PULITZER.

Old stuff. If there’s anything that can turn off a Pulitzer it’s to call anything outdated, popping it into a category that is beneath them, that belongs to all those who aren’t them. The last thing that is ever acceptable is to call her stuff old. Harlow’s face pinches up, lips borrowed from her childhood-self, an annoyed pout that usually acts like a geiger counter to an oncoming tantrum. “And what? You have something newer?” And she didn’t share! Didn’t SAY! The needle is shaking closer to the right. “It’s my dinner,” she parrots back, dual-serving purpose to mock and rectify while she shoves on her slippers. “You leave and come back and now it’s all yours, huh!”

“i haven’t gotten the chance!” as though someones been trying to take all the words from her mouth before she could say them. covering up her meaning, pushing her out of the way. has she not found anything newer, or has she just not shared— which would be the wrong wrong answer in her current state. both, and so she just thinks about the dinner that’s become their dinner. “i get this one night! it’s a welcome gift, you said so yourself!” words take twists and turns, develop through new style of twin speak. “i left this once! it won’t happen again.”

“Are you already planning a second before I agree to the first?” A grin starts to form, slowly, faintly, etched in the edges of the eyes that rest on her. “A bit presumptuous,” he tells her, head tilting as if curious by her, but there’s a lot more to her that he knows than she could possibly know about him. He doesn’t have far to fall, even on the observation deck he’s standing on; she’s at the top of the Hollywood hills, feet bolted down, impossible to knock down. The perfect combination.

“Besides, you don’t know how noisy I could be if I have to be,” he goes on, teasing with an arched brow, a threat made of silk. “I could distract you while they’re working. We’re not exactly enjoying the view in silence, now.”

“always.” is that such a bad thing? sometimes you know what you want before you know what that thing really is. two favors sounds better than one, and there’s no shame in pretending. and there’s no reason to assume that she can’t get them. she wasn’t really planning anything, but it sure was nice to think so. 

he elicits a laugh, something in between her fake one that she and harlow practiced in front of the mirror for parties and the real one. as though she’s not sure where to yet place the man in front of her. “i know when there’s more than one person in my room though.” a crew would be crowding in, trying to make the observatory look like some fake fake thing, when in reality it was just fine the way it was. didn’t need a movie to try and convince people of its worth. some things were just naturally perfect the way they were, experience was a teacher. “i don’t know about noisy, but nosey you’ve got.”

“You’re caught up.” He’s mildly surprised, but it comes across as proud. He’s learned that when it comes to the industry Bridget is rooted in, it’s in name-only. That has worked in his favor, and he’s the last one to complain about it. Besides, in this instance, she’s right. “There are eyes on Sarah. I think it would work out if she brought that attention to us,” he explains. Between the two of them, there is no talk about either actress’ abilities. He knows if Sarah Kinney is good enough for a Julian Santiago project, there’s reason for it. Why look further than a proven track record? The only question is will he be able to follow it? “Having an icon wouldn’t be a loss, though.”

He considers for a moment. Names come to him first, followed by what the open roles entail. Shrouding both is what is always there: the wonder of how much it will cost to get what he wants. It’s never bothered him before, but that’s exactly why it does now.

“It depends on what fits,” he settles on, leaving room for negotiation only in some pit of his mind. “Both of the male roles become love interests to the main. One more serious than the other. Early thirties for one, early twenties for the second. Someone in that range.” There are a handful of names he could pluck out and pitch, but securing them is another matter. “I’ll need to borrow points if we land on four names.”

“sarah kinney.” she enunciates every syllable of the name as though that will make it more important to her or any more likely to be remembered. it didn’t conjure much, but she didn’t mind believing orion. “the scream queen of the silver screen.” relationships were built on all kinds of trust and fun, and they were going to have to find a way to have some new types of fun. could work really be that? her sponsor told her the key was to beating addiction was to find something to replace it. 

she’d had to remind them that she wasn’t technically an addict, but no one there really listened. silly of them. she was only technically a twin.

“well look at you! always keeping up!” the age ranges certainly sound very precise and orion always seemed to know exactly the next right thing to say. he wouldn’t have said that she was an addict, he needed four actors. “you don’t have the points for it?” a tsk tripped off her tongue, although not towards him. “who’s locked you out of the funds— and how much do you want?”

