Page 95 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Plates were passed, candles were lit, and the clinking of silverware joined the ambient hum of waves crashing in the background. I served each course with care, refusing help—this was my ritual, after all. It was my way of regaining control, of reminding myself that I knew who I was, even when the rest of the world tried to mislabel me.
We dined slowly. Cecilia hummed with pleasure at the branzino. Hudson moaned loud enough at the lemon cream pasta that I considered calling Beebe Medical Center for a wellness check.
“This sauce,” he said, waving his fork like a conductor’s baton. “If I die tonight, it’ll be because I inhaled too hard mid-bite.”
“Good,” I said. “Please die somewhere discreet. I just hosed the deck.”
Laughter followed, real and warm. My mother touched my hand once, briefly, and I looked up at her, feeling a sudden swell of gratitude so intense I had to blink it away.
Then, as the olive oil cake cooled and the wine bottle emptied, I reached for my phone.
It had been over an hour since I had posted something meaningful on my platforms.Something personal. I felt it was time to move past that and return to being me, posting pictures of my cooking, décor, and organization lifestyle once more. To return to the normalcy I wanted my fans and followers to recognize me for.
And now, sitting here with my mother and Hudson, in this setting that I’d concocted from scratch like a therapy session in plate form, I knew the exact caption I needed.
I angled the phone and snapped a photo—selfie-style, but elevated. Hudson leaned into the shot with one brow raised, smirking like a boy who got away with something. Cecilia smiled gracefully, her hand on mine. Thegolden hour hit just right. The lemons glowed. The candles flickered.
I added the caption before I could second-guess it:
Planned a fantastic dinner for my mother and a new friend… who you all may have heard of.????#RehobothRetreat #LemonAndLuxe #DinnerWithMiles
It was cheeky. It was strategic. It was me.
Within minutes, the comments started pouring in:
@linen.lifestyle:THIS is how you bounce back. Classy, chic, and with branzino.
@midcenturymom:Omg is that HUDSON KNIGHT???
@coastal.chronicles:You are literal sunshine, Miles. What a beautiful photo.
@eggwhiteonlyplease:Miles, we never doubted you. Hudson’s lucky to be in your orbit.
@brunchwitch:Petition for you to make this dinner available as a subscription box.
I couldn’t help the slow smile that crept onto my face. The table in front of me was half-empty, plates smeared with lemon cream and tarragon butter. Wine glasses tipped with pink fingerprints. Hudson was in the middle of some ridiculous story about mispronouncing “tagliatelle” on a talk show, and Cecilia was correcting his Italian with an alarming amount of passion.
Everything was fine.
No, everything wasexactly right.
The breeze picked up slightly, fluttering the edge of the tablecloth. I took another sip of wine, let it rest on my tongue, then exhaled slowly.
Let them talk, let them guess, let the scandal swirl.
I had lemons.
I had pasta.
And for the first time in a while, I had people at the table who actually saw me.
Hudson
Look, I’ve had a lot of meals in my life. Fancy ones. Michelin-starred ones.Private chef just for the weekend because I hated my boyfriendones. I’ve had quail's eggs resting on edible flowers, desserts served in glass globes that cost more than a monthly rental in a two-bedroom Upper Manhattan apartment, and once—once—I accidentally ate foam that turned out to be a centerpiece.
But this?
This dinner?
