"Lizard? Are you alive in there?"
She'd puked and there'd been no one around to hold her hair back. It was the first thing Lizzie did when her feet finally crossed the threshold of her apartment three buses later. Charlotte was long gone for her shift, but the chicken quesadillas she'd made beforehand lingered in the atmosphere.
Lizzie's nose quickly identified each layer and got hung up on the cheese and onions part of the mix. Running to the bathroom in her soppy shoes simply added another layer of grossness to the whole experience. With a groan she lifted her spinning head from the toilet bowl, and choosing to ignore the bit of vomit clumping to her auburn ends for now she let her back slump against the cool wall.
Three ragged breaths in and out. "Yeah, I'm in here," she said.
The door cracked open just enough to allow a blonde head and a worried expression to peek inside. "Are you okay? Are you- decent?"
"What's your definition of decent?" She jokingly asked as her big sister stepped into the room.
"Oh Lizzie."
"I vomited. In my hair."
"I see." Jane took a seat on the edge of the bathtub. "Wanna talk about it?"
Jane Abigail Bennet was born approximately six years, four months, three days, and two hours before her sister, Elizabeth. Out of the womb Jane emerged in a beam of twinkling light with golden hair, and soft green eyes. Her smile contained within it the same magic found in tight hugs and cat videos. Jane never cried. She always shared her Barbies (even the new ones), and made room in the sandbox for all. She rarely swore (dang it!) She never burped or picked her nose, or scratched her ass in the presence of another human. Her aura, according to a carnival psychic who read her thirteen year old palm, was a 'royal blue'. Tasked with also being unbelievably gorgeous, Jane was almost always the bane of existence for every woman she met. Jane was responsible, dependable. Jane taught kindergarten art and decorated her half of their bedroom with framed crayon drawings, and if Jane wasn't so good- so earnestly kind, Lizzie would hate her fucking guts.
Elizabeth Michelle Bennet received Jane's genetic leftovers. She got red hair and dark eyes, and colic. She was ejected from three preschools for having what was described to her as a "sharing problem"mostly with male children that resulted in bloody noses. She could swear conversationally in Spanish, and burp the alphabet backwards. Although quite pretty in her own right, she spent her prom smoking pot underneath the bleachers with a couple of boys from a rival school. Lizzie could spell "responsible' and "dependable". She was an actress, but currently appearing full time at Chili's instead of on a stage or screen, and she shared a two bedroom in Santa Monica with her best friend, and her perfect older sister.
(if Janie wasn't so honestly kind hearted she'd seriously hate her fucking guts)
"If I say 'no' will you let me be?" Lizzie managed to smile.
"You know I won't."
"He was there today," Lizzie said. She wiped at the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand.
Jane gasped. "How'd it go?"
"Janie, there's vomit in my hair."
"Oh god, Lizzie." Her face fell. "I'm so…"
"No- no," she started, shaking her head, "it could've been a lot worse. So I've told him. He's informed. I've done my civic duty."
Silently Jane climbed to her feet, bending down to turn on the tub faucet. "Get over here."
Lizzie obeyed the order rather dramatically, crawling across the tile on her knees.
"Forget Fitzwilliam Darcy. You don't need him," Jane said over a loud squeeze burp from the bottle of apple shampoo.
"I know." Lizzie sighed, putting her head underneath the warm water.
"You've got me, and you've got Charlotte. Mom and Dad will be excited."
"Mom will be a nightmare."
"Let her live." Jane giggled.
Lizzie's eyes began to drift closed as she relaxed into the combination feeling of hot water and Jane's fingers gently working her scalp. For just a moment she let the weight of her emotional body fall away; honestly, telling Darcy she was pregnant had gone much better than most of the nightmare scenarios she'd dreamt up. That his response was to not respond at all was just fine with her, and if her address and number ended up in the trash, that was totally cool, too. She'd had six weeks to get used to lowering her expectations, and there was nowhere else to go but up from a sub-basement level.
But still, deep down she would've loved to have been surprised, and wished her first impression of that bourgeois asshole didn't line up exactly with all accounts given by Perez.
Six rinse-and-repeats later, Jane towel dried Lizzie's hair, and raided their linen closet for blankets. "You sit down; I'm pulling every DVD we own with Colin Firth on the cover and what do you want on your pizza?"
She wanted to not be a constant fuck up, and anything that wouldn't curdle on her stomach. "Just a salad, thanks Jane."
**
"Kon'nichiwa from Japan! It's Charlie and I never adjust to timezones and I've got three days left on this commercial so I'm missing your call. Leave a message!"
