Page 46 of The Rehoboth Retreat
One guy—scratch that, two guys—tipped me with half-empty vodka sodas, “Thanks for the night, Knight.”
I shrugged, accepting the glass, but not the compliment.
Within fifteen minutes, the backyard is eerily quiet. The DJ’s gear is unplugged—speakers cold. Empty plastic cups litter the sand like confetti aftermath. A single glow from string lights overhead trembles like a dying ember.
I run a hand through my hair—crutches thumping softly—since the foot’s wrapped up, and I can’t escape the odd sting of guilt. Or longing. Something lukewarm and confusing in my chest.
I hurry toward the sliding glass doors as much as I can and cross to the driveway, casting a look back at what was supposed to be the party of the summer. Now, it’s just an empty shell, echoing with ghost laughter.
Leather slip-ons on—my good ones, which are also loose enough to fit my bad foot in.
Phone in hand. I think into Miles’ mind before I summon the Uber.
Where would he go, someone practical, refined?
I’m not sure any of those places existed on a late summer night in Rehoboth, but I was determined to try to find out.
My loafers shuffle against the driveway pavement. The moonlight paints everything silver. But it’s not enough. Everything’s wrong without him.
So, I grabbed an Uber and decided to start off at Baltimore Avenue because where else?
Downtown Rehoboth Beach isn’t that big, and tonight, that works to my advantage. My foot throbs with every step, but I’ve got a mission: find Miles Whitaker. He’s too damn refined to vanish without a trace. So, I start where most people would—Aqua, where we first met yesterday.
I lean against the entrance, struggling to balance on one leg whilekeeping my crutch tucked under my arm. The air hits me with pulsating beats and the smell of vodka. Bodies swirl—angels in white lace, devils in red leather—all dancing cheek-to-cheek, the scent of cologne mixing with sweat and desperation. My eyes sweep the crowd, scanning for the tall, poised figure I’d memorized—someone I could spot from a mile away. No dice. Mile-high lashes and tanned cheeks everywhere, but not him.
I continue to glance around. Too loud. Too sweaty. Too, well… not Miles’ scene. I get the sense Alphabet Boy would sooner alphabetize seashells than brave this kind of crowd.
I swing my crutch and walk out of Aqua, wondering if he went to Diego’s, then stop. No, I think that’s not it either. He’s the type who prefers substance over sass, notes over nightclub nonsense. A guy like that—he’d pick ambiance over booze any day.
So, I pivot one-armed and head across the street to The Top of the Pines—one of those cozy piano lounges with dim lighting and martini glasses frosted just right. I grunt from the foot pain as I climb the steps to the second floor of the building, wrapping my fingers around the wrought-iron railing for support.
Inside, it’s a world apart from Aqua’s neon chaos. Candlelight shivers across dark wood, a lone pianist’s fingers tickling out a smoky jazz ballad. Couples sip in hushed tones, laughter measured and polite. The air smells of cedar, citrus bitters, and something daintily floral.
I make my way in, eyes scanning the crowd with purpose. Then, I see him.
There: sleek, straight-backed, shirt crisply pressed, staring at the pianist—or maybe just lost in his own thoughts. His profile is unmistakable: high cheekbones, eyebrow arch, that quiet poise. A refugee from some perfect catalog, now only half-lit in candle glow.
My throat tightens, and damn if I don’t fight the urge to grin like I just found the goldenticket to Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.
I take a shaky breath, adjusting my crutch, sliding it forward foot by foot until I have a clear view. He hasn’t seen me yet—too absorbed in the music or even something deeper or maybe too polite to notice the havoc I bring. I lean against a nearby chair, half-shadowed, heart pounding like a subwoofer.
Mission accomplished: Miles Whitaker is right where I expected him to be—with a martini in hand, meticulously observing life from the sidelines.
A slow, smug smile creeps over my face. Of all the people in all of Rehoboth Beach, here tonight, he’s the only one I needed to find.
Miles
I needed to breathe.
After the weekend I’d had—no, thelifeI’d had—I wanted quiet. A place where no one would bark orders, where no one would flirt with ill-timed smirks, and where no one would remind me of broken promises sealed with wedding bands that now sat in a jewelry drawer beside expired eye creams and trial-sized moisturizers I’d never commit to.
The Top of the Pines had always intrigued me, but I’d never made it through the wooden doors until tonight. Just stepping in felt like exhaling. It was like walking into a forest fantasy reimagined by a moody interior designer with a flair for drama. Every inch of the space honored its name. The tufted furniture looked like it had been plucked straight from an enchanted forest—nursery trees and all. High-glossed logs, cut into thick, elegant slabs, were transformed into cocktail tables, their natural grains gleaming under flickering candlelight. The walls were dressed in layers of rich mossy greens and cinnamon browns, with the occasional splash of beige-like patches of starlight peeking through a canopy.
The canopy—that lovely canopy. In the middle of the lounge stood an enormous artificial pine tree, its trunk wide and gnarled like something out of a storybook. The limbs stretched toward the ceiling and then outward, crawling like ivy across the overhead beams. Embedded within the branches were tiny green LED lights, glowing like enchanted fireflies. They cast dappled shadows across the floor and made the whole room shimmer with this filtered faux-moonlight glow. It was part woodland escape, part moody gay speakeasy, and honestly?It was perfect for me.
I settled into one of the oversized leather sofas tuckedinto a corner, the kind of sofa that practicallyhuggedyou back. In front of me was a knotty pine drink table that added just the right rustic touch to the otherwise composed whimsy of the room. I reached for my extra dirty martini—Grey Goose, three blue cheese stuffed olives, slight vermouth, and significantly extra brine. I took a sip.
Salty.