@bridgetpulitzer​

“This is a big favor you’re asking of me, and I’m not sure I’ve taken it quite yet,” he adds over his shoulder, few steps leading away across the observation deck. Abandoned, secluded, one or two vines crawling up the cement. It’s not ideal for the project, but that’s not a point he’s willing to share with Bridget Pulitzer. “Why not share the old haunt?” His palms flatten against the railing behind him, an ankle crossing over the other as he nestles himself into her little world. “You’ve let me stay this long. What’s a few others?”

she has few things in this world that are hers. mostly because there is no need to keep secrets, her privacy always a shared space for two. but every so often there are people places things that harlow has lost interest in, leaving them for her to keep or discard as singular entity. the observation deck is one such place, removed from everything and left for bridget to ordain alone as important, special, all hers. a film production wasn’t going to take it away from her, it must be given. 

“there’s a difference between you,” perhaps it was the fact that he’d found this place at all or maybe it was something she hadn’t labelled yet, “and you bringing a bunch of people. those productions can be noisy.” messy, crowding a space that she had chosen for herself. and maybe one other person, but certainly not two. “what’s a favor or two?”

Her smile reflects in his eyes for only a glance, acting nearly as though he didn’t see it. Bridget doesn’t do anything out of politeness; he knows the smile is genuine. Is that a twisting feeling inside of him or is his orbit readjusting to the return of his sun? There’s nothing to think about besides the mini-series, now. His hand is on the script that was given to him by the writer, found easily. There is no mark of madness in his office that usually is found by the creative mind. Everything has its place; everything is in order; there is very little imprint of himself left behind beyond his name on the door. He returns her smile as the script exchanges hands with no expectation that she will read it. This is formality. This is politeness.

“It’s called Sharp Objects.” This alone seems like a detail that will matter very little, but it’s more concise than explaining what it actually is about. That, too, is something he knows will not matter. In truth, and on a personal level, he can relate. “I’d like to have Sarah Kinney or Eloise Bardot for one of the roles. There’s another female lead and two male supporting roles, ideally.” These factors are important. To him. “Is there anyone you would like me to approach? I’m always open to hearing your insight.”

“sharp objects.” she punctuates, accentuates, lets the two words turn into a blooming story in her mind. there were plenty such objects in the world. needles, knives, razor blades, the right kind of smile. “you want sarah kinney.” there was a name that wasn’t going to work out, “but you’ll settle for eloise bardot.” a much more manageable name to get. she’s had a lot of time to read over the past few weeks, she’s a real industry pro now. “you know only one of them’s been up for awards recently.” 

casting is interesting to her, but it’s not exactly the most important part of her life. then again, she’s not sure what she is supposed to consider there. they insisted it wasn’t what she’d been doing, without telling her what it could be. she didn’t think it was what orion did, but she figured it was worth a shot. “these roles are they like love interests? do you want four big names?”

“Rolls,” she says at the same time as her twin, self-satisfied, feet swinging back and forth in the air above her back. “Jinx, you owe me dinner!” she beams before her voice changes for the new sound in her ear, the first and only ring that gets replaced by Dave or Matt or Steve or whoever. “We’re going out to McDonalds on Wilshire Boulevard. Pull around the…”–she eyes Bridget, teasing that she might say the opposite, but she’s in a good mood, a welcoming mood–“we’ll go with the Rolls since Bridge hasn’t been in one in forever.”

She doesn’t need to say good-bye or anything else that indicates the two ends of a phone conversation are meant to be equals. The screen brightens with the call ending before dark again with one click. “Oo! I wonder if that molly tab is still stuck in between the seats…” she wonders aloud with a tilting head before swinging herself upright. “You know what goes great with that?” A hand slips beneath the settee, tossing out the pair of slippers she had on earlier. “Not Nobu.”

they’ve never owed each other anything, the charge for dinner will be lost to the wind alongside everything else that has ever cost another human being money. she smiles back all the same at the jinx, slipping back into the familiarity of it all. someone who knew all her answers, who really didn’t need to ask the questions. and in the end harlow gives in, lets her have the car that she’s missed so dearly. 

the second part, not so much. not that she’s drank the rehab koolaid. but there were certain rules to going home, little adjustments that meant that she couldn’t just do absolutely anything she wanted— just yet. the word her counselor had volleyed at her singed the air: RELAPSE. she can’t escape the watchful eye just yet. “i don’t want to take that old stuff.” jammed between the seat cushions, waiting and rotting like a real time bomb. “it’s my dinner.”

