The Jezebel

by Dylan Allen

  Instead, I watch the girl of my dreams, who has gone from pretty young thing, to flesh and blood siren, walk away.

  Drunk Man Di Talk Truth

  Regan

  Good Lord in Heaven what have I done? If you’d asked me to list a thousand things I thought might happen to me in this lifetime, dry humping a stranger on a shuttle full of people until I came wouldn’t have ever, ever been one of them.

  When he volunteered his lap, I was grateful. I’m in great shape, but I’m heavier than I look. I hadn’t missed the way his long, athletic body filled the seat.

  When I sat down on his thick muscular thighs, the solid strength of him felt…deliciously sturdy. At least I didn’t have to worry about being too heavy for him.

  Bonus points that he smelled good. Not because he was drenched in cologne

  - but the kind of good that comes from soap, sweat, and man.

  His baseball cap hid his hair and eyes, But God, the part of his face I could see was enough to whet my fantasies. His mouth alone…Wide and graced with lips so full they verged on pouty. And for a mad moment, I’d wanted to turn around and press mine to them.

  Just to see if they were as soft as they felt.

  It took me a minute to register what I was feeling. I haven’t had a man's dick between my legs in five years. And then his stiff erection pressed exactly where it needed to and flip the switch that turns me from mildly annoyed to wildly turned on. A switch I didn’t even know existed.

  I was afraid he’d be pissed. I’d practically given him a lap dance trying to fix my anklet. He’s a man and his body’s response was simple biology. biological.

  Until his big warm hand gripped my hip. It felt so good and sure.

  Even that woman’s incessant prattling couldn’t cut through the lust that fogged my brain. I’d forgotten how different an orgasm feels when it's not coaxed out of me by my own hand. The pleasure from the friction of his body was unreal.

  Guilt is glaringly absent from the swirl of emotions inside of me. But I can’t muster it when everything about what happened felt so… right.

  In fact, it’s the only thing that’s happened since I arrived this morning that has.

  I pour myself a glass of water, pick up the small silver container that used to hold Jack’s ashes, and step out onto the huge terracotta tiled balcony attached to my room.

  I take a moment to breathe in the floral, sea salt tinged breeze carried in from the Sea of Cortez

  I got Jack’s letter the day her will was read. The brochure for this resort and the boating company that she’d hired for the ceremony were also in the envelope. “It’s where I want a piece of me to dwell forever, and I want you and Matty to take me. Together. Please.”

  It’s heartbreaking to think about her planning all of this.And not just because she was going to die. But because, in the midst of her own fear and grief and pain, she thought about me. Jack knew my soul needed space to unfurl. In the twelve hours since I arrived, I’ve had more time alone than I have in the previous twelve months combined.

  The life I’ve dedicated myself to, the one I built with deliberate care, feels so far away right now. Distance allows me to see it with a clarity I’ve never had before.

  It’s not a happy scene. Dressed in loneliness, apathy, lack of purpose, every single brick in its facade is held in place with lies, luck, and far too little love.

  From the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of the small bronze urn I used to carry my best friend’s ashes out to sea last night. I’m gripped by a sense of foreboding. That could just have easily been me. And God, what a waste of a life it would have been.

  The loud ring of my room’s phone is a welcome interruption and I dive for it and pick it up before it can ring again. “Hello?”

  “Hey, it’s me. Can we talk?” Matty’s tone is clipped, but civil.

  My heart gives a little hopeful leap. “Sure, maybe we can have dinner?” I glance at the clock, it’s only 4pm, but I’m starving. I came here hoping that Matty and I could repair what was broken between us. I’ve spent the whole day in my room waiting for her to call. Trying to work up the courage to call her.

  “Okay, dinner would be good. Are you ready now?”

  “I need to shower, but I’ll be quick,” I say.

  “Don’t rush, I’ll come up to your room and wait. See you.”

