Page 75 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Cecilia looked over the rim of her glass. “So, what’s the problem, then?”
“That’s just it. I don’t know,” I confessed. “Shouldn’t I be grieving harder? Angry still? Owen cheated on me. Our marriage collapsed. Shouldn’t I be locked in my bedroom crying into my pillow like some sad gay widow?”
She placed her glass on the side table with a graceful clink. “Miles. Heartbreak doesn’t come with a syllabus. There’s no proper timeline, no approved stages, no checklist. You gave Owen everything. You loved him with your whole, organized, color-coded heart. And he still made his choices.”
I looked at her, unsure.
“And now, you’re allowed to make yours,” she said softly.
“But kissing another man—especially one like Hudson—just weeks after the divorce papers are finalized… Doesn’t that make me impulsive? Or worse, desperate?”
She tilted her head, the breeze teasing a silver strand of hair loose from her bun. “Or maybe it makes youfree.”
That word settled between us.
“Free to kiss someone because you want to. Free to go on a yacht without planning every second. Free to not know what something is yet—and still enjoy it. Howrarefor you, my darling. You’re always curating, always editing, always arranging your life like one of your damn linen closets.”
I laughed. “Guilty.”
“But today, you improvised,” she said, pointing a finger at me for emphasis. “You kissed chaos—and I saw that little smile on your face when you walked in.”
I leaned back in my chair, feeling the sun soak into my legs and the wind play in my hair. “Itwasnice. Scary… but nice.”
She raised her glass again. “To being scared, then. And doing it anyway.”
We clinked our glasses gently. I took a sip and let the alcohol settle alongside the swirl of feelings in my chest.
Maybe I was diverging from the recipe. Maybe I wasn’t following the table of contents of my carefully planned life. But at this moment—with my feet in the sand, my mother beside me,and the taste of salt and champagne still clinging to my lips—I realized something important.
I’d always followed the recipe to the letter. Always. But today? I’d added a dash of spontaneity, a splash of risk, and maybe—just maybe—a kiss of something more.
And damn if it didn’t taste phenomenal.
My moment of serene and giddy reflection was then cut short by my phone vibrating in my shorts. Then again. And again.
I pulled it out and checked it. The screen filled up with notifications.
Lena (Work):
You need to check Instagram now. It’s not good.
Lena (Work):
Like right now, Miles. You’ve gone viral. And not in a good way.
My chest tightened. That sinking, nauseating spiral started deep in my gut—the same one I used to get during middle school spelling bees when I knew I was about to mess upbouillabaisse.
I tapped open Instagram, and my world stopped spinning in all the wrong ways.
@MilesInOrder:
New Comments—Post: “Rehoboth Mornings are a Balm for the Soul.”
@housewifehater89:Wow, cheating on your husband this soon??? Classy
@Lola4779:Hudson Knight? Really? You ruin your marriage for a walking STD in designer shades??
@Jackie_Petrusio78:Miles “Whitaker” more like Miles White-LIE. Hope your sponsors see this.
