The Jezebel

by Dylan Allen

  In all that time, we barely said a word. Normally, I’d feel compelled to fill silences with small talk. But as always, nothing with Stone is as it normally is. I thought the lack of structure in our plans would make me nervous. It hasn’t.

  I’m more relaxed than I can remember being. Ever.

  When we were just kids, and our relationship was based on a very different kind of feeling, we spoke a language that didn’t have words. It was accented by a mutual enjoyment of food, music, and trust. Now, I can add adventure, desire and safety to things we can share without saying a word.

  When we’re done eating, we walk out to an outdoor market set up on a narrow cobblestone street. It’s lined by vine covered hacienda’s that had been converted to tiny artisan shops. And they’re filled with glorious creations I wish my children were here to see.

  Stone is a social butterfly He smiles at and greets nearly everyone we pass. He asks so many questions about everything, then plays devil’s advocate with the answers. When we stopped at an art gallery, he drew one of the other patrons into a boisterous argument about the influence of 20th century Mexican muralists on the Chicano Mural Movement in the United States. At one point the man looked like he wanted to drop kick Stone, but the conversation ended in a fit of uproarious laughter and they parted ways after exchanging hearty slaps on the back.

  He kept pausing to translate for me, until I told him that I was enjoying just watching the body language and facial expressions. He’s as animated, curious, and mischievous as he’d been as a boy, but he’s got all the grace and athleticism of a man who pushes his body’s limits and takes a genuine interest in people. He’s a joy to watch.

  We sit to watch a group of old women, their heads covered in black kerchiefs play a wickedly competitive card game he said was called Conquian. Stone leans in and whispers in the ear of the woman closest to him.

  He’s been watching her hand from over her shoulder and whatever he says makes her eyes light up. She’s grinning when she puts her cards down, drawing groans from her friends. She and Stone share a high five. And they all kiss his cheeks when he tells them we’re leaving

  “How do you know how to play that game?” I as we walk on, still hand in hand.

  “One of the other fellows in my program is Mexican, he taught me on the flight down.

  “And of course, you mastered it instantly,” I swing our joined hands and smile up at him.

  Suddenly, he presses me against a wall, cups my face and kisses me long and sweet

  “I used to dream about kissing you whenever I wanted,” he murmurs.

  My heart hammers, wild with the thrill of this reckless, spontaneous passion. “Then do it,” I breathe and wind my hands around his neck. He presses open mouthed kisses on my chin, my cheeks, my jaw, my ear, my neck, my eyes.

  And I revel in it. The Regan he knew is long gone, but he makes me remember and miss her. More than I have in a very long time. Maybe while we’re here, I can pretend that I’m her, still.

  His lips come back to mine and he cups my ass and grinds his hips against mine. “I want to fuck you right here. Right now, Regan. Can you feel how badly I want to?”

  A loud burst of laughter from an approaching group of tourists pierces our bubble. He casts them an annoyed glance, presses one more hard kiss to my mouth and whispers, “later”.

  We walk hand in hand, but I swear my feet never touch the ground and neither does my soul. The city is beautiful, the weather is amazing, and there’s contentment welling in my chest, tickling me, stretching my heart, healing it, too.

  I glance over at Stone as we walk along and marvel that this man is that same little boy. From the chiseled, stubble covered jaw, to the sleek, bold lines of his high cheekbones, and the strong slope of his aquiline nose, he’s a walking work of art.

  But the thing I’ve enjoyed most is seeing him interact with other people and watching all that intellect and charm converge. He doesn’t seem to realize how everyone falls in love with him. Because he’s too busy enjoying the moment

  He turns his head and I wish I could see what’s behind the reflective lens of his aviator sunglasses, but the sensual smile on curving his lips is one of pure, male satisfaction.

  “Let’s have lunch, I’m starving.” He says more than asks, and I find I don’t mind one bit. I’m like a kite being carried on the wind, without a care in the world because Stone Rivers - strong, kind, and daring - is my tether.