  “I look so tired,” I lament to my reflection and skim my fingertips over the shadows under my eyes. I haven’t slept well since Jack died.

  “No, you don’t. You always look beautiful,” Matty calls in a monotone that smacks more of obligation than sincerity. She’s waiting in the small sitting area of my suite waiting while I put on a little make up.

  I can’t see her in the reflection, but I know that from her perch in the bedroom, she can see me. So, I look directly in the mirror. “Well, you don’t always look beautiful. In fact, right you now, you look as terrible as I feel,” I say with a smile that’s as sincere as her tone was.

  A few seconds later she’s standing beside me at the small vanity in my bathroom, scowling at me.

  She rolls her eyes and lets out a long, exasperated sigh.“I was trying to be nice, Regan,” she repeats.

  I mimic her eye roll. “You don’t have to be nice. It’s okay to be honest with your friends.”

  “Here we go.” I mutter and turn my attention back to my makeup.

  She glares at me, hands on her hips and fierce frown on her face. “What does that mean?”

  “It means that without Jack as a buffer, we were bound to argue.” I keep my expression neutral, but I stop trying to make my trembling hands work and put my mascara away and meet her eyes in the mirror.

  I regret my quip about her appearance. She does look worn out. It’s more than fatigue and emotional toll of this trip. What had the last ten years been like for her? I didn’t even know where she lived until Jack told me she was in Maryland. She’s never met my children. Evangeline’s middle name is Matilda.

  “I’m going out the balcony to smoke. When you’re done, come join me.” She turns and walks away before I have a chance to respond.

  I watch her retreating back. She’s ranged from barely civil to hostile since we met in the lobby to ride out to the boat Jack hired for the ceremony.

  When I tried to talk to her, she said, “I’m just here for Jack.” And nothing else.

  She brought a bottle of wine on board and drank half of it, straight from the bottle. When the captain of our little boat asked us about Jack, Matty said, “We used to be friends, but now, we hate her.”

  Matty and I…we’ve always butted heads. I used to love that about us. It felt like our relationship flexing its muscles when we fought and made up.

  I counted myself lucky to have such an authentic, honest friend.

  We’re worse than strangers now and I can see clearly, the role I played in that.

  What they did was wrong. But, no one forced me to help them. It’s wrong of me to punish them for my choices. It took Jack’s call asking me to come visit her in hospice to see that.

  I spent ten years thinking she was angry with me and she spent ten years thinking I was angry with her. But when she called to tell me she was dying, all I felt was grief. I caught a flight the very next day and went to her home Sacramento.

  Jack was barely a shadow of the woman she’d been last time I saw her.

  Her husband told me that she was having a good day and it broke my heart to think what the bad days must be like. But I only smiled and sat in the seat they offered me.

  I began with my regrets. “I was going to call… Six months went by and I didn’t know what I would say. So, I just…never did. I’m so sorry.” It was such a pathetic recitation of excuses

  She’d just smiled and patted my hand. “I love you. I’m so glad you came.” That was all.

  The rest of the time, we reminisced, I read her passages from her favorite book, Love in the Time of Cholera and we cried together when Florentino left
after Fermina spurned him.

  When I finished the book, she’d grabbed my hand with more strength than I’d felt from her since I arrived. d. Her eyes were clear and grave. “Don’t waste any more time wondering what if. You’ll regret it. And it will make the end of your life, whether you see it coming or if it happens in an instant, feel like a death sentence instead of a transition. You were my last regret. Make up with Matty, don’t let her be yours.”

  She died that evening and I cried bitterly. Thinking back to it, I feel ashamed that her husband had to find space in his own grief to comfort me.

  Shakespeare said that love is an ever-fixed mark that looks upon a tempest and isn’t moved. And it’s proven true. After all this time and all the muddy water that’s passed under our bridge, I still love Matty.

  Even if she doesn’t feel the same, I want her to know that I didn’t just come here for Jack.

