Page 87 of The Rehoboth Retreat
Maybe a sob.
Maybe both.
And then silence.
I turned and walked down the steps.
Cecilia stood at the bottom with her arms folded and her sunglasses still on, like a gay mafia boss waiting for the hitman to report back.
“Well?” she asked.
“He’s going to make the call. It means he’ll have to go public about the divorce, but you and I both know it’s the only way around this.”
She lifted her wine glass toward me in a solemn toast. “You may live another day, Hudson Knight.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll try not to waste it.”
But no sooner had I informed her of the current situation than I heard Miles talking to someone, probably his publicist. I decided to go back upstairs and pace the hallway.
I wasn’t eavesdropping. Let’s just clear that up right now.
I wasadjacentto eavesdropping. Like, if eavesdropping were a felony, I’d maybe get off with a misdemeanor.
The thing is, it wasn’t like I had my ear pressed to the damn keyhole. I just happened to be loitering upstairs when I heard his muffled voice through the bedroom door. And when that voice belongs to a man who looked like he was going to spiral into a panic coma thirty minutes ago, you don’t just scroll through your phone and let Jesus take the wheel. You listen.
He was on the phone with someone—his publicist, I assumed—because he said her name like it was part plea, part warning: “Angela… I need to post something.”
There was a long pause. I could almost hear her gears turning from here. Probably worrying about brand consistency and font spacing or whatever kind of design cult Miles ran.
“I don’t want a whole essay,” he continued. “Just something… clear. Professional. I’ll write it myself.”
Another pause. Then: “No, I’m not mad at you. This isn’t your fault.”
Damn, his voice.
Soft, shaky, but still polished even in its crumbling. It made me want to do unspeakably wholesome things like fold his laundry or organize his junk drawer if he even had one. Doubtful though.
“I just need to say it plainly,” he said. “That Owen and I have divorced. That it’s been private, but it’s real. And that I appreciate the respect of my community moving forward.”
My breath hitched. It sounded so clean. So adult. Meanwhile, I was still the guy who’d said the phrasewhore brunchon a podcast last month.
He hung up.
I didn’t move. I didn’t want him to know I’d heard his private conversation. It felt like a sacred little moment, and I wanted him to have that.
The door creaked open a moment later, and I backed away a step, casually leaning on the banister like I hadn’t just been soaking in his pain like a creepy emotional sponge.
He stepped out, eyes puffy but chin high. “I need some space,” he said. “Just… for a little while.”
“Of course,” I nodded, stepping back further. “Take all the time you need.”
Cecilia, who appeared like a martini-scented specter at my side, nodded, too. “We’ll be downstairs.”
We padded down the stairs together. Well,shepadded. I clomped. Quiet was never my strength, especially on a limp, stitched-up foot.
Once in the kitchen, I exhaled like I’d been holding my breath since Meghan and Harry left the royal family.
Cecilia opened the freezer, pulled out a massive orb of ice from a fancy silicone mold, and dropped it into a crystal tumbler like a woman who had been training for this moment her entire life.