  We pick a place called La Molina based on reviews on TripAdvisor… “This is even prettier than the pictures, right?” I remark as we’re shown to a table in their courtyard that looks like something out of a fairytale. Lush green plants bursting with huge colorful blooms fill the space. And rustic wooden tables canopied to shield us from the afternoon sun are arranged so that you can spread out. We order fresh shrimp ceviche, octopus carpaccio and pork ribs and settle on a pitcher of their house mojito.

  “So, tell me Stone, what have you done for the last eighteen years,” I ask as soon as the waitress is done flirting with him and leaves.

  “Gosh, how strange that I haven’t once mentioned what I consider the biggest part of my life. I’m a doctor. An obstetrician gynecologist, but lately, I’ve been focused almost solely on obstetrics. I’m finishing up my final year in fellowship in Global Maternal Health in Colombia.”

  My eyes bug out of my head. “You’re a doctor, on top of everything else? How are you single?” I quip and he laughs. He leans back in his seat, letting the sunbathe his face, and links his hands behind his head.

  “I’m actually only recently single. But it wasn’t serious. And I haven’t seen her in almost a year.”

  It’s irrational to be jealous of someone who’s name I don’t know. Especially when this man isn’t ever going to be mine. But, I am. Fiercely.

  “I was almost fifteen when I finished Blackwell. I enrolled at U of H for both undergrad – where I met Tyson, incidentally,” he winks. “And then Medical school. I was twenty – two when I graduated. And by then, my brothers were old enough to move with me to New York, where I was doing my residency. I was there for four years. I got this fellowship with Baylor and this is my last year.”

  “And after that?” I am blown away by how casual he is about all of the incredible things he’s done.

  “I have an offer for a position at Baylor College of Medicine as Associate Professor. I’m excited. It’s kind of my dream job, but you’d think I was applying for the secret service or something.”

  “So, you’re moving to Houston?” I ask, as casually as I can. Our waitress brings a pitcher and two highballs already full of mojitos and I drink half of mine down in one gulp.

  “Yeah, in Houston and so, when I’m done in Colombia in about six months, I’ll be back in good old H-town.”

  “Wow.”

  “So, what about you? I know you got married, but like I know nothing really more than that. What happened after I left that bakery? And that guy I stabbed? You ever seen him again?”

  I choke on my drink.

  I Remember Everything

  Stone

  I stand to whack her on the back, and she holds a hand up to stop me. She clears her throat and pulls her sunglasses off to wipe her tearing eyes.

  “Are you okay?” I ask when she finally takes a deep breath.

  “Yeah, something went down the wrong way,” she says, and I frown because she only sipped that mojito, but let it go. I rushed through my retelling of the last eighteen years. Left out details that I’d rather forget. But she looked like a deer who’d heard the cock a hunter’s rifle when I asked her the same question.

  “So, tell me.”

  “Not much to tell, really.” She rests her elbow on the table and leans forward to rest her chin on her linked hands. She turns her gaze skyward and presses her lips together in a thin pensive mien.

  In the light of the late morning, with no make-up on, her mass of inky curls and coils piled on her head, I could be looking back in time. Time
hasn’t touched her. The spray of freckles on her cheek, the soft dusky pink center of her perfect cupid’s bow mouth, the way she sways while she’s thinking – it’s all the same. And yet also brand new and exhilarating.

  She’s got on this little white camisole and tiny red shorts that I’ve been imagining pulling off with my teeth.

  “Well, I went to SMU, got a degree in journalism, and went to work for Wilde World’s communications department. And then, I got married. And that was kind of the end of my career because I had my daughter right away and we moved to France right after. I moved back home five years ago because honestly, I hated living in Paris. I hate that everywhere we went people thought I was my children’s Nanny. Someone even asked me “where I got them,” once. Oh, and my husband had a new mistress every so often, she’d come to dinner with her husband. I got tired of all that shit and left.” She picks at a half-eaten tortilla, and shrugs like she’s telling me about her sewing circle. “Now, I’m basically a single parent and an unofficial brand ambassador for Landel Corp and Wilde World, and that’s about it.”

