Hudson
Let me just start by saying: I don’t give two shits about flowers.
That may not be the poetic, metaphorical opening you were hoping for, but this is my life, not a wedding blog.
Sure, I just dropped an ungodly amount of money on a 7,800-square-foot glass-and-concrete beach palace in Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, but if you think I give a damn about what’s blooming in the front yard, then you clearly haven’t met me.
Apparently, the previous owners—or some landscape designer with way too much time on their hands—crafted this lush Eden out front.
We’re talking about a horseshoe-shaped garden so well designed it could bring Martha Stewart to tears.
Hydrangeas, those giant-ass puffball flowers, line the place in blues, pinks, purples, and white.
They’re pretty, I guess.
Then there are daylilies, popping off in oranges, reds, and yellows like a Crayola massacre. Delphiniums tower up like drag queens in heels, deep purple and blue, trying to steal attention from the rest. Lavender bushes are everywhere, and I’ll admit, they smell kind of nice when I stumble in from a hangover hike. Roses? Oh, they’re here too. Climbing up trellises like they own the damn place. Red, pink, yellow, white—romantic as hell if you’re into that. And don’t even get me started on the peonies. Huge, ruffled drama queens of the flower world. They droop under their own weight, and bees treat them like Studio 54.
And yet, here I am—caring zero about any of it.
The only things I care about are the house looking sexy from the outside and the backyard having enough square footage to host over one hundred gay men in speedos without someone falling into a koi pond.
The garden could be AstroTurf with plastic flamingos for all I care, as long as the sun hits my outdoor chaise just right for Instagram thirst traps.
The house itself? Now that I care about.
It’s a sleek, modern monstrosity with all clean lines, floor-to-ceiling glass, and warm wood accents. Inside, it’s a rich man’s sanctuary. The front door opens into a grand foyer with this jaw-dropping staircase that curves up like it belongs in a movie about a rich bitch villain. Hardwood floors polished so shiny I can see my sins in them. Walls painted in soft beiges and muted grays, perfect for the TikTok home tour I’ll never actually film.
Off to the left, the living room is a cavern of comfort. Massive windows that gulp up the beach view, plush sofas that are so deep I once lost my phone and a bottle of lube in them a few days ago, and a fireplace so modern it looks like it was beamed in from the year 3062. Mounted TV. Art I didn’t pick. Shelves that pretend I read. It’s all part of the illusion.
The kitchen? An orgasm in marble. Thassos white countertops. Dual ovens. Every high-end appliance you can name, and some you can’t. There’s an island so big you could land a plane on it. The private chef I have over a few times a week uses it like a stage. I use it to open wine.
The dining room seats fourteen. I know because I had fourteen half-naked guys around it last Sunday for a boozy brunch that turned into a dance party by 4:00 PM. That’s the kind of hosting this house was made for.
Upstairs are five bedrooms, all with their own en-suites. The master? Don’t get me started. It’s got a bed that could comfortably sleep a polycule, a private balcony with ocean views, and a bathroom that looks like it was inspired by a Roman emperor’s wet dream. Huge soaking tub. A shower with so many heads it feels like you’re being interrogated by the FBI. Double vanities with marble tops, of course.
Then there’s the office. Poor little unused room. Big desk, built-in shelves, ocean view—total wasted potential. I had this delusion I’d work on screenplays here, maybe journal about my redemption arc. But let’s be real: my creativity’s alive and well, but my follow-through’s in a coma. So far, the only document on my laptop is a screenplay titled Saltwater Scandal, with only one lonely line of text.
But where I actually spend my mornings? The second-floor sundeck. The crown jewel. It overlooks the beach like it owns it. Lounge chairs with thick-ass cushions, a big dining table, and a chill zone with rattan chairs. I sit there every morning with a drink—wine if I’m pretending to be cultured, tequila if I’m being honest—and let the salty air detox my sins. If you’ve got to hide from the media and pretend your life isn’t in shambles, this is the place to do it.
It’s been a week since I moved in. A whole seven days since I fled the city with my tail between my legs and a Google alert set for my name. I’ve been trying to blend in. Which is hard when you’re me.
This morning, I skipped my usual 11-to-3 “brunching”
routine and opted for a walk on the beach. Don’t get me wrong—I was still mildly hungover and in desperate need of a greasy breakfast burrito—but the sun felt nice, and I figured I should at least touch nature if I was living in it.
I threw on a pair of designer shorts, a T-shirt with yesterday’s glitter still clinging to it, my aviators, and a baseball cap. Classic disguise.
“Don’t talk to me, but I look great just in case you do.”
The beach was practically empty. Just a few early risers walking dogs, doing yoga, or existing like the normal humans they are. I wandered for a while, letting the cold waves slap against my ankles and the sun bake the guilt out of my skin. It was peaceful. Kind of boring. But peaceful.
Eventually, I made my way back up to the house, showered the sand off, and changed into my evening uniform: something effortlessly hot, slightly slutty, and deceptively expensive. I took a photo—shirtless, ocean behind me, tousled hair, faux-candid. Uploaded it to Instagram. Within minutes, my DMs were flooded with shirtless profiles, dick emojis, and a couple of guys pretending they wanted to “just hang.”
I replied to a few. Told them I’d be at Aqua tonight. Everyone in Rehoboth told me Aqua is the go-to spot. Half indoor, half patio, full-on gay frenzy. It’s got a vacation hookup vibe, which is perfect because I’m not exactly hunting for husbands.
The Uber ride into town was short. Downtown Rehoboth Beach was alive, buzzing with energy. Streetlights glowing, tourists wandering, locals eyeing everyone with that mix of boredom and curiosity. Aqua was packed. Music pulsed. Boys flirted. Drinks flowed like we were all in a TikTok fantasy.
I spotted Tim and Jake near the patio. We’d met at a backyard party a few days ago. They waved me over like I was the prom queen.
“! Over here!”
Tim yelled, voice already slurred.
“Daddies and deviants,”
I said, grinning as I took the open seat.
“Glad to see you degenerates still alive.”
They laughed, handed me a drink, and we caught up. They asked about the house, the beach, and how I was adjusting. I gave them a sanitized version. Told them it was peaceful. Serene. Healing. Left out the parts about tequila-fueled naps and ignoring texts from my agent.
We clinked glasses. Toasted to summer, to second chances, to me being the newest washed-up pretty boy in their orbit. It felt good. Not fake good. Real good.
Then came the twist.
I was at the bar, grabbing another round, when a guy appeared beside me. Strong jaw, dark tan, slightly unkempt hair. He looked like he painted surfboards by day and wrote poetry by night. Wore this casual confidence that made me irrationally annoyed.
“Hey,”
he said.
“I’m Alex.”
“Hey, Alex. .”
“I know who you are.”
He gave me a grin.
“Word travels fast around here.”
“All good things, I hope.”
“Sure…”
he said, like he didn’t mean it.
“You settling in alright?”
“Trying. Not exactly my usual scene.”
“Well,”
he said, taking a sip of whatever artisanal drink he ordered, “Give it a chance. It’s better than Fire Island. Less scene. More soul.”
That tone.
That patronizing, coastal elitist tone. Like I needed his local-boy approval.
“I think I’ll manage just fine without a tour guide,”
I said, eyebrow arched.
His smile dropped.
“Damn. You really are an ass, like the tabloids say.”
I blinked.
He looked me dead in the eye.
“I hope you find what you’re looking for here. You seem like someone in desperate need of a personality change.”
And just like that, he walked off.
Left me standing there, holding two drinks, looking like a chump.
And maybe the worst part?
He wasn’t entirely wrong, but still. Fuck him anyway.