Page 124 of The Rehoboth Retreat
He was the ocean: beautiful, untouchable, and always slipping through my fingers the second I thought I could hold onto him.
And maybe that’s what love really is.
Not the dramatic gestures or cinematic reunions. Not the kiss in the rain or the grand speeches on airport tarmacs. Maybe it’s the quiet ache that never fully leaves. The text you never send. The photo you never unlike. The face you still see when you close your eyes.
I opened Instagram again.
There he was.
Holding a skillet of garlic-butter scallops and smiling like he didn’t know he’d permanently restructured my heart with a single look under the moonlight one year ago.
I watched the story.
Muted, of course.
Because hearing his voice would wreck me.
Miles
I had butter under my fingernails, an adrenaline hangover, and a forehead lightly misted with olive oil—thank you, studio lighting and the lemon zest flambé segment. But damn it, I did it.
I had just finished filming the first official episode of my new Food Network show.
And not just any episode—a premiere. A big, splashy, brand-launching kind of show that involved precision prep, four outfit changes, an exploding immersion blender (RIP to the white marble backsplash), and one very charming segment involving heirloom tomatoes, Maldon salt, and a very flirty cameraman who kept winking at me from behind his lens.
Not that I noticed. Much.
The studio lights dimmed. The cameras powered down with a satisfyingclick. Someone off-set clapped. I caught my reflection in the overhead mirror—hair slightly windblown, cheeks flushed, apron slightly askew—and I smiled.
I looked…happy.
Real, worn-out, basil-scentedhappiness.
“You’re clear, Miles!” the floor manager shouted from behind a stack of prop baskets filled with figs.
I nodded and headed off-stage, untying my apron as I went and letting it hang over my shoulder like a dramatic chef-turned-superhero.
My assistant, Lena, appeared beside me like a caffeinated sprite, clipboard in hand. “Your call sheet for tomorrow. And also—the execs said you nailed it. They’re already talking about syndication.”
I smirked. “If they want more fig tartlets and life metaphors, I’m their guy.”
“And just FYI,” she added, stepping aside as I reached my dressing room. “Someone dropped off flowers while you were filming.”
I paused, my hand on the doorknob.
Flowers?
Inside, my dressing room smelled like peonies and leather. My favorite. The light above the mirror still glowed warm, and the room was its usual organized chaos—tape, call sheets, tweezers, color-coded folders.
And in the center of the room, sitting on my dressing table like something out of a movie?
A vase of wildflowers.
They weren’t perfect. Some were crooked. A few had petals already browning. One daisy looked like it had been fighting for its life in the backseat of an Uber.
But they werereal.
Raw. Carefree. A little hectic.
