The Jezebel - Dylan Allen Page 0,65

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

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