“You might have to ask her if there’s a difference between them.” A smile is on Orion’s face. It’s half-acquiescing, half-forced to exist. Separating the thread that holds the twins together has never been a task for him, not when that thread might as well be forged from a shared umbilical cord. Harlow’s jabs will remain as long as Bridget does, and it’s a fact that he’s accepted long ago and proven further from her time away. Even when there was a make-believe scenario that she finally leaves him, it is obliterated now. She’s in his space as if she’s never left, but it’s all agreed upon on who owns this place, isn’t it? Who is more qualified to call a house theirs? The renter who lives there or the landlord who allows them to stay?

“I’m glad you’re back,” he eventually speaks again when the thoughts temper, perhaps not aligning with his mouth, but the words are formed regardless. The desk is stood up from, rounding the corner to reach the other side. Is it to get a better handle on what he should show her or is it to place distance? “There’s a mini-series I think would be good to bring to the network. We could start casting bids as soon as next week, if I have your support.”

his first comment is crossed out and forgotten the moment the second is spoken. she doesn’t know if there’s a difference between the two, but she does know that if he says he’s glad to see her, that’s a sure thing. she smiles, sunshine breaking across her face at the thought that finally someone was really genuinely pleased to see that she had made it through her treatment and was better. 

“you always have my support.” the sentence is tossed out carelessly, as though it doesn’t carry any weight at all. of course it does, but it doesn’t. she’d give orion anything he asked, it just happens that his ask is a tv show. “what kind of mini series?” she doesn’t know if she actually wants to talk about it, but she’s not against the idea. it’s better than asking her what she did on her vacation anyways. “or, did you have bids in mind.”

His head tilts up before lowering, an accentuated nod that almost tips into old habits, ones that come from some place that might be instinct. To play with her words, to question what’s good, they roll around his tongue before swallowed back. He’s great. He’s funny. He’s hollowed out. “I try,” he tells her. A smile is presented to her, body lowering further against the edge of his desk, legs stretched out, allowing her to be the one to be looked up to. She is the returning princess after all; he is either loyal subject or the one charged with her kidnapping to the tower. The shining armor of a knight has certainly met its tarnish.

He squeezes her hand, just enough, just slight. “I see you, now.” There’s no argument from him. There’s no going around the end-result, but there are the inescapable present facts: she’s back, strings still attached, the title of something remains hanging over his head. His touch loosens until freeing her altogether, fingers curling around the woodgrain of the desk he’s perched against. “I could tell from how many times Harlow came by.” There’s still a faint pain to his upperarm, a bruise that’s nearly gone beneath his sleeve. “I learned she has her own way of showing how much she misses you.”

now. she likes that word all the same, as though it makes up for all the time that isn’t now. she thinks she’d have liked any word all the same as long as it meant living in the moment where she is standing back in the office again and there’s work to be done. because orion is always working, but he’s always composed. only one person was ever poised for a nervous seychelles breakdown with padded backgrounds and unhappiness. the views were magnificent, the grounds monitored. 

“i bet she came by all the time.” at least as many times as she would have normal come by. they didn’t have a routine but there were still three meals a day to be eaten, and hours to be filled up. she’s not surprised at the idea that if she was gone harlow would pick orion to spend the time with. if harlow was gone she would pick orion too. “did she have a great way of showing you or a funny way? or was it all—” she clenched her fist, someone who was aware of her twin’s propensity for violence without actually retaining it. as though it were just another interesting facet of her personality and not something to be taken seriously. “that would be all her own.”

Her mouth opens wide, and a finger sticks in it, mockingly gagging. Sushi sounds so much less appetizing when her twin wants it and there’s something else on her mind. It’s funny how that works. “Ed-a-mam-e!” she stresses out the word into a four part sentence as she rolls herself upright, hair flipping around and feet finally landing on the floor. The wavelengths have been sent out, the memory recalled as if on shared projector screen. “Ugh, why did Opal ruin my sixth with that stupid allergy thing!” She goes back to lying down, this time on her side, then her stomach, hand stretching out to the side table to feel for what she wants. “Who’s allergic to edamame? Weirdo.”

