Owen
Asa gay man, I’ve had my share of hopes and dreams over the years. Who hasn’t? The pursuit of success, happiness, and love is universal. But I think there’s something about being a gay man that gives you an extra layer of determination when it comes to building a life. I had always envisioned the perfect career, the right amount of wealth, the perfect home, and, of course, the perfect husband.
I thought I had it all figured out. At forty-two, it felt like the ideal culmination of everything I had worked for. I had a successful real estate career and two homes—one in the city and one at the beach in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, where I could escape the chaos of city life whenever I needed a break. I should have felt like I’d hit the jackpot, right? But there was something gnawing at me, something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
Then, of course, there’s Miles. Miles Whitaker, my husband of seven years, the man who defined perfection in every sense. People often look at us and comment on how enviable we are. I’m sure many of them thinkthis is the life I want.Hell, even I felt that at one point. Miles is a professional organizer—no, not just any organizer, but one of the best in the country. He runs his own successful company now, and from the comfort of our spotless, impeccably maintained home, he manages a team of over eighty professional organizers spread across the United States. His business and his life are absolutely seamless. It’s one of those things you can’t fake. He’sgoodat what he does, and it shows.
But Miles isn’t just a business mogul. He’s a household name. Social media has embraced him as a guru of all things organization, home décor, cooking, and DIY. He’spractically a celebrity at this point—frequently featured on the Today Show, appearing on daytime talk shows, and earning a pretty penny off of brand partnerships. Cleaning products, kitchen gadgets, organizing tools—you name it, Miles either has promoted it or has his name and face on it. He’s even published two books that made the New York Times Best Seller List. Sometimes, it feels like the whole world knows him, and I’m the lucky guy standing by his side. But don’t get me wrong; I am proud of him. Who wouldn’t be? He’s worked his ass off to get where he is, and the accolades are well deserved.
People often refer to him as the “gay Martha Stewart,” and I can’t say I disagree. Miles, with his soft-spoken voice and impeccable taste, could host his own cooking show or DIY segment. He’s got this aura of brilliance about him. Our homes, both in the city and at the beach, are like something out of a glossy magazine—everything in its place, every surface gleaming. Our gardens? They look like a professional landscape architect designed them. No exaggeration. He tends to the flowers and the shrubs with the kind of care you’d expect from someone who could make a fortune by teaching others how to prune a rosebush properly. The grass is always a lush green, and the flowers are a brilliant array of colors that would make any florist envious. It’s all too pristine, and yet, somehow, it’s never enough. There’s always the next project to tackle, the next detail to perfect.
Then there are the elaborate dinners. If I haven’t mentioned it yet, Miles is a fantastic cook—the kind of cook who can make a weeknight dinner feel like a five-star experience. I don’t just mean a nice meal—no, Miles doesn’t do things halfway. Last week, for instance, we had four friends over for an impromptu dinner gathering. The menu? A French-inspired feast that included coq au vin, a medley of seasonal roasted vegetables, and a delicate crème brûlée for dessert. As I sat at the table, admiring the mastery of the meal and the way the candles flickeredsoftly in the dim light, I realized how much effort went into every meal he prepared. It was a display of love, of course, but it was also an intricate routine. Everything had its place. Everything had to be flawless.
And Miles is flawless—at least, that’s what I tell myself. He makes it look so easy. His life is meticulously organized, and it’s easy to get lost in the idea of him. But lately, I’ve been feeling like I’m living in a version of his world that’s exceptionally crafted to please everyone else—and I’m the one who’s getting lost in it.
It’s not that I’m ungrateful. I know plenty of people would kill to be in my shoes. Miles, after all, is beautiful, successful, and adored by everyone who crosses his path. I’ve seen the way men look at him, the messages that pop up on his phone, the comments on his Instagram posts that range from fire emojis with cucumbers, eggplants, and a smiley face that looks like it’s having a heatstroke to flirtatious comments about his cooking. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t sting a little when I saw it. But I’m supposed to be the one who gets to claim him, right? I’m the one who’s married to him, the one who’s been there through the highs and lows of his rise to fame.
And yet, something is missing.
It’s hard to admit it, but I’ve started to realize that maybe I didn’t fall in love with Miles for the right reasons. It’s easy to fall in love with an idea, with a dream, with the concept of someone. I loved theideaof having the polished life. I loved theideaof having a husband who was everything I wanted. But the truth is, I think I loved the image of Miles more than the man himself. It’s a painful thing to acknowledge, but it’s the truth.
I can see it now more clearly than ever. We’ve become robotic, moving through the motions of a life that looks perfect on paper but feels empty behind closed doors. The passion, the excitement—it’sgone. Hell, even the sex has become routine. Bland. Safe. The same thing, week after week.
It’s funny, isn’t it? How you can spend so many yearsbuilding something you think is the epitome of happiness, only to realize that it doesn’t bring you the joy you expected. Maybe I’ve built a life that looks good to everyone else, but it feels like a gilded cage to me.
And Miles. He’s not the one at fault. He’s not. He’s the same person he’s always been—the person who tries to make everything perfect, who goes above and beyond for everyone around him. But sometimes, I feel like I’m walking on eggshells in my own home, afraid to disturb the carefully curated world he’s created. Our unlived-in museum of a home. Everything must be neat, tidy, and just so. And while that’s all well and good, I’ve started to wonder if maybe I’ve lost myself in the process.
