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“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.
