Page 63 of The Rehoboth Retreat
“Oh no you don’t,” Cecilia said, rising like a slightly tipsy phoenix in silk. “You cooked. We’ll clean.”
“I’ve got it,” I said, already turning toward the kitchen door. “I prefer it this way.”
“Of course you do, Alphabet Boy,” Hudson chimed in, stretching with a groan. “But I’m not just gonna sit on my ass like some kind of hungover prince while you rinse egg yolk off artisan dinnerware.”
I raised a brow. “You’re absolutely welcome to sit on your ass. In fact, I encourage it.”
Hudson stood anyway, and to my complete non-surprise, so did Cecilia. She picked up the fruit bowl, and Hudson followed behind her with the prosciutto platter, trailing a scent of citrus and cologne that somehowstill lingered despite all the cooking I’d done.
“Honestly,” I said as I held the door open for them, “I orchestrated this whole breakfast to give you both a break, not assign you post-brunch chores.”
“Consider it a communal gesture,” Cecilia said airily as she floated into the kitchen. “Besides, I live to critique your sponge technique.”
“You have notes onmysponge technique?” I gasped.
“Darling, you scrub counterclockwise. It’s very unsettling.”
Hudson dropped the platter on the counter and let out a bark of laughter. “That’s what’s unsettling to you? The direction in which he sponges, and not the fact that this kitchen looks like a food blogger’s fantasy sponsored by Le Creuset?”
I rolled my eyes and opened the dishwasher, beginning to load things precisely the way I always did—utensils sorted by type, plates angled just-so, glasses on the top rack only. I could feel Cecilia watching me. Judging. Lovingly, but judging.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that comment,” I muttered, and then louder, “You two don’t actually need to help, you know.”
“Which is precisely why we’re doing it,” Hudson said. He rinsed off the mimosa carafe with surprising care and passed it to me. “Besides, I’m buying good karma. You’re clearly the type who remembers who dried the forks when they’re deciding who gets invited to the next dinner party.”
“That’s absurd,” I said, loading the carafe, although he wasn’t entirely off the mark with that one.
“You say that,” Hudson replied, “but I’m not risking it.”
Cecilia handed me the fruit bowl. “Also, it’s nice being in a kitchen like this again. There’s something satisfying about cleanup when it follows a perfect meal. And I will admit, it wasperfect.”
I smiled, despite myself. “Thank you.”
As we settled into a rhythm—Hudson drying, mymother poking fun at my obsessive sequencing, me pretending I wasn’t enjoying their help—I felt something loosen in me. Like I could breathe again.
“So,” Hudson said casually as he wiped a glass. “How much longer?”
I paused mid-rinse. “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” he said. “You’re what, day three into your retreat? Four?”
“Three,” I responded, rinsing the lime-zested fruit bowl. “I rented the house until tomorrow.”
“Damn,” Hudson commented, setting a glass down on the towel. “That went fast.”
“Time flies when you’re playing host and keeping up appearances,” I replied, half-joking, half-sighing.
He looked at me for a second, not saying anything, just watching. His gaze wasn’t invasive, exactly, but it held weight. Like he saw more than I was ready to acknowledge.
Cecilia broke the silence naturally. “You could always extend the trip.”
“I could,” I said. “But people have lives to get back to. Work. Family. Reentry is inevitable.”
“Reentry,” Hudson repeated. “Sounds like returning to Earth after orbit.”
“Sometimes it feels that way,” I admitted, stacking plates in the dishwasher. “This place—it’s like a pause. But everything waiting back home just hits harder after too much stillness.”
“You make it sound like a vacation from reality,” Hudson said, and then smirked. “Which I guess is exactly what it is.”
