Page 21 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Then I remembered I had tequila in my fridge and a party invite in my DMs titled “Speedos and Spritzers,” and the feeling passed.
The ocean was lapping at my calves, cool and forgiving, when it happened. One moment, I was casually emerging from the Atlantic like a hungover sea god, waves rolling off my hips, my skin glistening in the sunlight like a greased-up Greek statue. The next, I was airborne.
Well, not airborne exactly—but there was definitely a hop, a flail, and a scream.
“MOTHER FUCKER!” I howled.
A jolt of pain shot up my leg like I’d been tasered by Poseidon himself. My foot came down on something jagged—something evil—something shaped like Satan’s toenail.
Shell. Sharp. Wet. And now embedded in the bottom of my foot like some kind of beachside booby trap.
I crumpled to the wet sand with all the grace of a three-legged baby deer. My sunglasses tilted sideways, like they were trying to escape the scene.
Blood. BLOOD. So much blood.
I stared at the gash on the arch of my foot, crimson pooling around it like it was auditioning for a Tarantino movie.
And of course—because this is my life—the entire beach was now watching. Silence fell over the section of shore around me like someone had hit mute on a gay beach musical.
A kid with a snow cone dropped it in horror.
Someone gasped. Someone else shouted, “Is that Hudson Knight?!”
“Oh great,” I muttered, collapsing fully onto my side, holding my injured foot like a Victorian heroine with consumption. “Now I’ve done it.”
A man jogged over, shirtless and alarmingly tan, like a sentient bottle of tanning oil. “Dude, you okay?”
“Does it look like I’m okay?!” I barked, gesturing to my very dramatic, very bloody foot. “I’ve beenshankedby a goddamn seashell! This is how I die. On vacation. Alone. Bleeding out next to a melted snow cone.”
“You should rinse it off,” he offered, because people always say the most obvious things when blood is involved.
“Oh wow,really?Should I also try breathing? Maybe blink a few times while I’m fucking at it?”
Another voice chimed in, this one nasal and unhelpful. “Somebody call the lifeguard!”
“No lifeguards,” I moaned. “I’m not being carted off the beach like a fucking wounded pelican.”
I sat up, foot still throbbing, blood dripping onto the sand like a Jackson Pollock painting no one asked for. I used my forearm to wipe the sweat—and possibly tears—from my forehead.
“Okay,” I breathed, trying to regain what little composure I had left.
I muttered to myself, trying to stay composed. “I need bandages. I need Neosporin. I need a damn martini.”
Miles
The sun had barely crested over the dunes when I laced up my running shoes. Morning in Rehoboth Beach was always a kind of miracle—a soft, glowing hush that blanketed the shoreline before the tourists and their neon umbrellas invaded. The salty breeze kissed my cheeks as I stepped onto Ocean Drive, my breath already forming slow, rhythmic clouds in the cool morning air.
The road was nearly deserted, save for a few locals walking dogs or sipping coffee on their porches. I passed stately homes that looked like coastal postcards—white fences, widow’s walks, pots of cascading petunias. Everything was still and pristine.
My pace was steady, breath syncing with the cadence of my feet striking the pavement. I turned into the trailhead at Gordon’s Pond and felt the world shift. The paved road gave way to crushed gravel and marsh-lined pathways. Birds chirped overhead, the sun climbing slowly behind a veil of mist that clung to the trees like a silk shawl.
The Gordon’s Pond Trail in North Shore was my escape. Wide-open salt marshes stretched out like natural quilts, stitched together with winding boardwalks and shaded lanes. Egrets stood poised in the water, statuesque and unfazed. I passed a cyclist, then a man walking two golden retrievers, both of whom gave me a friendly bark.
As I reached the end of the trail, the beach came into view again—a shimmering expanse of waves and golden light. I paused for a moment to catch my breath and took it all in. This, I reminded myself, was why I came here.
To escape.
To reset.
