The Jezebel

by Dylan Allen

  “You’ve never needed me. You made that obvious from day one. No, you married me because you wanted to be your grandfather’s pet again. And I married you because I wanted to own the woman who no one else could afford to buy.”

  I flinch at his characterization. “But I’m not a fool, I know when a woman is wet and when she’s inserted lube before coming to bed. I didn’t complain. I just found a way to take care of my needs without making it your problem. Why can’t you do the same thing?” he hisses.

  Guilt pricks my conscience and blood rushes to my cheeks, but I don’t apologize. I’m not sorry, but I didn’t realize he knew.

  “I want free of this gilded prison. I want to travel and work and not spend my summers in Monaco. I don’t want to be your spouse, in any sense of the word.”

  He pulls the papers out of the inside pocket of his jacket.

  He pulls a slim gold lighter out of his pocket and sets the papers on fire.

  “Marcel, burning them won’t make this go away. This is a no-fault state. You can’t stop this. It’s over.”

  His face mottles red with anger. “Not even when I’m dead. We’re Catholic. We married in a Catholic church. You are my wife for eternity,” he snarls, and throws the burning papers onto my bed, before he storms out.

  I grab them and rush to the bathroom, throw them in the sink, and turn the water on to douse the flames.

  The smoke makes my smoke detector go off, and I grab a towel to wave the small plume away. The sound stops, but I hear the patter of little feet, as soon as I turn the water off.

  “ Y’a quelque chose qui brûle ici ?” (“What’s burning?”) Martinez peeks around the frame of my bathroom door. For the last two years, he’s only spoken French. He goes to the French school here and is fully immersed in it. I don’t mind, because it makes them very easy to tell apart. Unlike Remi and me, they are identical.

  “C’était un accident, chéri,” (It was an accident) I tell him, guiding him out of the smoke stink of the bathroom. I shut the door and then stoop to put myself face to face with him. He looks so much like my brothers, but he has his father’s sky-blue eyes. Right now, they’re heavy and groggy with sleep.

  I run a hand over his mop of curls and smile indulgently at him. My heart is still racing from Marcel’s fire and brimstone routine, but just having my hands on my son helps me calm down. “Tu es toujours fatigué?” (Are you still tired?)

  “Non, mama,” he says, and then gives a huge yawn.

  I laugh and scoop him up. “Allez viens. Retournons dormir.” (Come on let’s go back to sleep). I plop him onto the bed and pull the comforter off, when I see the spot when he’d thrown the paper. I grab a blanket from the leather bench at the foot of my bed and cover him with it, command the lights off and lay down with my soft, sweet smelling reason for everything tucked by my side. When his breathing evens out and I’m sure he’s asleep, I get out of bed and grab my phone and go back to the bathroom to call Stone.

  Unlike the wild, consuming love affair we had on that island, our daily phone calls, while treasured, are distinctly dissatisfying.

  By tacit agreement, we talk about everything but us or how we feel. Instead, we talk about work, our families, life, politics, anything, but the huge elephant in the room. With so much left unsaid, there’s an undercurrent of frustrated tension in every conversation.

  But still, there’s no one else I’d rather talk to. And I know he feels the same way. As if to prove me right, my phone buzzes with a text before I can dial his number.

  Are you awake?

  Yes. I

  My heart skips a beat, and a smile breaks across my face when my phone starts to ring almost immediately.

  “You okay? How’d it go?” He sounds like he’s holding his breath.

  “Yes, I’m fine. It’s fine. He was mad, but it’s done,” I say, with a small burst of excitement.

  He lets out a harsh breath. “I wish I could get away.” Half of the doctors on his team are out sick with some norovirus, and Stone is working double shifts.

  “Stone, don't worry. The hard part is done. And I’m fine.”

  “You know the more you say that, the less I believe you, right?”

  “Okay, well I’ll stop saying it. But it’s true.”

