Page 85 of The Rehoboth Retreat
“He likes you,” she said plainly. “Against his better judgment. Against every warning sign his anxiety disorder is surely screaming at him. And right now, he’s drowning in all of it.”
I let that settle in.
Miles. Drowning. Because of me.
“You really think he’d listen to me?” I asked. “Because I’m not exactly good at these moments. I usually ghost, or make a joke about trauma, or seduce someone into forgetting their pain.”
“You’re not here to fix him,” she said. “You’re here to knock.”
I looked down at my bare feet, then at her perfectly painted toes peeking out of jeweled sandals.
She reached across the counter and rested a hand on mine. “Please. Just try.”
I nodded slowly. “Okay. I’ll go.”
She stood and gave me a small smile. “Good. And wear shoes. His room has cream carpeting.”
Then she turned, floating out of my house like a fabulous storm cloud, leaving behind a scent of white wine, Chanel, and quiet maternal panic.
I stood there for a long moment after she left, staring at the door like it had delivered a prophecy. Then I glanced back at my phone—Miles’ silence still there like a ghost.
Alright. Game face.
Time to knock.
As I stepped outside, I caught up with Cecilia as we made our way back to their beach house.
Walking beside Cecilia Hastings felt like walking next to a martini with its own gravitational pull—refined, intimidating, and always one lime twist away from murder.
She didn’t say a word as we made our way up the driveway. Her caftan rippled in the breeze like royalty on a warpath, and I could practically hear the internal monologue happening behind those massive sunglasses:Please don’t screw this up, you scandalous himbo.
I, meanwhile, was in my nicest shoes, hair finger-styled into something that screamedI’m trying but not too hardand sweating.
Not from the walk. Not from the humidity. But from the ache in my chest that had nothing to do with cardio and everything to do with the image of Miles curled into himself behind a locked door, deleting my unread texts like they were trash spam from a man who didn’t deserve to be taken seriously.
We reached their beach house where everything looked too symmetrical, too calm, too carefully measured for someone like me to be knocking on the damn door.
Cecilia stopped and crossed her arms. “Do I need to coach you through this like a pageant mom, or do you know how to knock?”
“I can knock,” I muttered, but my voice cracked like a preteen at a school dance.
We entered the house, and she stepped aside dramatically. I climbed the stairs and passed the open bedroom doors to the only one that was closed. Undoubtedly his bedroom. I knocked. Three knocks. No more, no less. Polite but insistent. The kind of knock that says:Hey, I know I’m human garbage right now, but maybe don’t set me on fire yet.
Silence.
Then, a voice from behind the door. Miles.
“Mother, for the love of God, just leave me alone.I’m not coming out.”
Ouch. Knife. Twist. Insert in the heart.
I stepped forward, close enough to rest my forehead against the door if I wanted to, but I didn’t. I kept my voice low. Gentle. For me, anyway.
“It’s not just her. It’s me.”
A pause.
Then the lock clicked, like a gun cocked in a noir film.
