Page 10 of The Rehoboth Retreat
This morning, I skipped my usual 11-to-3 “brunching” routine and opted for a walk on the beach. Don’t get me wrong—I was still mildly hungover and in desperate need of a greasy breakfast burrito—but the sun felt nice, and I figured I should at leasttouchnature if I was living in it.
I threw on a pair of designer shorts, a T-shirt with yesterday’s glitter still clinging to it, my aviators, and a baseball cap. Classic disguise. “Don’t talk to me, but I look great just in case you do.”
The beach was practically empty. Just a few early risers walking dogs, doing yoga, or existing like the normal humans they are. I wandered for a while, letting the cold waves slap against my ankles and the sun bake the guilt out of my skin. It was peaceful. Kind of boring. But peaceful.
Eventually, I made my way back up to the house, showered the sand off, and changed into my evening uniform: something effortlessly hot, slightly slutty, and deceptively expensive. I took a photo—shirtless, ocean behind me, tousled hair, faux-candid. Uploaded it to Instagram. Within minutes, my DMs were flooded withshirtless profiles, dick emojis, and a couple of guys pretending they wanted to “just hang.”
I replied to a few. Told them I’d be at Aqua tonight. Everyone in Rehoboth told me Aqua is the go-to spot. Half indoor, half patio, full-on gay frenzy. It’s got a vacation hookup vibe, which is perfect because I’m not exactly hunting for husbands.
The Uber ride into town was short. Downtown Rehoboth Beach was alive, buzzing with energy. Streetlights glowing, tourists wandering, locals eyeing everyone with that mix of boredom and curiosity. Aqua was packed. Music pulsed. Boys flirted. Drinks flowed like we were all in a TikTok fantasy.
I spotted Tim and Jake near the patio. We’d met at a backyard party a few days ago. They waved me over like I was the prom queen.
“Hudson! Over here!” Tim yelled, voice already slurred.
“Daddies and deviants,” I said, grinning as I took the open seat. “Glad to see you degenerates still alive.”
They laughed, handed me a drink, and we caught up. They asked about the house, the beach, and how I was adjusting. I gave them a sanitized version. Told them it was peaceful. Serene. Healing. Left out the parts about tequila-fueled naps and ignoring texts from my agent.
We clinked glasses. Toasted to summer, to second chances, to me being the newest washed-up pretty boy in their orbit. It felt good. Not fake good.Realgood.
Then came the twist.
I was at the bar, grabbing another round, when a guy appeared beside me. Strong jaw, dark tan, slightly unkempt hair. He looked like he painted surfboards by day and wrote poetry by night. Wore this casual confidence that made me irrationally annoyed.
“Hey,” he said. “I’m Alex.”
“Hey, Alex. Hudson.”
“I know who you are.” He gave me agrin. “Word travels fast around here.”
“All good things, I hope.”
“Sure…” he said, like he didn’t mean it. “You settling in alright?”
“Trying. Not exactly my usual scene.”
“Well,” he said, taking a sip of whatever artisanal drink he ordered, “Give it a chance. It’s better than Fire Island. Less scene. More soul.”
That tone.
That patronizing, coastal elitist tone. Like I needed his local-boy approval.
“I think I’ll manage just fine without a tour guide,” I said, eyebrow arched.
His smile dropped. “Damn. You really are an ass, like the tabloids say.”
I blinked.
He looked me dead in the eye. “I hope you find what you’re looking for here. You seem like someone in desperate need of a personality change.”
And just like that, he walked off.
Left me standing there, holding two drinks, looking like a chump.
And maybe the worst part?
He wasn’t entirely wrong, butstill. Fuck him anyway.
