Page 17 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Further down, the lights of Funland blaze like a jewel box cracked open. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t need to modernize—its charm is in its constancy. I stroll past the entrance, listening to the squeal of children as the bumper cars spark and crash under the ceiling grid. Cotton candy twirls from silver machines, soft and pink like pastel clouds. The guy at the ring toss booth—tan arms, a visor too tight—calls out like a carnival barker from the 1950s:“One more try and you win a prize!”
I can’t help but smile. It all feels like a memory I never lived but somehow still miss.
I wander to the edge of the boardwalk and look out over the dark stretch of sand. The tide is in, the waves kissing the shore in a steady rhythm that sounds like breathing. Far down the beach, I can still see people—silhouettes walking barefoot, lovers entwined, kids digging even though the sun’s long gone.
For a moment, I just breathe it all in. The oil-slick scent of Thrasher’s still on the wind, the sugar of kettle corn floating from some forgotten stand, the ocean humming like a lullaby. The night’s alive here. Not in the loud, chaotic way of parties or clubs—but in a way that feels real.Rooted.
I slide my hands into the pockets of my pants, lingering a bit longer before heading home. Because sometimes, when the world feels too curated or fragile, there’s something oddly grounding about a boardwalk—sticky floors, blinking lights, screaming rides, and all.
It’s not perfect, but then again, maybe that’s why it is.
The Uber dropped me off just past 10:40 PM, the headlights slicing across the driveway like a final curtain call on my unexpected little detour.
I stepped out, heels clicking against the flagstone, the ocean breeze wrapping itself around me like a silk scarf dipped in sea salt and sass. The porch light glowed warm and inviting, casting the front of the Ocean Drive house in a golden hue, like something out of a Nancy Meyers movie—only this time, the lead wasn’t Meryl Streep.
It was me.
I hadn’t planned to go to Aqua. I hadn’t planned to verbally spar with an unhinged hurricane in designer sunglasses. And Icertainlyhadn’t planned to enjoy it.
But here I was, buzzed on chardonnay and adrenaline, with a slightly crooked smile still tugging at the corner of my lips as I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
Topper trotted up to greet me, tail wagging like a metronome on espresso. I scooped him up and kissed his head. “You willnotbelieve the level of classless I encountered tonight, baby boy. It was practically a case study in narcissistic dysfunction.”
I padded into the kitchen, dropped my keys in the tray with a satisfying clink, and poured myself a final glass of water, garnished with a lemon wheel—because standards. Then I sat at the kitchen island and just… exhaled.
What a night.
Calling Hudson Knight out had felt like releasing a pressure valve I didn’t know I had. I’m not that person. I don’t snap. I make herbal infusions and color-code my gratitude journal.
But something about him—those smug little smirks, that inflated ego, that absolute disregard for basic human etiquette—set me off like a champagne cork at a budget bachelorette brunch. It was like every passive-aggressive HOA board meeting I’d ever attended had taken human form, downed three shots of tequila, and decided to rile me up.
And I let him have it. Not with screams. Not with drama. But with surgical, honey-dipped sarcasm.
It was glorious.
Still, I found myself reflecting. What had gotten into me? I usually rise above this kind of nonsense. I let the volatile people spiral while I politely sip my mint water and pivot to safer topics. But tonight?
Tonight, Isnapped.
And honestly?
It feltgood.
I leaned back against the kitchen island barstool and closed my eyes. The ocean waves outside were rhythmic and calming, crashing softly like applause from a very refined, very judgmental audience. I imagined Hudson somewhere out there, still surrounded by shirtless disciples, performing the gospel of his own ego, utterly unaware that the best part of his night had already walked away.
Me.
I wasn’t shaken. I wasn’t offended. If anything, I felt a little bit empowered. Like maybe I didn’thaveto be the composed one all the time. Perhaps the world wouldn’t end if I got a little messy now and then. Maybe… just maybe… there was room for both the polished and the erratic inside me.
Topper then brought me back down to reality, trying to jump at me to get my attention. His tiny paws pattered excitedly across the hardwood like a wind-up toy on overdrive. He flopped onto his back in front of me with dramatic flair, tail wagging and belly bared. I kneeled down, the hem of my linen pants brushing the floor, and rubbed his soft tummy while whispering, “Yes, yes, my good boy. I know. I’m home now. You may resume your kingdom duties.”
He gave a happy grunt and licked my wrist before scampering around the island, clearly expecting a bedtime treat. As I followed him, I noticed a handwritten note in my mother’s elegant script resting on the sleek, glossy countertop near the dog food and treats:
I let Topper out around eight o’clock. I have since retired for the evening. I shall see you in the morning. With all my love.
I smiled. Trust Cecilia to pen a note like she’s living in a Jane Austen novel.
Stepping out of my shoes, I padded down the hallway to my bedroom, stripped out of my carefully tailored dinner ensemble, and slipped into something far more my speed: a pair of cozy sweatshorts and an oversized sea-foam green beach sweatshirt with a fadedRehoboth Vibes Onlyprint. I did a quick finger comb with my hair—still chic, obviously—and whistled for Topper.
