Miles
I feel like I’m living in some half-reality. Nothing feels like it’s really mine anymore, not in the way it used to. I’ve always been on top of it—focused, organized, sharp. My business empire, built on the back of meticulous planning and unyielding perfection, has always been my life.
But lately?
I can’t seem to get anything right. The once-precise flow of my days—back-to-back meetings, dinner parties, client calls—has become a fog of distraction.
Owen’s face—his betrayal—keeps creeping into my mind, clouding my thoughts. How could he do this? How could he cheat on me and walk away like it was no big deal?
I grip the edge of my desk, feeling a familiar weight pressing down on me. I glance at the clock. It’s almost noon, but I haven’t gotten half of what I’d planned for the morning done. My calendar is a mess. My to-do list is sitting there, untouched. I try to focus, but all I can think about is what’s next?
Divorce is such an inconvenient, messy thing. I never thought I’d be here at the age of forty-one, figuring out how to get back into the dating market of relationships. After everything with Owen, I can’t even stomach the thought of swiping through gay dating apps. The idea of speed dating makes my skin crawl. All of it is so… unbecoming. Not me at all.
And blind dates? Please. A part of me wants to scream out of frustration—this wasn’t supposed to be my life. I wasn’t supposed to be starting over again at this age. Not with everything I’ve worked for, not with everything I’ve built.
And yet, here I am.
I lean back in my chair, staring out the window at my colorful garden below. The sunlight catches the leaves of the trees just so, casting long shadows over the lawn. It’s the same lawn I’ve always had, kept neat by a team of gardeners and me. Everything is as it should be, and yet nothing feels right. My heart beats in my chest in a steady rhythm, but it feels out of place now, as though it doesn’t belong with me anymore. I’m not even sure what I belong to anymore.
The sound of my phone buzzing on the desk pulls me from my thoughts. I glance down, and of course, it’s a forwarded email from Owen’s lawyer.
I sigh, trying to push down the frustration that rises in my chest. They’ve been so insistent about the terms of the divorce. The back-and-forth, the legalese, the paperwork—it’s all so… cold. My lawyer advised me not to contact Owen, saying that everything must go through them. Owen and I agreed that he would keep the New Jersey house, and I’d take the Rehoboth Beach house, along with Topper, our Jack Russell Terrier. It was a no-brainer for me. I could easily find another similar house in New Jersey, but I absolutely loved the location of our Rehoboth Beach house. I would’ve preferred something more amicable, but here we are. Owen wanted to act like this was all so simple, and yet the weight of it was suffocating.
The following morning, I woke up to the harsh reality that my life wasn’t quite as perfect as I’d spent years convincing myself it was. After a restless night, tossing and turning, I finally dragged myself out of bed, my mind still preoccupied with the weight of everything that had been going wrong. The divorce. The betrayal. The realization that nothing was as secure as I’d once thought it to be. And now, as I stared at the clock, I realized I had an appointment with Dr. Harris that I had been dreading. My blood panel results were in. I had to go.
I dressed quickly in my usual immaculate manner—tailored pants, a crisp shirt, swiftly styled hair. I stared at myself in the mirror as I buttoned my cuffs, wondering if anyone could tell that my confidence had begun to fray at the edges. I’d always been able to rely on my anal retentiveness, but right now, it felt like the very thing that kept me together was starting to unravel.
The clinic was only a few miles away, so I drove there in no time. The air was brisk, and the sun was just beginning to shine through the clouds as I parked. As I made my way into the waiting area, the sterile whiteness of the clinic hit me immediately. The walls were stark, too bright, and the faint smell of antiseptic hung in the air, mingling with the stale scent of polished floors. The fluorescent lights buzzed above me as I approached the receptionist, a middle-aged woman with a kind but distant expression.
“Hi, Mr. Whitaker,”
she said as she handed me a clipboard.
“Just the usual paperwork today. Please fill this out, and the doctor will be with you shortly. Is your insurance still the same?”
“Yes.”
I nodded absently, taking the clipboard and sitting in one of the stiff plastic chairs. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but it was hard to ignore the clinical atmosphere that seemed to magnify the nervous flutter in my chest. I filled out the forms and returned them before sitting back, nervously tapping the pen I’d forgotten to return against the edge of the armrest. There was no escape from this moment. I could already feel the anticipation building in the pit of my stomach.
A few minutes later, the door to the waiting area opened, and Dr. Harris appeared.
“Mr. Whitaker,”
he greeted me, his voice smooth, his demeanor calm and collected as always. Dr. Harris had been my primary care physician for years. He was a man in his mid-fifties with salt-and-pepper hair and a reassuring, fatherly presence. He was always professional, and something about him made me feel at ease. That was until now. His expression today was softer than usual, more concerned.
“Hello, Dr. Harris,”
I replied, trying to keep my voice steady as I stood and followed him into the exam room. It was the same room I’d been in countless times before. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic, as it always did. The hum of the fluorescent lights above was louder in here, a constant reminder of my anxiety.
