betts?" he whispered back, his eyes searching hers, his hand resting on her lower back. Normally such a gentle touch would have felt like solid ground, but at this moment it seared her like a burn.
"Maybe you should go," she muttered.
"Are you serious?" Jughead asked in a low murmur, trying to muffle his voice from Glen, who was still sneering at him. He was maintaining his cool, but barely. She could see he was nearly fuming now. "You're just going to let him waltz in here like everything is normal?"
He was taking this hard, she felt. She couldn't understand why. Or she refused to let herself.
"No, I just…I need to talk to him. Seriously. And I can't do that with you here."
Her wide eyes pleaded with his stubborn gaze and after several moments he relented.
"Fine," he said through gritted teeth.
Jughead stalked past Glen to the bedroom. When he returned a minute later, his jeans were back on, the messenger bag once again slung over his shoulder.
"You know where to find me," he muttered to her before trudging out of the apartment.
She knew she'd been the one to ask him to go. But it didn't stop Betty's stomach from sinking as he left.
The air conditioning was on at full blast in Pop's, but Betty was sure she was sweating through her short-sleeved, frilly white blouse. She fiddled with the thin silver chain decorating her neck, waiting for Jughead to arrive.
She'd texted him earlier asking if he could meet her after work. He responded he'd be there around 6. Inevitably, she'd been early.
The last 24 hours felt like a bad dream.
They played on her mind like a record skipping.
After Jughead left, Glen softened significantly, his bravado seeming to drop away.
They'd been up half the night talking.
He said all the right things.
How sorry he was for ever leaving her. That he missed her like crazy. He was useless without her.
It was everything Betty had wanted to hear.
And yet, she felt removed from it. As if it were happening to some other girl and she just happened to be there by chance listening in.
Glen was relentless though. The longer she hedged or mumbled things like "I don't know" and "You really hurt me," the deeper in he nudged. Until he finally played his trump card.
When he first presented her with the small velvet box, she'd grimaced. Did he really think she was the type of girl for which huge mistakes were simply salvageable with expensive jewelry?
Until he began professing his readiness to commit. Insisting she was his future.
Betty could barely breathe when she understood what he was saying. The shock of it all overwhelming her into silence. She didn't accept outright, but she also didn't refuse. Glen seemed to take her quiet as a promise. Wrapping her into a tight hug, he placed his lips on hers, cautiously, hopefully.
Bile rose in her throat and she wanted to shove him away. But he was familiar. Safe.
The flash of distaste passed, giving in to resignation.
Betty let him kiss her until she felt his body covering hers, urging more. She'd almost submitted, out of sheer force of habit, until she looked down and realized, panicked, she was still wearing Jughead's flannel. She pushed him off her then. She wasn't ready for this.
He shot her a soft frown, claiming he understood, kissing her forehead instead.
They'd fallen asleep soon after.
Glen was still comatose in the morning when she woke up, snoring peacefully. She'd nearly cuddled into his arm thinking for a moment it was Jughead.
She stopped herself and got up instead. Getting dressed as quietly as possible and fixing herself a cup of coffee. She accidentally forgot the sugar and the bitter taste ran through her like a chill.
It was almost as if time had stopped seven weeks before.
This was her morning routine for the better part of two years and it alarmed her how easily it felt like she was slipping back into it.
The only trace of something amiss the empty porcelain plate stained with olive oil still sitting atop the coffee table.
Betty looked away. She knew she should take the plate back to the kitchen, clean it, something. But she couldn't bring herself to.
She left for the studio early, hiding out in her office slash dressing room for the rest of the morning. Ignoring most of Glen's overeager texts.
Veronica found her there around noon, slowly chewing on one of the cool mint chocolate Clif bars she kept stashed for emergencies. She barely had an appetite, but she knew she couldn't work on an empty stomach. She'd been washing most of it down with small sips of water.
"Bettykins, I've been looking everywhere for you," Veronica chirped. "You missed out last night. Elio was such a dreamboat. Maybe I'll take a crack at him when Chad and I are done."
Her dazzling smile of perfect white teeth fell as she noticed Betty's vacant expression.
"What's wrong?" she immediately asked.
"Glen came back last night."
Before Veronica could respond to that initial bomb, Betty slid the ring box over the spotless vanity table into her friend's line of vision.
She'd very seldomly seen Veronica as stunned as she looked now. And she'd half-predicted this twist. Veronica sank into the light gray plush-covered seat beside her own, her face scrunching up.
"What are you going to do, Bee?" Veronica pressed quietly.
