Page 62 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Miles smiled faintly. “It is. That’s why I chose to vacation down here, instead of a different beach, knowing what this town can do for you. This trip was meant to be…restorative.”
“You and your mom seem close,” I said, watching the way they shared that unspoken language between glances. “It’s… rare. In a good way.”
There was a quiet shift in the energy. Miles sat his fork down.
“She’s the only parent I’ve ever really had,” he said. “My dad walked out when I was three. We haven’t seen or heard from him since.”
Cecilia didn’t flinch. “And thank God for that. He was a selfish and immature man with no backbone. We were better off the moment he vanished.”
There wasn’t bitterness in her voice—just fact. That sort of cool, elegant disdain that only the truly rich and seasoned could master.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“Don’t be,” Miles replied, reaching for his water. “It’s ancient history. Still affects me, though. I guess that’s why I over-plan everything. I like knowing what’s coming and having structure and order. I need to be in control.”
“You?” I said with mock surprise. “Control freak? Shocking.”
He gave me a look, but it was playful.
I glanced down at my plate, then back up at both ofthem. “I get it,” I said. “I cut my parents off years ago. A lot of gambling. Pills. Drinking. Screaming. My mom tried to strangle me once when I came out of the closet. Told me I was already dead to her. Dad didn’t even show up to the funeral when she overdosed.”
There was silence at the table. I just kept going.
“They only called me once I got famous. Acted like none of it happened. Like they didn’t throw me out when I was sixteen. Wanted help with rent. Wanted me to buy them a condo. I blocked the numbers. Didn’t even know my mother had passed until six months after the fact. Haven’t looked back since.”
Cecilia placed a hand over her chest. “My God…”
Miles leaned forward. “That’s awful, Hudson. I’m so sorry.”
I waved them off. “It’s whatever. I don’t dwell on it. But seeing you two… makes me wonder what it would’ve been like to grow up with evenoneperson who gave a damn. Who knew how to make a Bloody Mary and didn’t throw ceramic ashtrays at your head, you know?”
The silence this time wasn’t heavy. It was understanding.
I looked over at Cecilia. “You did a good job.”
Cecilia raised her glass in my direction. “I know.”
We all laughed, and for a moment, the world felt… stupidly okay.
I took another bite of my French omelet and grinned. “This really is good, though. Like, criminally good. If this is what I get every time I show up here, I might never leave.”
Miles didn’t look up, but I caught the corner of his mouth curl just slightly.
And yeah, that made me feel something I hadn’t felt in a long time.
Full.
And not just from the food.
Miles
There’s something almost meditative about tidying up after a beautiful meal. The clink of plates, the low gurgle of the faucet, the hum of satisfaction lingering in the air like the scent of thyme and citrus. For a moment, as I stood in my kitchen gathering up forks and empty mimosa glasses, I was exactly where I needed to be.
Cecilia leaned back in her chair on the lower deck with the languid elegance of someone who had perfected leisure into an Olympic sport. Her green caftan fluttered in the soft breeze, and she sipped the last of her blood orange mimosa with a soft hum. Hudson, by contrast, was slouched in his seat, legs splayed out like a cat that had just conquered an entire Thanksgiving feast. His sunglasses were perched crookedly on his nose, and he looked devastatingly smug.
I started stacking the plates, trying to do it quietly—like maybe if I moved softly enough, no one would notice I was cleaning and just leave me to it.
No such luck.
