Page 50 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Hudson Knight wasreally something else…
Hudson
I leaned back against the forest-green couch, its upholstery hugging me like it had a personal vendetta against lumbar support. My crutches rested crookedly on the floor, propped beneath the knotty pine table that glistened with condensation rings and candlelight. The entire place smelled like aged whiskey and citrus peel, but not in a try-hard way—more like a slow exhale in a wood-paneled study where secrets aged better than wine.
The glow of The Top of the Pines was deliberate. Everything was amber-toned and softened around the edges. A makeshift tree loomed from the center of the room, its canopy branching across the ceiling in a tangle of fairy lights, casting leafy shadows on our faces and making Miles look like something out of a modern-day fable—if the fable was about a perfectionist who alphabetized his pain and served it chilled.
I glanced at my glass—the third dirty martini of the night, here at this bar. Shaken hard, extra brine, just enough vermouth to pretend it was still part of the recipe. I caught Miles looking at his, the olive bobbing like it had nowhere else to be. His fingers curled around the stem delicately but not self-consciously. Not anymore. His shoulders, always drawn up like he was bracing for an invisible slap, had settled. His body had softened, somehow. Less posture, more person.
And then—just like that—he started talking about Owen.
No preamble. No witty segue or bitter joke to mask it. Just… truth, slipping out like it had been sealed too tight and finally burst at the seams. He talked about the betrayal, the shift in the air between them before either of them said a word. The way silence had grown teeth. The way love curdled quietly until one morning, you realize you’re sitting across the breakfast table from someone who’s already emotionally packed up and moved out.
It hit me somewhere under the ribs. Not in a melodramatic, Lifetime movie kind of way—but like the sudden awareness of breath when you didn’t know you’d been holding it.
Miles Whitaker. Vulnerable.
And I was sitting right next to him, close enough to hear the tremor he tried to bury beneath each syllable. Close enough to smell that lemony citrus cologne of his and see the way his lashes fluttered when he blinked like he was ashamed to feel this human in front of someone like me.
I didn’t say anything right away. Just reached for my drink, took a slow pull, and let the vodka scorch its way down like a poor man’s courage.
And God help me—I didn’t want to ruin the moment.
Not with a joke. Not with sarcasm. Not even with the casual, flippant bullshit I typically use to grease my way through uncomfortable feelings.
I just sat there. Beside him.Listening.
I didn’t expect intimacy, especially from him. From someone often labeled as being so composed and organized. But hell, here it was: raw emotion mixed with vodka and salt air.
“Fuck, Miles,” I whispered when the piano player eased into a Lester Young ballad. “That’s… heavy.” My words were soft. Real. “You deserve better.” I swirled my olive-studded cocktail. “And you know—punish me if I’m wrong—you’re a goddamn force, worth far more than some shiny suitcase.”
He looked at me then. Those sharp cheekbones relaxed just a hair. The lights from the faux-canopy above played on his skin like moonlight on the ocean. He let out a shaky laugh. “Well—I never got to call him a suitcase.”
I chuckled. The sound felt strange—heartier than asmirk, softer than a laugh. It was… caring?
A dangerous concept.
He nodded slowly. “Yeah.”
That was when it hit me: the many drinks of the evening; the noise of the bar became background—the laughter, the shuffle of chairs and shoes, the quiet squeak of the piano bench. All I could hear was Miles’ confession hanging in the air between us, down at my level.
My turn. I sighed, “Okay, well—my turn.” I tipped back my cocktail with a slide of alcohol down my throat. “Jackson Pierce. He was—” I paused, juking a spin that felt too autobiographical for my taste. “An actor, yeah. Pretty. Charming too. On-screen, he was winning. Off… he was a tornado.” I tapped my glass. “I was dumb. Dumb enough to think someone else could ride out the craziness and bad decision-making with me.”
Miles turned fully toward me, eyebrows arched, curiosity carved into his face.
“So. Scandal. Hookup snafu. Tabloids called it everything from ‘bad boy meltdown’ to ‘public breakdown.’ Ended in tears, publicized tears I’m not proud of.”
He swallowed, then reached out—just across the small drink table. “That takes guts,” he said.
For a second, I was slick again. Then, I faltered. That’s the point where a few more martinis blur ego and emotion.
One. Two. Three.
We laughed together—laughter that was hushed by a nearby couple shushing us like toddlers at a symphony. We froze, exchanged apologetic smiles, and a moment later? “Sorry,” we mouthed.
We sipped softer now.
Then, Miles chuckled, “This is… nice.” He glanced at his empty glass. “Let’s close this tab? Then… maybe a walk? On the beach, perhaps?”