At least she knew better than to question what Betty was conflicted about.
"I don't know, Vee," she murmured. "How am I supposed to trust him again? Do I even want to?"
"I don't think he'd leave again. He's not that much of a moron," Veronica offered with a sad chuckle. She knew it wasn't much consolation.
"And then there's Jughead," Betty muttered, tears pricking her eyes. She could hardly get the next words out. "I really like him, but…"
She didn't have to explain. Veronica had seen all the warning signs before she had.
In a rare display of tenderness, Veronica wrapped Betty in her arms before the salty drops could fall. "It's going to be okay, Bee. Whatever you decide is going to be okay."
Betty swallowed as she waited, her fingers wiping away the stray tears she'd been resisting since the early afternoon. God, what was wrong with her? Why was she taking this so hard? It should have been an easy decision. Jughead had always been just a rebound. Hadn't he?
When she looked back up, she saw him walking across the diner toward her, his face a straight line.
"Hi," she said, biting her lower lip as he approached.
"Hey," he replied impassively, settling in across from her.
Betty could tell he was upset, but was doing his best to act unaffected. It didn't surprise her, but it did disappoint her. She knew she couldn't expect Jughead to fight for her. But something. Some flicker of feeling would have made her feel even a tad bit better about the source of her own mixed emotions.
"I'm sorry about last night," she murmured as a start. "I wish it hadn't happened like that."
"You're sorry he showed up or you're sorry you kicked me out?" he snarked, folding his arms and leaning back against the vinyl booth.
Betty flinched. His sarcasm hit even harsher during a serious conversation.
"I needed to talk to him, Jug," she attempted to explain. "It's not like I could just get rid of him. We were together for four years. That means something, okay?"
He regarded her warily for a moment, before seeming to accept the logic behind this.
"Fine," he granted her. "What did he want?"
"To get back together," she admitted.
"Of course he did," he laughed bitterly. "Well, I hope you told him he's missed the boat and to get lost. Did you?"
"It's not that simple," she half-whispered.
His eyes narrowed into slits. "Why not?"
Betty took out the velvet box from her bag and placed it between them on the table. She clicked it open to reveal a 2.5 carat princess-cut set in a yellow gold band. The diamond sparkled menacingly under the diner's fluorescent lights. Jughead stared at it as if it would scald him.
He was silent for a moment, a shocked, wild desperation filling his eyes, before his expression went completely dead.
"Congratulations," he deadpanned.
"I haven't officially accepted yet—"
"But you're going to," he finished for her.
Betty glanced at the ring, the colors refracting through the diamond's facets tormenting her, mocking her indecision. She slammed the box shut and deposited it back in her purse.
"Is there any reason I shouldn't?" she asked him, softly but directly.
Jughead clammed up under her searching gaze. "How should I know?"
She tried again. "If there's something you want to say, you should say it now."
"What could I possibly have to say?" Jughead scoffed, the tense set of his jaw betraying his otherwise cavalier attitude.
Betty felt her exasperation building. How hard was it just to admit he didn't want her to marry Glen? To declare out loud that he felt something for her.
"I don't understand why you're so upset. We weren't…" she winced as her voice trailed off, inwardly berating herself for being just as incapable at showing her cards as him.
Jughead shook his head, a mean smirk on his lips. It seemed this statement he did have an answer to.
"Try because he's an asshole who walked out on you without a second thought. And you're just running back to him the minute he shows up. I didn't think you were that pathetic, but I guess I was mistaken."
If Jughead expected her to cower in response to this insult, he was dead wrong. Her temper was now fully provoked. Half of it anger at herself.
"Because you know me so well, right?" Betty challenged.
"I thought I did," he shrugged.
"How exactly?" Betty hissed. "From screwing me for a few weeks? You had me all figured out? Because that's all it was, right, Jughead? Just sex?"
Jughead looked away, refusing to confirm or deny.
Betty continued to bore holes into the side of his skull, but, though it took effort, he didn't squirm once.
"Whatever," he scowled, when she finally surrendered, dropping her glare with an aggravated sigh. "If that's who you want, be my guest."
"Be your guest?" Betty laughed incredulously. "It's my decision to make, Jughead. And from what you've said today, you have no stake in it."
"You're right. I don't," he spat.
His stormy blue eyes told her he was lying. They screamed out to her. But it wasn't enough.
"Fine, fuck you, Jughead. It was nice knowing you."
She stood up, expecting him to stop her. To say anything to make her stay.
But he didn't. He just watched her walk away.