Whatever point was trying to be made is lost. Harley’s hand finally slaps on top of her iPhone, fingers curling around it while her chin props itself up on the arm of the settee to see the lit screen. “Uh, McDonald’s is out. So,” she corrected, throwing a look before returning to the speed dial. “Bentley or Rolls? I’ll let you pick as a welcome back gift.”

who’s allergic to edamame translates to opal was always stupid, always annoying, always trying to fit fit fit where she didn’t belong— didn’t she know better. no one who is supposed to eat these things ends up allergic to them. the world ejecting you like some malformed thing. the world did not eject the pulitzer girls who had their pick of food and cars, and never had to think about whether they could or couldn’t, just if they wanted to. 

“rolls.” the answer is out of her mouth a split second after the question is asked, almost too quickly. harlow knows the answer, it is always a rolls royce and if it is vintage it is all the better. but she asks the question anyways. she wonders if her twin has started to be polite in the short time she’s been gone, or if the welcome back is just a painful jab that she’s pretending didn’t stick. “it’s a rolls royce and it’s going to nobu.” she doesn’t sound as confident as she feels. as though she’s waiting for the rug to be pulled out of her again at any moment, but it’s not going to be. why would it be? “and then maybe mcdonalds for dessert.”

BASICS—

full name: bridget roy putlizer

birthday: august fifth

age: thirty three 

zodiac sign: leo

religion: taoist

religious level (1-10): 2

birthplace: newport, rhode island

current residence: los angeles, california

height: 5′4″

hair color: brunette

eye color: blue

sexuality: heterosexual

romantic preference: heteroromantic

relationship status: engaged? engaged?

languages known: english

DETAILS—

car: 1929 rolls royce wraith in RI, 2021 rolls royce wraith in CA

phone: black iphone 13 pro max, no case

music genres: instrumental scores, orchestral tracks

wardrobe: cotton t-shirts worth more than your car, ultra-luxury brands

estimated net worth: five billion 

ransom value: about five hundred million less than her sister

CONNECTIONS—

chandler endicott pulitzer iii, father

florence marlene carnegie pulitzer, mother

harlow henley pulitzer, twin

nora quinn sawyer, cousin

orion conrad mitchell, fiancé? boyfriend?

chase mitchell, on the radar

LEVELS (1-10)—

drinking: N/A — she’s in recovery

swearing: N/A — she’s in recovery

smoking status: N/A — a cigarette hurts the least 

drugs: N/A — she’s in recovery

cooking proficiency: 2 — can make a quesadilla

intelligence: 6 — burned away some brain cells there

emotional/social intelligence: 4 — learned all she knows from orion

creativity: 4 — it’s not really there

He is feeling his way through the current, familiar with the movements of the water. He will either find himself on the sunny shoreline or swept off by tsunami. A mocking tone is twisted and converted into something that will be labeled as endearing, even complimentary, letting it wash over him as he leans back on the edge of his desk, positioned to let himself be even to her, a small smile lifted up to give back to her.

Her shuffling handiwork is paused by his own palm, set atop of hers to put an end to the way it’s threatening to rearrange what is in proper order. Gently. Softly. There is something more palpable to the presence than either of those two words can translate, rife with misinterpretation. The breeze off of the waters has a potential chill to them; his feet are anchored in place. “They wouldn’t let me see you,” he tells her without lying and without revealing full context. “There’s been nothing else to miss.” Fingers are carefully lured away from the papers, an action that nearly falls to the background while he goes on, head tilting. “Are you back for good?–From the Seychelles?”

is she back for good. so many questions feel rhetorical when she hears them out loud. a lifetime of living with someone who does not need the thoughts finished for her but rather knows they’ve already been heard. but she has always been in the process of adjusting around orion— trying to make her existence clear enough for another person. there are parameters to these things, and boundaries she’s told she must relearn. 