  I take a sip of my beer to hide my frown. Clearly that was the Cliff's Notes version. I don’t press for details she doesn’t want to give, but I ask questions that I really want answers to.

  “So, besides your kids, what are you most proud of in the last eighteen years?”

  “The Jezebel,” she says quickly and unequivocally.

  “Like the tattoo, the one of your lower back?” Heat floods me as the memory of my hand running over it while I fucked her.

  She narrows her gaze, but not in annoyance and her smile is wistful. “Yes, we all had one.” She shakes her head as if to clear it and her eyes brighten. “And, The Jezebel is a blog we named after the Biblical woman.”

  “She was a prostitute, or something? Or… not?” I amend when her smile turns to a scowl.

  “She most certainly was not,” she lays a hand over her chest and leans away, as if in personal affront. The look on her face that makes me feel like this is some essential knowledge that I should have learned along with my ABC’s.

  “So, who was she and why did I think she was a prostitute?” I ask and her face lights up as if she’s been waiting to be asked this her whole life.

  “Jezebel was the daughter of a Phoenician king. Then, when she married, she became a Queen in her own right. She was a highly effective ruler and she and her husband ruled co equally. The story of her is framed as one about religious intolerance. But really, it was that she dared to be as ruthless and cunning as the men of her time. And for that she has been branded by history as an immoral, wily, seductress who got men to do her sinful and wicked bidding by fucking them into a stupor.”

  I nod, not surprised to hear that. “Well, The Bible was written by and for a long time, only for men to read. They got the first crack at interpretation. So, that sounds about right.”

  Regan gives me a grin that borders on giddy. “It’s been a while since I’ve had this conversation with anyone, But I usually get more pushback than that.”

  “So, what is The Jezebel?”

  The twinkle in her eye dims. “A blog I ran with Matty and Jack. A piece of Jezebel was what brought us together. We were all studying journalism and were fascinated by how history treats women. Walk around any major city. Nearly all the historical statues are of men. History only mentions that can’t be ignored, - Jezebel, Joan of Arc, Yaa Asantewaa, Boudica, Margaret Thatcher, Benazir Bhutto... They were leaders of countries, or armies, or their people’s hearts. But there are so many more women whose contributions and accomplishments are completely ignored. The three of us wanted to tell their stories. We paid homage to who’s contributions, leadership, sacrifices had excluded, erased and misappropriated. It was the best thing I’ve done.” The passion in her voice is discordant with the sadness in her eyes.

  “Why’d you stop?”

  She shrugs, sighs and smiles. “Career, life, my children.” Her eyes gleam at the mention of her kids. “What are their names?” I ask and surprise myself. But whatever makes her look like that is something I want to know more about.

  “Evangeline is my daughter and my oldest, she’s ten going on twenty. And my twins, Martinez and Henri are five. They’re wonderful and so different from each other, but very close. Martinez only speaks French, which drives a lot of people crazy.”

  How lucky they are to be loved by her.

  She pulls her phone out of her little bag and scrolls through before she hands it over to me. “Here, this is a selfie we took the night before I left.”

  Her daughter is her spitting image, but with hair the color of nutmeg and eyes that glimmer like honey colored gems. Her boys are dark haired with the same cherubic smiles as their Uncle Tyson wears. Their eyes are a startling blue. And I want to ask if those are her husband’s eyes…but I don’t really want to know.

  “They’re gorgeous,” I say and hand the phone back. She flushes with pride, and nods. “And so smart and incredibly determined. I’m so proud of them.” She puts her phone away and leans back to stare at the sky in wonder.

  I grab my beer and do the same. I can’t believe I’m here. With the woman who made me wish I could bend time so that she could be mine.

