Page 16 of The Rehoboth Retreat
“Hey!” I called out. “Past your bedtime?”
He paused, turned slightly, and raised his middle finger high like he was blessing me with it.
Ihowled.Loud enough to turn heads. Loud enough to make the Britney twink two-step off-beat.
“WOAH! Someone’s got claws! You gonna write that in your bullet journal, sweetheart?” I cackled. “Have fun, Mr. Napkin Fooooold!”
He didn’t even dignify me with another glance. Just swanned off like the elegant little tea towel ghost he was.
“Oh my god,” said a guy beside me—Derek, maybe. “You’re awful. I love it!”
“Public service,” I said. “He needed a little verbal exfoliation.”
Another shot appeared in front of me. I didn’t ask questions. I drank it as if it were holy water.
“You think he’ll talk about you on his blog?” someone joked.
“God, I hope so. Maybe I’ll finally get verified.”
We roared. Laughter erupted like confetti.
One of them leaned in close, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “You’re kinda dangerous, you know that?”
“And you’re kinda easy,” I murmured, letting my hand trail briefly down his thigh.
The deck around us oscillated with life. The string lights above flickered like we were trapped inside an influencer’s mood board. Scents of coconut sunscreen, gin, and sweat mixed in the air. In the distance, someone tried to harmonize with Whitney Houston and failed miserably.
I glanced toward the street just in time to catch one last look at Miles. Even from the back, he looked annoyingly composed. Like he had a checklist for every facial expression.
He was probably going home to steam-clean his soul.
Me? I had a group of boys, a handful of bad decisions waiting in line, and a beach house bedroom with a mattress that squeaked like it had secrets.
One of them—Tristan? Austin?—winked. “You taking anyone home tonight, Knight?”
“Baby,” I said, raising my glass, “I’m takingeveryonehome tonight.”
The deck shook with cheers.
I might be a chaos gremlin, a walking headline, and a total trash panda… but tonight? I was Rehoboth Beach royalty. Pure damn royalty.
And the crown? It sparkled like spilled vodka onsunburned skin.
It’s called balance.
Miles
Before heading straight home from Aqua, I decided to walk the Rehoboth Beach boardwalk and explore the local scenes a bit. My shoes clicked softly against the weathered wooden planks, still warm from the day’s sun. The ocean breeze has cooled just enough to lift the salt into the air, carrying it across the beach like some sea-soaked perfume. It blends perfectly with the distant sweetness of funnel cake, the buttery aroma of fresh popcorn, and the unmistakable tang of Thrasher’s French fries.
God, those fries.
I swear you can smell them from two blocks away—the sharp vinegar sting layered over the deep-fried bliss of hot potato slices dancing in bubbling oil. I pause near the stand, its red lettering glowing under a row of old storefront lights, watching a teenager in a neon green visor dump a fresh batch into a paper bucket and give it a masterful shake of salt. People line up even at this hour, their faces lit up by the fryers and the thrill of indulgence, clutching the signature tubs in greasy hands like they’ve found religion. I nearly cave and buy some, but I remind myself I have lemon-roasted asparagus chilling at home and a digestive system in its early forties.
Don’t forget… heartburn… cholesterol…
Still, I hover, letting the scent wrap around me like an old friend I know I shouldn’t call again.
A burst of laughter turns my head. Up ahead, the arcades flicker with chaotic charm. Neon lights strobe from under awnings and behind glass, bathing everything in a nostalgic glow. Skee-ball ramps thud as wooden balls tumble into targeted holes, and some teenager whoops after getting a high score, followed by a siren and red spinning lights. I peer in through the salty windows of onearcade—rows of prize shelves stacked with stuffed bananas wearing sunglasses, plastic jewelry, and oversized rainbow lollipops. The din inside is its own kind of music: tokens clattering into machines, bells ringing, voices rising in triumph, or groaning in defeat.