  “Did he call you? When is he coming back to Houston?” He asks each question in rapid fire succession. I can feel his anxiety, and I wish I could say something to soothe it. But given that mine is running high, I can’t even begin to.

  “He flew to Houston.”

  “What? He’s there?”

  “This morning. He came as soon as he was served. He’s not happy. There’s nothing he can do to stop it. But he’ll try. I’m so afraid this is going to get ugly.”

  “No, it won’t. And if he tries anything, I’ll kick his ass,” he says, in that assured way of his that makes everything feel like it’ll be okay.

  “God, I miss you, Stone.” I sigh at how good it feels to say it aloud.

  “Me too. I can’t stop thinking about you. People keep asking me why I’m smiling so much.”

  I giggle, another new thing that being with Stone has brought about. Marcel’s visit feels like it happened in another lifetime. Stone has a way of making everything clean and bright and new.

  “Let’s go back to Mexico,” I whisper.

  “I wish. I’ve been looking at the pictures from our trip. I took so many good ones of your sexy ass.” His voice is husky and deep, and it makes my knees weak just to imagine his face right now; his irreverent smile is everything.

  “Ooh, I found one…I don’t know who took it, but you’ll love it.” I find the picture on my phone, taken by our tour guide when we weren’t looking.

  “Send it,” he says.

  “No, I’ll show you when you get here.”

  “Ugh, you’re such a tease,” he groans.

  A deep male voice calls his name, and my stomach drops because I know he has to go.

  “I’ve got a staff meeting in five minutes. We’re leaving at first light tomorrow, so I’ll try to call you tonight.”

  “Okay, have a good day.” I try to sound cheerful, even though this three-month long expedition of his feels like the sword of Damocles hovering over my neck. And I don’t even know why. Other than how much I’ll miss him and the sense of safety having him in my life gives me.

  We’ve had this month of late-night phone calls and endless text messaging threads. He’s helped me think through my plans for Venus Rising, and I hate that he’s going on this trip, just as it’s finally coming together.

  I know he’s going to do things that will save lives and that this is important to him, so I keep my disappointment to myself.

  “I’m so proud of you. It’s going to be incredible.”

  “I’m going to miss you, Regan.” His voice is gruff, and I drop my façade of happiness.

  “I’ll miss you, too.” I wish I could hug him.

  “I’ll write you and mail the letters whenever we stop somewhere that has postal service,” he promises.

  “I’ll text you every day. And email you about Venus Rising. We’re breaking ground on the dorms, and I want you to see it all.” I force cheer into my voice.

  “I won’t have service,” he reminds me, and I swallow a groan.

  “Then they’ll be there when you get back.”

  “And what about you? Will you be here for me when I get back?” His voice is low, sensual, and heavy with meaning.

  “Of course, I will be.”

  “Good. In three months, I’ll be back in Houston, and I want more than your friendship.”

  My heart flails with happiness. I was afraid he’d never ask again. “Really? What about Hayes?”

  “Who cares what he thinks?” he says, with bravado that makes me nervous.

  “Are you sure you know what you’re getting into? Maybe we should test the waters, first. Go slow.”

  “I’m not testing anything. I know the temperature of this ocean, Ba
by, and it’s perfect. Get your ass in here with me, and I’ll show you,” he says, in that growly voice of his, that makes my scalp throb for the tug of his hand in my hair.

  “So, just three more months?” I check my mental calendar. “And everything is good with Baylor? Are you ready to start?”

  “Yup, after the longest background check in history. I’m pretty sure they called my ninth-grade math teacher for a reference,” he chuckles.

  “Woah, is that normal?”

  “Yeah, they’ve got a major morality clause in their contract, and they do a background check that makes the secret service one look tame. If this wasn’t my dream job, the one I’ve been working for since I was old enough to remember, I’d tell them to eat shit.”

  I laugh because I know he means it.

  “Hey, gotta go. No more what ifs. Only up from here, Venus. I love you.” His voice is dark with promise, and he hangs up before I can respond.