  But I realize that I never really expected it to happen. But, now that it has, it feels like we’ve been leading up to this forever. I couldn’t imagine a more perfect day.

  I take a swig of my beer. The ocean breeze is cool and constant. The waves slap, crack, and crash just feet away. In front of me, is the woman of my dreams. And she’s turning out to be so much more than I even imagined.

  A Cult

  Regan

  “You full?” Stone asks, his smile wistful as he reaches between us and slips an arm over my shoulder and pulls me into his side. It’s so natural that my arm winds up around his waist before I think about it.

  He smells like heaven - wind, smoke, sun, salt, and man.

  He parked the car under a tree to try and keep it from turning into an oven, but when we open the doors, waves of trapped heat escape.

  “God don’t close the doors until we roll the windows down,” I groan when the bare skin of my thighs and lower back touch the blazing hot seat and stick uncomfortably to the leather. He cranks the A/C down to the coldest temperature and up to the highest speed, but the few minutes I roll the window down a crack as we pull back onto the freeway.

  “You haven’t even asked where we’re going next,” Stone says.

  “I don’t care. As long as I’ve never been there, I want to go,” I say lazily as the breeze blows and starts to dry the hair that was sticking to my neck. It feels so good…

  That’s the last thing I remember thinking before my ringing phone wakes me up.

  “Your phone has been ringing for a while,” Stone says, shouting to be heard over the wind and road noise the open windows are letting in.

  “Oh shit,” I say. My mouth is dry and has a sour taste. And my head hurts.

  I fumble on the ground for my bag and pull my phone out. The ringing had been muffled by the leather in my bag, but the volume is ear splitting and I curse my uncoordinated fingers when I drop it.

  It stops ringing before I can pick it up from the seat between my thighs where it fell. I flip it over and see my mother’s number. My heart drops.

  I roll the windows up and grab for my phone, my heart hammering as I press “call back” on the missed call notification.

  My mother answers on the first ring. “I was just leaving you a voicemail. Why does Evangeline have her own phone?” She asks in her no nonsense, direct way.

  “So that we can reach her when we need to. Marcel’s idea,” I add because I know that always shuts her up.

  Stone’s fingers drum the steering wheel, just once

  “What’s up mom? Is everything okay? Have you heard from Remi?” I ask cutting to the chase.

  “No. And that Rivers woman who saw him last won’t say what it was all about. Anyway, your husband j
ust called, and he says you’re not answering your phone.” My stomach lurches at the mention of Marcel’s name.

  “I have bad reception,” I lie and cut her off. I can’t deal with her right now.

  “Everything okay?” He asks.

  “Yeah, everything is fine. My mother doesn’t have my brother to boss around, so she’s turned her attention on me,” I say and then feel a surge of guilt at how ungracious I’m being.

  My mother is a lot of things, some I don’t understand or like. She and my brother Remi have been at each other’s throats for as long as I can remember. She and I not so much because I pick my battles and the ones she's waged against me haven’t been worth it. She’s cold, detached, and she finds disobedience intolerable. But she’s a great grandmother and my children love her. And if I didn’t have someone who I knew loved them back, I wouldn’t have been able to make this trip.

  I sigh wearily and correct myself. “No, I didn’t mean that. I called my daughter and I didn’t call Mom, and she doesn’t like that. But everything is fine,” I say and pat Stone’s leg before I put my phone away and turn back to watch the dessert zip by.

  “Hey, I thought we were headed away from Cabo,” I say when I see a sign that gives our distance from the city. I sit up and frown, a flare of worry that this adventure is already over.

  “We will. I changed our itinerary again,” he says cryptically, and it eases some of my concern, but I want to be as far away from anywhere that people might know us.

  “Where are we going instead?” I peer out the window. Not that I would know this from any other part of the Baja peninsula, but I suddenly don’t feel so blasé about not knowing what’s next.

  “Thought you didn’t care,” he says with a laugh, but his vague and cryptic answers do more to ratchet up my nerves than anything else.