"Charles pick up the phone, I'm having a goddamn crisis."
The only signs of life on the twelfth floor of Darcy Media (since the entire security team was promptly fired) were industrial vacuums in distant corridors, and the soft but persistent thud of Fitzwilliam's forehead against his office window. He'd more or less been in this position since Lizzie left; the soggy stomps of her shoes on their way out echoing in his mind whenever he glimpsed the piece of scrap on his desk with her contact info. He should've called her a cab at least. Or opened his mouth, maybe. Used a condom, perhaps.
"Kon'nichiwa-"
The specter of Lizzie burned at the edges of his eyes, dripping wet and indignant. Fitzwilliam's stomach had reacted to the sight of her before any other part of him when he threw open those double doors- it was a flip that disintegrated into butterflies on the landing, that then swirled in his chest and traveled up his throat, and crowned his head. When she spoke, the sound of her voice pinged off of his corners with an eerie, pleasant recognition.
It felt as if all of his lights had been turned on at once, and he'd lied about not remembering her name, but had been absolutely serious about pressing charges, and he fucking hated it all.
The hope of a broadcasting empire fated to end up a balding letch baking on a Mykonos beach with the last of his family money to gift Coach bags to barely twenty-something 'girlfriends', once the board threw him out.
Lizzie was right about him. He was a terrible cliche.
"Darcy? Can you hear me? Hello?"
Charlie sounded like he was shouting over an orca choking to death, and Fitzwilliam pinched the bridge of his nose to keep from screaming. He'd recognize Caroline's karaoke renditions anywhere (and if there was a hell and he was on the guest list that would be his eternity's official soundtrack), of course she'd tag along.
"Charlie," he said very slowly and through his teeth. "I'm here."
"Hey! What's up? You miss me that bad, Darcy? You've been blowing up my phone-"
"Charlie," he said pressing his forehead to the glass. "I need a lawyer. Please don't tell your sister."
Charles Bingley, star of important teenage girlhood classics like 'Magnus, Bras & Sloppy Frenching' and 'She's way too P.H.A.T. (Pretty. Hot. & Tempting)' was at a crossroads in his career. Having been in the spotlight since his mother dragged him to an audition for a Hot Wheels commercial at the age of seven, Charlie's affable character and boyish good looks translated quickly into roles. He was everything from the annoying little brother in an ABC family ensemble, to the annoying son on the big screen Tom Cruise rescues from the clutches of aliens when they take over earth on Tom's visitation weekend.
Puberty was rather kind to him; Charlie shot up like a weed, his jawline sharpened, his voice smoothed out the squeaks to become honeyed and deep and friendly, his hair remained perfectly tousled all on its own, and he was fast tracked to heartthrob status at sixteen. However despite a strong fanbase behind him, Charlie grew disappointed with the scripts he was being offered by the time he reached twenty-two.
(always the quarterback living next door to the love of his life who would be beautiful if she just took off her glasses who must learn to ignore the pressures of his peers and her near-sight. and never a disaffected post-grad using jangly yet boring indie pop to romanticize depression, or like a super spy or something.)
Acting was his life's blood and Charlie was dead set on being taken seriously- a matter made difficult by his industry's willingness to pigeonhole, and not aided in the slightest by his older sister's Reality TV dreams.
"Caroline, please I told you I don't want to be filmed." Charlie sighed giving a weary, but polite look to the cameraman as he stepped out of the shot.
"Who was that on the phone, Charles…"
"I already told you it was Donovan- he needs me to-"
"Did you enjoy your stay, Mr. Bingley?"
He paused to flash a million dollar smile at the hotel front desk. "Awesome as always," he said. "Do I need to sign anything?"
"No Mr. Bingley; have a safe flight."
Dramatically swinging his bag over his shoulder, Charlie's attention was back on Caroline. "Donovan needs me to do pickups. There's no reason for me to leave in a couple days when the shoot's done, and I've got to get back to LA. You can stay."
Caroline looked horrified. "Alone?"
"Not alone," he said. "You've got Lou-Lou and your show…"
"She's boring and I'm thinking about cutting her."
"So stay and find someone else."
Caroline narrowed her eyes. "This is about that girl, isn't it?"
Charlie blinked. "What girl?"
"Are you kidding? Little Janice from Santa Clarita who teaches kindergarten and looks like she gets dressed by a team of sparrows and chipmunks in the morning. The one with the beady-eyed sister I caught Darcy staring at. You talked about her for a month straight."
"Jane from Santa Monica," he said. "Her sister's eyes are not beady, Darcy can stare at anybody he wants, and no- this is really about pickups."