  I stare at the phone in shock, when I blink to clear my vision, a tear rolls down my cheek. All the seeds he planted with those letters and that book explode into beautiful blooms of joy, gratitude, relief, impatience, and excitement. Oh my God. This is happening.

  “I love you, too,” I say to the dial tone.

  I crawl into bed with my son, and he rolls over and throws one of his little legs across my hip and nestles his head on my shoulder and all is right in my world.

  Finally.

  Present Day

  HOUSTON, TX

  One More Day

  Regan

  My alarm’s trill sounds like a starting gun in my brain. I spring up, grab my marker, draw the nineteenth red x on my small calendar and my heart leaps in my throat. One more day. Just one more and I will be free. And when Stone gets back, I’ll go pick him up from the airport and welcome him home with open arms.

  I glance at the picture I teased him with. I love having it all to myself. I don’t even know who took it. It was the last night on the island, and we were dancing. I hate that it looks like I’m bottomless – but I guess that’s better than being able to see the wedgie his arm is hiding.

  But this is how I remember us…how I want us to be again.

  Just one more day…and I’ve got a lot to do before I’m finally a single woman again.

  2 Weeks Later

  HOUSTON, TX

  Fuck The High Road

  Regan

  “I think I’m going to be sick. Can you press pause?” I breathe through the sudden grip of nausea in my gut. Throwing up in the waiting room of my husband’s lawyer’s office is not going to happen.

  My racing pulse moves like an untamed herd of horses and echoes like thunder in my ears as I gaze with dismay at the screen of Remi’s iPad where we’re watching security footage from my house.

  When he doesn’t respond, I press pause myself.

  “What?” Remi pulls his ear buds out and turns his concerned gaze on me.

  I wince as I take in the “me” captured in the freeze frame of the video.

  My hair, that was almost completely dry and no longer weighed down by water, had contracted into a dark, unruly mane, so full, it obscured most of my face in the first few minutes of the video, when I was facing Marcel and in profile to the camera.

  From that point of view, the bold swell of my cheekbone, the slope and slight, but noticeable, upward-tilt of my nose and the deeply downturned corner of my mouth are visible.

  As I watch it, with no volume, you’d think I was on the receiving end of something mildly upsetting. But in the freeze frame, with my eyes looking directly into the camera, the stark terror I was feeling at the nuclear bomb that was being dropped on me is clear as day.

  Watching a replay of the morning Marcel came in to confront me about the photo is harder than I thought it would be. It’s like having an out of body experience. All of the feelings that coursed through me that day surge up, creating a ripple layer of anxiety, right below the surface of my skin. It feels tight and hot. Just the way it had the morning everything that kept my life anchored fell away.

  It happened in an instant. I should have seen it coming, but I wasn’t looking because I was so wrapped up in Stone.

  In the space of seconds, I was devastated.

  Tears blur my vision, and I squeeze my eyes closed to clear them.

  “Regan?” Remi’s concerned voice next to me helps me settle down faster. The prospect of another person seeing me cry makes my tears dry up faster than anything else.

  “I just needed a minute.” I turn to look at him, with a reassuring smile on my face. He’s watching me with the same worry that’s been in his eyes since this all started.

  “Are you sure? I mean, it’s only been a week, maybe you need more time.”

  “It feels like yesterday,” I say, wistfully, regretting the toll this has taken on him, too.

  My brother scoffs and slides his unamused gaze back to the iPad.“Really? Feels like the longest month of my entire life, Reggie. Watching this, knowing what I know, I want to kick Marcel’s ass. I can’t believe he made us all feel sorry for him.”

  I brush a hand over the lines furrowing his forehead, and my sigh is heavy with equal parts regret and dismay.

  “He didn’t make up the part where I was kissing another man. The pictures aren’t doctored,” I remind him pointedly.

