Page 81 of The Rehoboth Retreat
How did this happen?
I slid down to the floor, my back against the door, my knees drawn to my chest like I was a scared little boy hiding from thunder.
How did I let myself get swept into this?
One kiss. One fucking kiss. And now, apparently, I was the poster child for infidelity and depravity.
Except I wasn’t. Iwasn’t. I was the one who had been cheated on. I was the one who stood by quietly while the man I loved broke our vows. I was the one who packed up the pieces of my life and tried to build something new—something that felt likemeagain.
And now they thoughtIwas the villain.
I buried my face in my hands.
My career… my brand…
All of it.
I had spent over a decade crafting it—carefully, immaculately. Every post, every book, every appearance. I built a lifestyle empire out of order, peace, and damn lemon zest. And now it might crumble because I dared—dared—to find joy for five minutes in the arms of someone who made me feelaliveagain.
I heard a soft knock on the door once more.
“Miles?” My mother’s voice was gentle. “Honey, can I come in?”
I couldn’t answer. I didn’t trust my voice. I pressed my lips into my knee and shook my head, even though she couldn’t see it.
Another knock.
“Miles. Please talk to me. You don’t have to go through this alone.”
But I did. I needed to. For one moment.
If I opened that door, I would dissolve. I would say something too dramatic or try to fix it or pretend like I was okay. And I wasn’t okay.
I wasn’t anywhere close to okay.
I crawled onto the bed eventually, not bothering to undress, and pulled the covers up over my head like a child warding off monsters.
It was childish, maybe.
But today, I wasn’t Miles Whitaker, the guru of grace and cocktail napkin curation. I was just… a man. A tired, broken man whose life had taken a very sharp, very public left turn.
And I didn’t know how to navigate it.
Not yet.
I don’t know how long I stayed curled in this position—fetal, twisted in the expensive sheets I’d once described in a magazine spread as“crisp and rejuvenating with a buttery finish.”Now they just felt suffocating. Wrinkled. Hot. Like they were closing in on me.
My face was sticky with tears, and my eyes throbbed, swollen, and dry. I hadn’t cried like this in years. Maybe not even during the divorce. No—especially not during the divorce. I’d held it together throughthatlike a champ. Smile for the press. Smile for the book tour. Smile for the camera.
But this? This was different.
This felt like everything was unraveling at once.
I pressed a pillow over my head, trying to drown out the world, but thepingof my phone pierced through like a siren. Anotherping. Then another.
Please… Just let me wallow.
I ignored it for a full five minutes before finally shoving the pillow aside and dragging the phone off the nightstand. The screen lit up, glowing like judgment.