  She’s leaning over the rails, staring out at the majestic panorama of beach, ocean and sky. I watch her for a moment. In so many ways, she’s unchanged. High, sculpted cheekbones, full lips, a regal nose and braids piled high on her head like a crown make a striking profile. Her dark brown skin gleams in the moonlight. Her yellow sundress is too big, and even though she’s the same size as she was in college, she looks frailer.

  I feel sick at the thought she might be sick, with something that will kill her, like it killed Jack. I shake off the melodrama and shake myself. I know what’s wrong. It’s the same thing that’s eating me alive. She just doesn’t have the budget for make-up and facials that stave off the signs of the internal rot that comes with making your soul a vessel corrosive secret.

  I take a cautious step outside and wait to see if she reacts before I take another. After three creeping steps like that, Matty’s head drops and she groans.

  “Why are you being so weird? It’s a balcony not a minefield.”

  “Are you sure? I feel like if I put one foot wrong, you’ll blow up and not speak to me for ten years.”

  “I don’t know where you could have gotten that ridiculous notion from,” she sing-songs and my nerves are instantly soothed. Feeling a little more balanced, and like myself, I dive in headfirst.

  “I should have called you after we fought,” I blurt.

  “You couldn’t have, I blocked your number,” she says with a sheepish grimace.

  We sigh in unison and look at each other for a long moment. The crashing waves and the strains of music fill the silence that falls between us.

  Her expression mirrors everything I’m feeling.

  Apology.

  Love.

  Hope.

  “I’m sorry about what I said on the boat, I didn’t mean it. I just had too much to drink.” She finally breaks the quiet.

  “Drunk man talk di truth,” I mimic my mother’s lyrical Jamaican accent. She always suppresses it in public and even at home. But when we were younger, before she became the Tina Wilde, she used to speak almost exclusively in her Patois when she scolded us.

  “It’s not true. It never has been. You know that. We’ve been mad at each other and we’ve got stuff to work out, but the only thing I feel for you is love. I just didn’t know how to bridge the gap.”

  There’s so much advice and common wisdom about what to do when romantic relationships hit road bumps. But you know what’s just as devastating? When a real friendship ends for reasons that make it impossible to repair.

  “If I’d been a guy you’d fought with would you have blocked my number?” I ask her, curious more than anything.

  “Probably not,” she admits and cringes at her admission.

  “Why do we work harder for the men who hurt us than for each other?” I ask in consternation at the truth of it.

  “Because a great dick is hard to find,” she deadpans.

  I snort a laugh and she gives me a grudging smile. Sharing a laugh with my other best friend, puts a small seal on the crack that the loss of Jack created.

  It hurts like hell to know we’ll never laugh together again.

  “Unless of course, you happen to stumble across one on a shuttle,” she quips, and my face goes up in flames.

  I slap my palms on my cheeks to hide the flush and turn away. “Oh my God, you saw?”

  She bursts out in delighted laughter. “Not that I blame you. He was hot. God, I haven’t seen a man like that in person since in a long time.”

  “Do you think everyone knew?” I ask, mortified at the thought.

  “You were very subtle, but we were roommates in college and…sometimes when you were with Charlie, I’d watch. I know your O’ face,” she says with a sly, but embarrassed smile.

  “No, you didn’t,” I gasp and lean away from her, but I’m not upset. In fact, there’s something…intriguing and hot about being watched. But I could never admit that to her.

  Marcel is the only man I’ve been with in ten years and sex was never anything to write home about. He’s conservative and anything beyond missionary was sinful. He made me feel dirty the first time I asked him to eat me out. So, my sense of shame about the things I desire is too ingrained for me to share it even with my best friend.

  “I’m married.” I remind her and hold up my wedding ring adorned hand, as if she’s the one who needs reminding.

  She pushes my hand down and eyes with a probing expression. “I know what the paper you signed says. What does your heart say? There's a difference.”

