Page 13 of The Rehoboth Retreat
He bowed slightly and vanished with the grace of a stagehand in a Broadway production.
I allowed myself to relax, slowly sipping the wine. For a flicker of a moment, Owen crossed my mind—his voice, his laughter, the way he used to touch the back of my neck when no one was looking. But the memory faded, replaced by the warmth of the wine and the knowledge that I was here. Alone, yes. But not lonely. Accomplished. Respected. Alive.
When the risotto arrived, it did so in a white porcelain bowl that gleamed beneath the candlelight. The presentation was stunning. A buttery golden mound of risotto, creamy but with structure, crowned with delicate chunks of lobster that glistened like jewels. Tiny heirloom carrots, trimmed and roasted to perfection, curved alongside bright green peas and a drizzle of ruby-red tomato confit. It was edible art.
Before tasting, I pulled out my phone. A few snapshots: one overhead for the aesthetic grid, one close-up of the risotto and wine glass glinting in candlelight. I adjusted the filters ever so slightly, then posted to my media and blog accounts with a caption:
“Solo night out, but far from lonely. The Lobster Risotto at @BlueMoonRB is everything. Bright, creamy, indulgent—just like summer should be. Pair with Pinot Gris, and you’ve got the definition of a magical evening. #MilesApproved #BeachGourmet #RehobothEats #BlueMoonMagic”
And then I tasted.
It was heaven. The lobster was silky, sweet, and warmed with butter. The risotto—creamy and complex—held an exquisite bite. Each vegetable sang in its own key, and the tomato confit provided a tart punch that made the whole thing feel symphonic. Every bite was gratitude.
I closed my eyes, took another sip of wine, and smiled into the candlelight.
I was exactly where I needed to be.
And for the first time in a long while, that felt like enough.
After the last sip of my Pinot Gris and one final appreciative glance at the soft flicker of candlelight across my empty dinner plate, I slid my chair back from the table at Blue Moon and stood up. On most nights, that would be my cue to call an Uber and head home—slip into a fresh pair of linen pajamas, cleanse with my three-step nighttime routine, and maybe scroll online on my phone until I fall asleep with a podcast humming in the background. But tonight… tonight, there was a thrum in the air I couldn’t quite ignore.
It was something electric. Or maybe just the result of a well-balanced meal and a sea breeze flirting with my collar. Regardless, it stirred in me a curious and slightly rebellious urge.
I wasn’t ready for the night to end.
So, as I exited Blue Moon’s establishment, I turned east, back toward the heartbeat of Baltimore Avenue. And I let my loafers guide me somewhere new.
Aqua.
Even the name sounded like a sigh. Cool, sleek, coastal. I’d heard about it for years. A staple in the gay Rehoboth nightlife scene, always mentioned with a wink or a chuckle. But I’d never been. Not my usual scene. Too loud, too casual, too unpredictable.
And yet, as I approached the front entrance, a part of me felt…curious. Like I was about to walk into a space I didn’t even know I needed.
The open-air deck greeted me first, and it was nothing short of enchanting. Wide gray wooden planks stretched beneath my feet, worn just enough to feel charming without veering into shabby. The high-top gray tables dotted the space like little cocktail islands, each one surrounded by men dressed in a variety of beachy-chic ensembles: crisp white shorts, sleeveless polos, tank tops with ironic phrases, and linen shirts left unbuttoned just enough to hint.
The lights overhead cast a soft, flattering glow on everyone below. It was like being inside a Pinterest board titled “Gay Summer Night Perfection.”
The deck buzzed with easy laughter and pop club remixes, and from where I stood, I could see straight down Baltimore Avenue—the quintessential postcard of rainbow flags, glimmering storefronts, and people spilling out of restaurants, living freely and loudly.
Inside, the energy shifted. The club side of Aqua pulsed with life. Club lights ricocheted across the dance floor, flashing pink, turquoise, violet—every shade of nightlife. Shirtless tourists on vacation writhed to the beat of the music, and a DJ in a crop top twisted behind his booth with the joy of someone hosting a dance party in a disco ball. But I stayed outside. The deck was more my speed.
I was making my way toward the outdoor bar when I heard it:
“Miles Whitaker?”
I turned to see two young men looking at me with wide, delighted eyes.
“Oh my god,” one of them breathed. “Weloveyour blog. I’m Grayson, and this is Brody. Your decanting video with the spice rack overhaul? Changed our entire kitchen.”
Brody nodded so hard I worried for his neck. “And the drawer divider tip with the velvet lining? Genius. Like—absolute GENIUS.”
I laughed, touched despite myself. “That’s incredibly kind. I’m so glad it was helpful.”
“Let us buy you a shot!” Brody enthusiastically offered.
“Oh, that’s sweet, but I’m sticking to wine this evening. No shots for me.”
“You got it,” Grayson winked. “Red or white?”
