Page 49 of The Rehoboth Retreat
He looked around the lounge with half-amused satisfaction, surveying tufted leather chairs and glowing knotty pine tables like a conqueror in new territory. Then he raised a hand to flag down the server.
“What’ll it be?” the waiter asked.
Hudson leaned back, tapping the polished wood table. “Something interesting. Surprise me.”
I stayed still, stirring my martini, gaze fixed on the olivemeandering in the glass. Hudson caught me off guard sometimes, usually not in a good way. But curiosity—not anger—made me watch him.
The server offered a conspiratorial wink and returned moments later with a lowball of dark amber liquid crowned with a twist of orange peel. Hudson accepted it with a pleased smirk, sniffing it as though auditioning a candle for scent.
He took a generous sip, then turned to me. “You know, I gotta admit—I’m not surprised you’re here. It’s summer in a gay beach town. All the loud clubs and crowds, and here you are, hiding out with your precious martini trees.”
I tried not to react, but his words hit a nerve. “Not hiding,” I said softly. “Processing.”
Hudson chuckled. “Processing.” He took another sip. “Look, I get it. We all want to escape sometimes. Especially when life—gets messy.”
I looked at him. Felt the warmth of the martini burn through me. Right then and there, I knew he had done his research, whether it was hiring a private investigator or reaching out to someone else close to me about what I had hidden from him.
My divorce with Owen.
“How’d you know?” I asked.
Hudson paused mid-sip, eyebrows lifted. “Well… I don’t want to throw anyone under the bus.” He glanced around dramatically. “I guess I can kind of understand why you’d want some alone time. Especially with the whole divorce thing…”
I froze. My eyes widened in shock. “The divorce… How did you—? Spill it. Who told you?”
Hudson set down his drink, blood-red bar light reflecting in the liquid. “A little birdie.” He let the phrase linger for amusement.
I blinked slowly. Then realization struck. “It seems my mother far outstayed herunwelcomeat your party this evening.”
Hudson laughed—loud, unapologetic. “She’s something else, that woman.”
I frowned. My gaze moved to him—closer now, more serious. He was watching me with genuine interest, not a smirk or title. That feeling unsettled me.
“Tell me,” he said quietly. “What happened with Owen?”
I closed my eyes and took a breath. A real one. “It was… complicated. We built a life on image—I mean, the perfect life. The fancy house in New Jersey, the blog photos, the glamor. But it crumbled when I caught him cheating. I tried to salvage it—but he refused to face it. He pulled out. Everything fell apart.”
I let the words sit and watched Hudson’s expression soften—just slightly. Then I added, “The house next to yours? It’s not mine. It’s my mother’s friend’s place, actually. I do have a house ten minutes down the road from it. But I needed a weekend to escape my house and the memories ofhim. I love Rehoboth Beach so much. Still, I just needed a new house to be in, at least for a weekend, preferably a beachfront property, to clear my head. But, I also needed… breathing room.”
Hudson pursed his lips. Nodded, his injured foot tapping discreetly. “Yeah. I get it. I’m… going through my own shit with Jackson. Still bleeding—literally, apparently.” His tone stayed self-deprecating as he glanced down at his wounded foot, but the admission kept us grounded in shared fracture.
We sat in silence for a moment—me, processing him, listening in unexpected stillness. The piano broke into a soft jazzy “Someone to Watch Over Me”—a lull in the tavern kitsch that matched the mood.
I stirred my martini more aggressively, twirling the olive. “So, you really canceled the party? I don’t believe it.”
He shrugged. “After you left, I lost interest. It felt performative, a bit hollow.” He paused. “Andwhen your mom showed up? That sealed it. I wanted the drama—not the petty. But I thought… maybe I could still reach you.”
I laughed softly. Wry. “You’re relentless.”
Hudson tilted his head. “Maybe I am.”
I sighed. I suppose I’d let the smallest crack appear. But my therapist did once tell me cracks let in light.
We finished our drinks—mine slowly, his faster. Then he stood, wincing slightly. “Let me buy you another drink,” he offered.
I looked at him, realizing I didn’t have a better plan. “Fine,” I said.
Little did I know thatanother drinkwould turn intoquite a few drinks.