  I forgot how insightful and direct Matty could be. It’s what made her a crack interviewer. She’s good at reading people and she’s got great instincts that she always listens to.

  I’ve kept my own council when it comes to our marriage. Tyson only knows the true state of things because he was visiting us when everything fell apart.

  Matty and I may butt heads, but I trust her with my life. After the way I left things with Marcel, I would kill for someone to talk to.

  Someone removed from my life and someone who doesn’t think the sun shines out of Marcel’s ass.

  I look down at my hands. I’ve never taken my ring off. But I do tonight. What’s next, I don’t know. But I need to figure it out.

  I sit up and clap my hands together. “For this, we need a drink.”

  “Well? Spill it.” Matty prods when our server walks away.

  I can’t look her in the eye, so I keep my gaze trained on the drink in my hand. “We haven’t had sex in five years. Not since I discovered Marcel’s affair. It wasn’t his first, but it was the first one he was careless enough for me to find out about. She’s pregnant.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Yes.” I turn to meet her gaze. What I’m about to say isn’t the kind of thing you confess without the courtesy of eye contact.

  “She’s eighteen. And our nanny. I hired her last summer, and she ended up staying when school started. The kids love her. And so does my husband, apparently.”

  Her eyes bug out. “He’s leaving you for her?”

  I laugh humorlessly. “Oh no. Marcel wouldn’t leave me. His pride will never let him admit that he failed at anything. He won’t even acknowledge they had an affair.”

  She frowns in confusion. “But…then, how do you know she’s pregnant?”

  “She told me. After I caught them together, I fired her. I asked her to pack and leave and then I took the kids to the beach so they wouldn’t see her leave. She came down an hour after us and sat down next to me and told me that she was pregnant. She said he asked her to get rid of it, but she wants to keep it.”

  “How do you know it’s his?” Her question is one I know I’ll get a lot, but it irritates me.

  “I don’t. But why would she say it was?” I ask and wish I cared more.

  “Because he’s a billionaire and she’s trying to get paid,” she returns easily.

  “Not everyone does everything for money, Matty.”

  She purses her lips and glances away, “Time will tell. What did you say? Did you slap her?”

  “No. She�
�s a kid. I said I’d help her whatever she decided.”

  She snorts a surprised laugh. “You seem awfully sanguine about all of this. Has he gotten someone pregnant before?”

  “No, of course not,” I say right away and then slump in my seat. “At least… I don’t think so. I mean…I don’t know. He’s had other entanglements.” I admit.

  “So, he’s a serial philanderer.” In typical Matty fashion, she gets right to the heart of it.

  We sit in silence for a minute and I wonder what she’s thinking. This is hardly how I imagined my life turning out.

  “I know I can’t stay with him. I just don’t know where to start. Also, he will fight me every step of the way…and if I’m honest, it’s that brawl I’m avoiding more than anything.” I groan and run a hand through my hair.

  “I wish I could say that the last ten years had matured me emotionally, but ending relationships still isn’t my thing.”

  I glance at her and shake my head in fond exasperation. “Don’t tell me you’re still doing that,” I say. She used to ghost on men all the time when we were in college. I thought it was funny, until she did it to me.

  She ignores my jibe. “But... I can tell you that hot, anonymous sex in a city where you don’t know a soul, is a really good place to start. Unclog those pipes so you can think clearly, first.”

  “God, you make it sound so easy. That was the craziest and most reckless thing I’ve ever done. I could have gotten caught. He could have been anyone.”

  “Regan, We’re stupidly hot women in our mid-thirties. This is the easiest it’s ever going to be. And that guy, he’s beautiful, and you’ll never see him again. You should find him and finish what you started.”

  “I was thinking about it… but what if he saw my wedding ring?”

  “Well if he did, it didn’t stop him. Not everyone cares about that. Did he seem like an asshole? When you were talking to him?”

  I grab a handful of hair as the wind blows it around and lean in so I can speak quietly.