Their parents separated them when they got back. Betty was halfway expecting it. Her folks had always had sticks up their asses and she knew they’d never make nice with Veronica, even though they’d been lowkey dating for years.
“At least we didn’t go all Heavenly Creatures!” she yells, as they shove her into a tiny convent school in the Swiss Alps.
The reference goes over their heads. They simply don’t appreciate their daughter’s creativity – In Betty’s opinion, that’s the grandest tragedy of all.
She hears about Veronica on and off for years. She’s become a doctor in the Congo; she’s a playgirl in Spain. Once, Betty swears she sees her surfing in the storm-tossed waves of Hawaii, but it’s not – she’s too small, too mean-faced.
She moves on, and sure, she loves her husband, even if he doesn’t bring the wildest part of her out to play. She will never forget the sound of Veronica’s voice screaming the lyrics to some Poison song as the speedometer raced. The smell of her perfume as she bends over a counter to flirt their way out of a lunch bill. The sound of her laughter pealing from her red-painted lips. But she’s a grown up with responsibilities, now, and it’s not as easy as it once was to run off to the Midwest with a strange farmboy trailing in their wake.
Two years later she walks into a supermarket with a baby strapped to her back and sees a brunette with two boys hanging off of her arms.
Her mouth drops open and fills with heat and oh, she knows this is going to be a disaster, but she can’t wait, and falls right into her arms and kisses her, with their children chattering like angry birds beside them.
She’ll figure out the details later.