I don’t want to leave him. The thought of it terrifies me. The idea of someone else being with him—really being with him—sends a wave of jealousy that I can’t quite control. I know it’s unhealthy. I know that. But I can’t help it. I’ve become a man torn between the life I built and the life I thought I wanted. And I need to figure out which path to take before I end up losing everything.
It’s late now, and Miles is probably in the kitchen, cleaning up after yet another perfectly executed dinner. I should be grateful. And I am, in a way. But I’m also suffocating. And for the first time in my life, I feel like I’m standing at the edge of something, unsure of which direction to go.
Miles
It’s barely past five in the evening, and I’ve just wrapped up a grueling, exhausting day at the studio. The Food Network set was exactly what you’d expect—pristine, chaotic, and utterly draining. We were taping a special segment on themed lunches and cocktails for the Belmont Stakes, which is just a day away. The early days of June have a cool, crisp edge, with the breeze just starting to gain that warm, sticky summer quality. But in the studio, under the glaring lights, it feels like I’m suffocating, my skin a bit too tight, my anxiety growing with each take.
The lunch I prepared for the segment was everything I had hoped it would be—elegant, light, sophisticated. It was designed to showcase something fresh, something vibrant yet refined, just like the horse race itself. A beet and goat cheese salad, the earthy sweetness of the beets balanced by the tang of the cheese, punctuated by the slight crunch of candied pecans. It’s beautiful to look at—a rainbow of colors that almost look too perfect to eat. And the dressing—oh, the dressing! A balsamic reduction, smooth and velvety, just enough to add depth without overpowering the delicate flavors of the salad. I made sure the portion sizes were precise, and each plate was a work of art. The cocktail I paired with it was a light, lemony sorbet concoction—gin, elderflower liqueur, and a hint of rosemary, stirred to perfection. It was as refreshing as it was complex.
The set was a well-oiled machine. Stephanie, the host, was ever the professional, chattering about the race and asking me the typical questions she and the producers thought people wanted to hear.“How did you come up with the idea for this drink, Miles?”I could hear her voice, so bright and perky, a smile in her words. She was a pleasant woman, but we weren’t friends. We weren’t even close,really. She was the kind of person who always had something to say, even when I just wanted to focus. But I didn’t mind. I smiled. I nodded. I answered. After all, this was my life. Perfect. Controlled. It had to be.
The kitchen was, as always, a place of order. The countertop gleamed under the harsh studio lights, the stainless steel appliances reflecting back at me. Every knife, every bowl, was in its precise place. I worked fast, cutting and stirring with deliberate, practiced movements, ensuring everything looked as flawless as it would taste. I hate the thought of leaving even a crumb out of place, so every surface was wiped down as soon as I was done with it. After all, the camera never stops rolling, even when the director calls “cut!”
The rest of the crew moved around me like ghosts, their footsteps soft against the cold tile floor, their voices low, unintelligible. The lights were hot, the air heavy, but I kept my cool. This was my element. This was where I belonged. But I could feel the anxiety starting to creep up. The lights were getting hotter. My palms were sweating. But never mind that; I shunned my inner saboteur and allowed my conscious gladiator of worth with his sword raised high to shine through, just as I always had.
Finally, it was done. The segment was over. A quick handshake with a smile, and I was out of there.
I stood in the studio’s parking lot for a moment, the cool June air hitting my face, feeling a slight chill as I exhaled deeply. But the relief was fleeting. The moment I climbed into my Audi, sleek and black, the leather seats cool against my legs, I knew I couldn’t stop. There was still so much to do. I glanced at the clock on the dashboard—just after six. Owen would be home soon. He was always on time.Always. And I had dinner to make.
Dinner wasn’t justanydinner at the Whitaker and Prescott residence. It was going to be a five-star meal for my husband, Owen, who, as usual, was working late. But I didn’t mind. Cooking for him was the highlight of my day.Tonight’s menu would beimpeccable, of course. I had planned it all out. A tender and splendidly roasted lamb rack seasoned with fresh thyme and garlic, finished with a rich red wine reduction. The potatoes would be mashed to creamy perfection, with just the right amount of butter and a hint of garlic and truffle oil. A medley of roasted vegetables—carrots, parsnips, and fingerling potatoes—caramelized to a golden crisp and drizzled with balsamic glaze. A side salad of arugula and shaved fennel with a citrus vinaigrette to add brightness. And for dessert? A dark chocolate mousse, rich and velvety, topped with whipped cream and a delicate sprinkling of sea salt. The whole meal was going to be exceptional. It would be an experience just like every other dinner I prepared.
I could already picture it: the exemplary table setting: a white linen tablecloth, crystal glassware, polished silverware, candles lit just enough to create that soft, intimate glow, everything in its place, every detail attended to. This meal would be a moment to savor, a moment where Owen and I could forget about everything else and just……be.
But then I checked my phone. My stomach sank as I read Owen’s text.
Owen:I have an impromptu showing tonight. Won’t make it home for dinner. Just going to grab some fast food after the showing. I’ll be fine, don’t worry.
Fast food.
I nearly slammed the brakes on the car in frustration.