“i am back for good.” emphasis where maybe she hasn’t earned it yet. after all, she’d never really meant to go in the first place. sent to place never-named, to be returned at any time with the sign of regression. but she’s back, and that’s good, so there’s really no problem. “you’re great. you’re so funny.” she highly doubted that she hadn’t missed anything, but she wasn’t going to pretend like she even knew the questions to get at what he was doing. “you didn’t see me.” the fact that he might have tried, whether real or inventive fiction to make her feel better was quickly dismissed as blanket failure. “that’s okay. i couldn’t see anyone besides mom and dad. like boarding school all over.”

Life is simple. His screenwriter is chatting, provides him with new revisions. His editor reminds him of their meeting for later; the premiere episode has wrapped and needs to be cleaned up. His assistant says hello and something else he doesn’t catch on his way to his office, an arm wrapped around the manilla envelope of the next script and another hand that opens his own door. And life becomes complicated in an instant, twisting around as effortlessly as the door knob. It’s unexpected, but he recovers swiftly, a beat taken for the sake of taking in a vision–or a ghost.

“It makes for a good distraction when…” and he pauses, for whatever reason he personally can’t say or face again, but he glances at her and then smiles. “You look good,” he goes on instead or in connection, placing the new set of work down on his desk alongside the pile her hand has already grazed through. “Better.”

“you look good.” her voice deepens, mocks, trying to find some way of understanding and connecting with the one person she’d actively sought out. she looked at him, eyes softening as she finally took him in. he did look better, was that the word for it. something mature rounding out edges where before she suppose she couldn’t really remember. so many details that tried to take hold as familiar, what was in this office, what was in that face. 

“busy busy.” the next stack of paperwork is thumbed through, despite the fact that they have never made sense to her. it seemed like everything was a dramatic set piece, that it only piled up to insist that everyone was keeping up with their lives. “when you missed me?” it’s a question, there’s no right answer. she supposes it could go either way, he didn’t and that was fine. or he did, and that was fine too. but probably better. “something else?”

Bob Dylan is printed on her shirt. Play her some of his best hits; she won’t know who’s singing. It’s all wrinkled from the way she’s sprawled out on a piece of furniture that can’t be embarrassed by calling it a couch so it goes by settee. Harlow’s ankles are crossed at the top of its back; her head is hanging off with hair streaming down to the floor. She hears sushi a half-second before it’s voiced, like an echo of her twin’s consciousness, just like how her tongue blowing out between her lips comes faster to Bridget than the air that separates them.

“I want McDonald’s.” Her eyes finally open, peering over at her half from the other side of the room, painted toes wiggling. “Big Mac, extra sauce”–the list is counted on the tips of her fingers–“extra lettuce, NO onions. Disgusting. Fresh fries. And an M&M Frosty. You can tell them you want sushi. They have that fish thing. I don’t see why they can’t just make it out of that.”

she counts along with harlow’s order as though she is a dutiful maid and not someone hearing it over and over again. there’s a novelty to going through the drive through of a mcdonalds, the driver making small talk with whoever is on the other side of the little metal speaker. the delivery of hot apple pies and thick milkshakes that can’t possibly contain all the ingredients it said they did. there’s a novelty to it, but no more than being able to finally go to a familiar restaurant where people recognized her face and she didn’t have to say anything except put it on the tab.

“no no no. i want blue fin toro, unagi, edamame, and gyoza. i want it all to be fresh. mcdonald’s doesn’t even have the right soda.” it wasn’t a question of being able to create her own meal out of what was available on the menu, but that she would have to do it at all, that she simply wasn’t going to receive what she’d asked for. “why don’t you want to go out?”

twins were made up of small gestures. she could read harley from across a room, there was no need for small talk. a glance as a paragraph, the tap of a finger as shining beacon. there were no hi hellos kisses on the cheek, there is no i missed am missing will miss you. she could feel both, and she didn’t need to articulate it. instead she is in her house, so is her sister. she likes it best this way, the feeling of wholeness. she shuns the thoughts of unhealthy dependence that her therapist tried to force her to agree too. she looks at her sister, and finally says “let’s get sushi. i’m starved.”

she is not back in town, because the admittance that she ever left is far above anyone’s pay grade. rumors might find their way around but there was simply no proof of anything except a vacation. two people knew the truth and neither of them would say. she was sure of that, almost sure of that— she was going to make sure of that. she flipped through the stack of professional looking papers on his desk. “well doesn’t look like you missed a day of work.”