serpent ♔ juliet

Betty had no idea their last touch was going to be their last until it was. Her own cowardice sealed her destiny as sporadic, tense conversation stretched into months, then a year. For the past seven years, no-touch has felt the same. Betty knows she's been touch-deprived when she gets embraces from her mother, sister, nieces, and nephews. She flinches at first, making Dagwood's lower lip tremble, so she crouches down to embrace him, Juniper follows suit, and it's all overpowering and confirming at the same time. The fact that she was held here, on this very front step, the last time she felt truly loved, does not escape her.

He asks to walk her home, his voice barely audible above a whisper but resonating loudly in the parking lot solitude. Betty isn't sure she can trust herself with words right now. She smiles and nods. "How come you didn't reach out?" His voice trembles with hurt—even a hint of petulance, like when he used to grumble that if she arrived at Pop's first, she didn't order anything for him. This Jughead isn't going to give it back. You could have, you know, reached out, is what it sounds like. Betty, on the other hand, wants to cry. Why would I do such a thing to myself? "I didn't think you wanted me to after you left me that voicemail," she says instead. She tries not to let her voice crack since she has repeatedly reminded herself, "Leave him alone, Betty." It's precisely what he desires. When there is silence around them, she encourages him. "On the night of your book launch?" Her words linger on her tongue, and his eyes flicker with a faint sensation of uncertainty. "I just assumed you weren't interested in hearing from me after that."

Those words, loud and hot with rage, are still bouncing around in her head. They reverberate throughout the dreams of those two weeks. Betty is unable to recall those weeks. She can't think about Jughead either, but it hurts less if she thinks about him, so he's been on her mind more and more. Betty is confused since he claims he didn't intend for them to make her feel that way. She wouldn't have taken them any other way. What more could they possibly be implying? They've walked this journey a million times together, from Pop's closer to town, down the side streets till they reach Elm Street. They could have kissed gently, hungrily, pleasantly while holding hands or being so engrossed in one other that they lean up against a street sign.

Now it's a million and one. Jughead jacket sleeve brushes across hers, and it's an electric jolt to feel him so near. They'd brush elbows if they moved an inch to the left, his hands pushed into jacket pockets and hers clutching to Alice's milkshake like a raft. With another inch of her hand exposed, she'd be dangerously close. She wonders if she crosses that line and leaves her hand out for her fingers to twine between his, he'll do the same. Is he clenching his fists to keep from reaching for hers? It would be effortless for Betty to grab Jughead's arm and beg him to explain himself. So, what was his intentions? Why didn't he pick up the phone again?