  He scoffs, his lips pursing, as if he can taste something bitter. “I wish you’d made a fucking video, so he could have heard it, too. That’s what he deserves. I can’t believe he had the nerve to treat you like this when he was doing all the shit we found at the same damn time.” He shakes the tablet in his hand for emphasis.

  I put a hand on his arm. “I need you to be the one who doesn’t make a scene, okay? You have to keep your cool. We can't let our emotions get the best of us in there.”

  “Emotion isn’t a bad thing,” he says, eyebrows raised in challenge.

  “I know that,” I snap, and cross my arms over my chest.

  He smiles, a knowing smile, at my defensive gesture. “Well then, why are you acting like nothing is wrong?”

  “I’m not acting like nothing is wrong.”

  “It’s okay to not be okay, Reggie.” He pats my arm, reassuringly.

  I groan in irritation. “I don’t know why you think I need reminding of that. I know myself. There’s a storm the likes of which I’ve never known brewing inside me. I used it to get myself here today. Just because my outward reactions are not what you expect, doesn’t mean it’s an act.”

  We hold each other’s gazes. We may have shared a womb, but we’re as different as sea and sand. And just as vital to each other. Right now, the ever-present sparkle in his eyes is dulled by disappointment. I’m not the only one nursing a heartbreak.

  If charisma and empathy were divided and distributed between us, then the lion’s share went to Remi. He’s got the most tender of hearts and is swift to injure and slow to forgive. Because he knows that about himself, he’s careful about letting people close.

  His good opinion and friendship are hard to come by.

  Marcel won both of those, in spades.

  We even have a running joke that he liked Marcel more than he liked me. It was said in good humor, but, like every joke, it was peppered by the truth.

  He and my husband have much more in common than we ever had. What started off as a distant relationship between in-laws, has blossomed into a real friendship. One that I have never interfered with, even when I wanted to. I wasn’t in any sort of danger, and there was nothing about the image we portrayed to the world about our family that I wanted to change. So, I’ve kept my own counsel about the things that were going on behind closed doors.

  When I only had my suspicions about Marcel being the one to have stolen that picture, he dismissed it outright.

  Marcel had sent that email to everyone in my family and in our close circle of friends. He’s played the cuckolded, devastated husband perfectly.

  Remi was only humoring me when he sent
his firm’s new private investigator, Dina, to follow my lead. He didn’t expect to find anything behind that mirror in my room that Marcel kept glancing at.

  Who would want to believe their friends capable of the kind of subterfuge and deception I was accusing Marcel of? It even took me a while to put it together.

  Last week, when Marcel offered me this meeting, things were very different. According to the terms of our prenup, he was awarded temporary, full custody of our children, pending our divorce and a formal custody agreement.

  I didn’t fight him because I wanted to spare my children any more drama and publicity. I was desperate, heartsick, and humiliated.

  He held all the cards, and he used this meeting, with his offer, to discuss custody as a big stick that he’s used to beat compliance out of me. He picked the date, the time, the place, everything.

  The fallout from my public shaming wasn’t just my reputation. It endangered something that means even more to me.

  My podcast, The Jezebel. I started it after my mother suggested it, but not for the reasons she did. I knew that when he got here, I’d have to tell him the truth. But first, I had to hear myself say it all out loud. And that’s what I did with the podcast, used it as an outlet. But then, people started writing to me, commenting and sharing their stories, too.

  But it turned into something completely different, which makes the timing of this picture’s publication, with my tattoo visible for all the world to see, even worse.

  Two days before the picture was published, the podcast was mentioned in a news report and was credited as the source of information that led to the re-opening of a case involving a prominent plastic surgeon here in Houston. He’d been acquitted of a sexual assault charge after the woman, who accused him, was discredited during cross examination. The woman, who chose to remain anonymous during the trial due to safety concerns, had been a prostitute and that was enough to convince a jury that whatever he did to her, she asked for. He was acquitted, and she was left to get on with her life.