Choosing Betty (Jughead x Reader)

Choosing Betty, Part 2 (Jughead x Reader)

You texted James a halfhearted excuse about not feeling well before driving home. After a lot of frustrated screaming into your pillow, and glaring at a picture of you and Jughead you kept on your desk, you began to prepare for your poetry reading that night. You shimmied out of your too-tight cheer uniform, glad to be free of the itchy polyester. You wiped off your gaudy makeup and undid your uncomfortable hairdo.

You re-did your makeup to how you normally preferred to wear it, and got dressed in some of your normal clothing. When filing through your closet, you found an old flannel Jughead had lent you one day when a teacher had gotten on your ass about the dress code. For some reason, you took it off the hanger and put it on over your ensemble. Just because I hate him doesn't mean I can't exploit his decent fashion sense, you reasoned. Plus, it smelled like him and it made you feel angry which was a good emotion to feel when reading poetry.

Finally, you rifled through your notebook to do a quick run-through of your poem. You'd originally opted to read a poem about new love and romance, expecting James to be in the audience. With the safety of knowing you'd be reading to completely unfamiliar ears, you decided to go with something a bit more provocative.

"To the boy who doesn't love me back," you read in a sarcastic voice to the crowd of young adults sipping cocktails in the audience. "I hope your girlfriend doesn't mind that I'm wearing your shirt right now," you ad-libbed, waggling your eyebrows suggestively. Some people in the audience gasped and laughed.

You began to perform a poem you had sloppily composed the night Jughead had admitted his feelings for Betty to you. It started off very angry. Full of crude analogies about all the ways you'd like to see him suffer. The creativity of the prose made audience members chuckle and cheer for you.

Then, it got emotional. You reflected on the inner pain you felt, relating it to metaphors demonstrating loneliness and rejection in a way only a metaphor could. You could have heard a pin drop in the silence of the bar.

Finally, it ended how you felt right now–confusion. You still cared about Jughead and wanted him to be happy, but some part of you wanted him to be heartbroken and run back to you, and another part of you didn't want anything to do with him at all. You left the poem on a question. The audience snapped enthusiastically at your cleverness. You smiled and bowed. Maybe today was a good day, after all.

The house lights went up to help guide the next performer–a cellist toting a heavy instrument case–to the stage.

That was when you saw the faces among the crowd; all cool, hipster-like twenty-somethings, smiling at you in admiration for your performance.

And in the back of the room, leaning against the doorway, a dark-haired teenage boy with a crown-shaped beanie.

Your stomach dropped.

You hid in the dressing room for the next three acts, much to the annoyance of your fellow performers. After you had decided that Jughead must have gone home by now, you tried to change as much of your appearance as you could by changing your hairstyle, tying the flannel around your waist, and dawning a pair of sunglasses you'd luckily forgotten in your bag.

After clumsily trying to navigate the dark crowd while wearing sunglasses, you'd finally found your way to a door opposite the one Jughead had been standing next to. You quickly left and attempted to run when you felt a sharp tug on the flannel around your waist.

You whirled around, panicked. The stranger's grip on the shirt around your waist twisted and he was inadvertently pulled closer to you.

"Hey," Jughead said, releasing you and untangling his limbs from yours.

"...hey!" you squeaked, face probably as red as that flannel.

"Nice performance," Jughead commented. His tone and facial expression did not betray any underlying emotion.

"Thanks! Anyway, gotta go!" You said, attempting to run in the other direction, even though it was nowhere close to your house.

You felt another tug on your waist and you were stopped in your tracks. This disguise thing really was a dumb idea.

You sighed, turning back to Jughead.

"It's pretty late, you shouldn't be out alone," Jughead offered. "And anyways, you deserve a milkshake for a great performance."

If you could have died in that moment, you would have. Melted into the floor like the milkshake you nervously sipped.

You'd just poured out your feelings for Jughead Jones in poetry form, right to his face. Plus, what would James think?

"Listen," you said. "I know what that poem sounds like, but–"

Jughead raised a hand. "Don't worry about it. I shouldn't have snuck up on you like that."

You nodded. When you were friends, you and Jughead had a rule: You could talk about your poetry and his stories to each other as much as you'd like, but one person was not allowed to read or hear the other's work without their permission. Jughead had broken the cardinal rule.

Well, the cardinal rule other than not to completely reject you and make you feel like a pile of shit.

"I don't know why I came to your performance tonight," Jughead said earnestly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'd like to say it's because I felt bad that James didn't come and I wanted to support you as a friend. But I don't think that's it."

You eyed him suspiciously, toying with the straw in your mouth. "Oh?"

"Ever since you said that stuff about us in the woods I've been really confused," Jughead admitted. "I never thought you felt that way about me. I feel bad for not noticing your feelings."

You smiled sadly. "It's okay, Jughead. We've both found who we're supposed to be with, now."

Jughead bit his lip, looking away. He looked like he wanted to say something but wasn't sure if it was the right thing to say.

Then, the familiar voices of Reggie, Chuck, and James boomed through the doors of Pop's. The three jocks tumbled in, obviously drunk and obviously looking for some carbs to soak up a potential hangover.

"Babe!" James said with a grin, walking over to you. You stood slowly and he grabbed you roughly, pulling you into him. "How was the thing?"

"It was good," you mumbled, looking down. Jughead glared at him.

"What are you doing with this dumbass?" James said, sticking a thumb at Jughead. Jughead looked like he was about to make a snide comment, but you narrowed your eyes at him in threat.

"Oh, he was also in the area and offered to walk me closer to home," you said.

"Oh," James said, confused. "Well thanks," he muttered to Jughead. "Listen babe, there's gonna be this epic football and cheer rager at Cheryl's tonight, and you have to be there with me."

You smiled, eager to feel wanted. "Okay." You pecked James on the cheek. Jughead's scowl grew.

"Cool. Can you change though? You look kind of weird," James said, waving a hand at your face and outfit.

You silently nodded. Jughead was seething at this point.

"You live pretty close to here," James remarked. "Maybe you can walk home and I'll be by after I'm done eating with the boys to pick you up. Okay?"

"Okay," you whispered. He kissed you on the lips and left to find his friends' table.

You let your look of pain show for a fraction of a second, before covering it up again. You turned back to Jughead, who had reverted to that unreadable look about him.

"I... I've got to go get ready. Thanks for the milkshake," you said in quiet voice, leaving the diner.