Rekindled

Cassia

There's something so criminal about slouching in a hoodie that reeks of last night's Chinese takeout, mindlessly swiping through Tinder profiles, while an immaculate Leila Katz original sits neglected in the chasms of my wardrobe.

I'd been saving it for something monumental. Epic. An evening crammed with flashing lights, reckless choices, and someone else to clean up the nuclear fallout.

But, here I am, snuggled up in the corner of my Manhattan high-rise, swiping left like it's my full-time job.

I'm not looking for love.

Because love? That bitch ruined me. And I'm neither a fool nor masochistic enough to let her ass back in.

And yet, despite all of this, I want a baby.

However, I don't want the responsibility of keeping a husband, or picking out the dress and flowers for the chuppah, or obsessing over ketubah fonts as if they mattered. I wasn't about to pretend to be the perfect Jewish wife just because my Mom decided 'tradish' mattered after Husband 2.0.

Fuck, at this rate, a sperm bank seems like the pragmatic choice, but where's the pleasure in that? I wanted to get laid. I wanted to participate. Have the whole experience.

Everything else I got handled. Just do your part, rock my world, leave your contribution, and vanish into the night.

Is that really asking for too much?

After a few minutes of swiping, I didn't really see anyone I liked looking at. So maybe I wasn't that desperate after all.

I was seconds from nuking my account when his face popped up.

My ex, Beau.

I stared at the screen, as if it might explain. Maybe it was a glitch. Maybe he was visiting, you know, one fun night in New York before heading back to redneck county, Louisiana.

Not that I could talk, it used to be my home too. But compared to Manhattan? Louisiana felt like an entire other continent.

Beau's profile pic was fuego, sexy, lounging against a weathered dock on Lacey Bayou, shirt half-open, fishing rod in hand. I'd bet money his mama took that picture. He had always been her best-looking son, and she never let anyone forget it.

I swiped through more photos. One showed Beau drinking with his friends, caught mid-toast, laughing. And another selfie in his Marine dress blues, looking so fine.

I wasn't surprised he went into the service, y'know, because all of the Theriot men were service members. I was shocked, because he was never the one for rules or structure.

Does that make sense?

He loved to raise hell, stir people up, and always had a taste for trouble. The Marines just seemed so unlike him.

Go figure.

Either way, I appreciated the view.

Kneel for your troops indeed.

My thumb hovered over the screen. And before I could talk myself out of it or torch the app, I swiped right.

Shit.

A heartbeat later, my phone vibrated.

It's a match.

And then one incoming message.

Beau: Well, damn.

Didn't expect to find you here, darling.

Me: Same here.

What drags you into the Tinder trenches?

The little dots danced on the screen for a second.

Beau: Elio's idea.

But maybe it was good that he forced me on here.

Me: Is this where I say fate works in mysterious ways?

Beau: Maybe.

Before I could reply, another message popped up.

Beau: Wanna meet up?

Or are we just flirting with nostalgia?

Me: Let's find out.

Beau: Girl, I'm fixing to board this plane.

Me: Perfect timing, huh?

Beau: Ain't it always with us?

Me: When do you get in?

Beau: Late tonight.

But tomorrow? You call me when you're ready.

Me: Bossy, as always.

Beau: Damn right.

You know I never did like wasting my time, girl.

Me: Fine. I'll call tomorrow.

Beau: Atta girl.

I rolled my eyes, just as his following message popped up.

Beau: Alright, Cass, they're calling my row.

Don't you forget now.

And just like that, butterflies.

I replied, keeping it snappy.

Me: Safe flight.

The dots did their thing.

Beau: Can't wait to see you.

It's been too damn long.

Crap.

I stared at the words on my screen because he was correct. It had been too long. And life doesn't hand out guarantees.

Feelings aside, we'd have a gorgeous baby.

Damn. That sounds so toxic.

Adonai, what am I even thinking? Please help me!

This meet-up will fuck up my life. Like, irreparably. I mean, it's been a decade. There's no way he actually has feelings for me.

I mean... I don't—

—Well, I didn't think I did, at least not up until about five minutes ago.

But that wasn't the issue.

The situation was this.

How do you even start the conversation?

Hi Beau, long time no see, quick favour: could you shoot your shot (literally) so I can have a baby? It's chill, I swear. No strings.

I can't.

Nevertheless, if fate was tossing him back in my path, it was either gonna be a blessin' or a lesson.

And honestly? With Beau, it could go either way.

The next day, I phoned.

Beau told me he had just gotten off the telephone with his family and was currently marooned in an airport hotel, hoping to get a standby flight back to Louisiana. Because, in two weeks, he'd be starting a job patrolling Lake Charles.

I said, Good for him, and then cut straight to the reason I'd called. I eased into my plan carefully—slow drips, not a full pour, bracing for hesitancy, maybe even a flat-out no.

But to my absolute shock, he said yes.

Just—yes.

No drama.

No questions.

When it was time to get ready for our meetup, I didn't do much: a swipe of mascara, subtle blush, and my go-to neutral lipstick.

I caught my reflection and just stared for a good minute.

Wow. When did I start looking so... mature?

My dress was cute, classy, a little scandalous, but nothing that screamed desperate. Not that my clothes mattered much when the goal was to take them off anyway.

I took one final look in the mirror.

Alright, Cass, let's ruin your life.

But not before my phone dinged.

I swiped it open.

A photo.

Fucking Beau.

Shirtless, soft abs and a trail of dark hair down his chest and stomach, leading to memories I recall vividly. Those honey brown eyes? Fixed on the mirror, smouldering, as if he wanted me to squirm in my seat. So much swagger, it should've been outlawed.

It was a crime to look that good.

And he knew it.

Hell, he depended on it.

Which was strictly why I should've run.

And exactly why I didn't.

Beneath the photo, a flirty text.

Beau: Thought you might want something to think about over dinner. 😈

Damn him to hell, and then drag me with him.

Obliging him wasn't difficult.

One tap opened the camera.

Cleavage?

Front and centre, babe.

If he was gonna play dirty, I could play dirtier.

I snapped the photo and hit send.

I immediately regretted it.

I immediately didn't.

The three dots popped up immediately.

Beau: Damn, girl, you tryna to kill me before I even get my grub on?

My thumb suspended over the keyboard, trying to think of something clever in response.

Before I could type, another text came through:

Beau: You sure you're gonna make it to dinner? Cos I can skip straight to dessert.

My face flushed.

Me: Be patient.

You promised me food first.

Beau: I could be your meal. Lol. But you're right. Grub first. Sweets back at your place. 😈

By the time I reached the restaurant, I was practically zonked. I stepped inside, swept the room once, and there Beau was.

Fuck.

He looked even better in person.

Beau showed up in a fitted black shirt, his messy curls streaked with caramel and shadow, pulling off that I don't own a brush but somehow I'm thriving look, as if he'd rolled out of bed and decided to be irresistible.

And me? I couldn't even think straight, let alone put words to the thoughts zipping through my mind. Time had been kind to him. His eyes gleamed like warm caramel, catching the light as if spun from gold. His gaze, sweeping over me, was unapologetically bold.

"Well, look at you," he said, tinkering with his dog tags. "Worth the wait. Every damn time."

I tried to stay chill.

"You clean up nice, too."

Wow, Cass, tell him how you genuinely feel.

Beau drew out my chair, his hand brushing my lower back as I sat.

I shivered. Great.

Was this already foreplay?

Beau sat across from me, fingers tapping against the tablecloth, eyes locked on mine.

"We can make it through supper, yeah?" he asked, raising a brow

"We'll see," I said, clutching my ice water.