Dr. Harris gestured for me to sit, and I did so, my hands automatically smoothing out the wrinkles in my pants. He sat down in front of me, his clipboard in hand.
“Well, ,”
he began, his voice steady but with a tinge of concern.
“It seems that your cholesterol levels are a bit higher than we’d like.”
He paused.
“You’re dealing with slight hypercholesteremia.”
The word hit me like a ton of bricks. I blinked, trying to digest what he had just said.
“Hypercholesteremia? Seriously?”
I stammered.
Dr. Harris gave me a kind, measured look.
“It’s not uncommon, especially in your age group. It means your cholesterol is higher than what’s considered healthy. Your LDL and triglyceride levels could be lower. It’s a risk factor for heart disease, but the good news is it’s manageable. We just need to get your levels under control.”
I felt my chest tighten.
“I… I don’t understand. I’ve been so careful. I eat well, I work out. I’ve been taking care of myself for years.”
Dr. Harris nodded.
“I know, . But sometimes, no matter how well we take care of ourselves, our bodies just don’t cooperate. Genetics can play a big role in this. We can manage it with the right treatment.”
I felt the ground beneath me shift. Here I was—vulnerable.
“I… I don’t know,”
I muttered.
“I’m forty-one. I shouldn’t be dealing with this.”
“We’ll start you on Rosuvastatin, just a small dose. And I also want to prescribe Omeprazole for the frequent heartburn you mentioned in your paperwork. It’ll help with the digestive issues.”
I stared at him.
“Heartburn? Cholesterol? Medication? Is this really happening?”
Dr. Harris leaned forward slightly.
“We can manage this. You just have to stick to the plan. Take the medications, monitor your diet, stay active, and we’ll get your cholesterol under control.”
I exhaled shakily. I didn’t want to admit it, but I felt like I had lost something—my sense of invincibility.
“Okay,”
I said finally.
Dr. Harris smiled.
“Good. Just take it one step at a time.”
I walked out of his office feeling like the floor beneath me had cracked open. The divorce was one thing, but this? This was a new level of stress. The weight of it all felt like it was too much to bear.
I needed a break. I needed to get away, even if just for a weekend. I pulled into my driveway, looking at my meticulously landscaped garden. But today, it felt like a mere illusion of peace. I needed something new.
Rehoboth Beach.
I hadn’t been to the beach house in a while. But that’s exactly why I needed to go. It would be an easy choice. Just me, the beach, and the sound of the ocean.
But I knew that going to the Rehoboth Beach house would constantly remind me of the memories Owen and I had created there. That was the last thing I needed while on vacation.
As I entered my house, I headed toward the kitchen and leaned over the quartz countertop, pulling out my phone and dialing my mother.
“Mom, I need a break,”
I blurted out.
“I was thinking of going to Rehoboth Beach, but I need someplace far better than my current house. A whole change of scene would be ideal. Do you know of any good places to stay? I need somewhere huge and luxurious, preferably on the beach. I know you know people…”
“Well, darling,”
she began.
“I have a friend with a beautiful part-time beach house on Ocean Drive in North Shore. I believe I showed you pictures of it a while back. It’s magnificent—they paid $8.5 million for it and completely renovated it. I can ask if it’s available.”
My heart picked up speed. Who could forget that stunning piece of property? I imagined it now—the soft blue shakes and tan siding, the turrets, the sprawling windows. This was precisely the escape I needed.
“That sounds wonderful,”
I replied.
“Let me check with her,”
Cecilia continued.
“It’s right on the beach, just north of Henlopen Acres. Very exclusive community, you know.”
Exclusive was exactly what I needed.
We continued discussing logistics, and I began to picture the weekend. Just a break. I could focus on relaxation without the weight of the divorce or my health problems hanging over me.
“Alright, let’s make it happen,”
I said, imagining the weekend.
“See if we can make it for four days. I’m thinking I want to arrive on a Thursday and leave the following Sunday. I’ll plan the meals, the dinners, everything. I can use it as an opportunity to promote my lifestyle blog too. Fresh seafood, maybe a classic French dish, breakfast on the patio with mimosas, and my famous Bloody Marys you love — it’s going to be spectacular.”
The thought of planning every detail gave me something to focus on. The house would be stunning, the meals superb, and the beach weather comforting.
“Don’t worry, darling,”
Cecilia reassured me.
“I’ll get in touch with her and let you know.”
“Thanks, mom. You always know how to come through.”
We ended our call, and I could not help but already begin to feel revitalized. This trip was exactly what I needed. A real escape.
My phone buzzed an hour later.
Mom: It’s available two weekends from now. I’ll book it for you. You’re going to love it.
I grinned. This was going to be my reprieve. I set my phone down and began thinking about the beach house. It was everything I needed—an 8,500-square-foot mansion with stunning views. This was a house for someone who demanded the best.
I smiled as I imagined the waves crashing outside, the wind in my hair, and enjoying dinner under the stars. It was exactly the fresh start I needed—a clean slate.
And with that, I finally felt the weight of the world lifting—just a little.