Miles
Before heading straight home from Aqua, I decided to walk the Rehoboth Beach boardwalk and explore the local scenes a bit. My shoes clicked softly against the weathered wooden planks, still warm from the day’s sun. The ocean breeze has cooled just enough to lift the salt into the air, carrying it across the beach like some sea-soaked perfume. It blends perfectly with the distant sweetness of funnel cake, the buttery aroma of fresh popcorn, and the unmistakable tang of Thrasher’s French fries.
God, those fries.
I swear you can smell them from two blocks away—the sharp vinegar sting layered over the deep-fried bliss of hot potato slices dancing in bubbling oil. I pause near the stand, its red lettering glowing under a row of old storefront lights, watching a teenager in a neon green visor dump a fresh batch into a paper bucket and give it a masterful shake of salt. People line up even at this hour, their faces lit up by the fryers and the thrill of indulgence, clutching the signature tubs in greasy hands like they’ve found religion. I nearly cave and buy some, but I remind myself I have lemon-roasted asparagus chilling at home and a digestive system in its early forties.
Don’t forget… heartburn… cholesterol…
Still, I hover, letting the scent wrap around me like an old friend I know I shouldn’t call again.
A burst of laughter turns my head. Up ahead, the arcades flicker with chaotic charm. Neon lights strobe from under awnings and behind glass, bathing everything in a nostalgic glow. Skee-ball ramps thud as wooden balls tumble into targeted holes, and some teenager whoops after getting a high score, followed by a siren and red spinning lights. I peer in through the salty windows of one arcade—rows of prize shelves stacked with stuffed bananas wearing sunglasses, plastic jewelry, and oversized rainbow lollipops. The din inside is its own kind of music: tokens clattering into machines, bells ringing, voices rising in triumph, or groaning in defeat.
Further down, the lights of Funland blaze like a jewel box cracked open. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t need to modernize—its charm is in its constancy. I stroll past the entrance, listening to the squeal of children as the bumper cars spark and crash under the ceiling grid. Cotton candy twirls from silver machines, soft and pink like pastel clouds. The guy at the ring toss booth—tan arms, a visor too tight—calls out like a carnival barker from the 1950s: “One more try and you win a prize!”
I can’t help but smile. It all feels like a memory I never lived but somehow still miss.
I wander to the edge of the boardwalk and look out over the dark stretch of sand. The tide is in, the waves kissing the shore in a steady rhythm that sounds like breathing. Far down the beach, I can still see people—silhouettes walking barefoot, lovers entwined, kids digging even though the sun’s long gone.
For a moment, I just breathe it all in. The oil-slick scent of Thrasher’s still on the wind, the sugar of kettle corn floating from some forgotten stand, the ocean humming like a lullaby. The night’s alive here. Not in the loud, chaotic way of parties or clubs—but in a way that feels real. Rooted.
I slide my hands into the pockets of my pants, lingering a bit longer before heading home. Because sometimes, when the world feels too curated or fragile, there’s something oddly grounding about a boardwalk—sticky floors, blinking lights, screaming rides, and all.
It’s not perfect, but then again, maybe that’s why it is.
The Uber dropped me off just past 10:40 PM, the headlights slicing across the driveway like a final curtain call on my unexpected little detour.
I stepped out, heels clicking against the flagstone, the ocean breeze wrapping itself around me like a silk scarf dipped in sea salt and sass. The porch light glowed warm and inviting, casting the front of the Ocean Drive house in a golden hue, like something out of a Nancy Meyers movie—only this time, the lead wasn’t Meryl Streep.
It was me.
I hadn’t planned to go to Aqua. I hadn’t planned to verbally spar with an unhinged hurricane in designer sunglasses. And I certainly hadn’t planned to enjoy it.
But here I was, buzzed on chardonnay and adrenaline, with a slightly crooked smile still tugging at the corner of my lips as I unlocked the door and stepped inside.
Topper trotted up to greet me, tail wagging like a metronome on espresso. I scooped him up and kissed his head.
“You will not believe the level of classless I encountered tonight, baby boy. It was practically a case study in narcissistic dysfunction.”
I padded into the kitchen, dropped my keys in the tray with a satisfying clink, and poured myself a final glass of water, garnished with a lemon wheel—because standards. Then I sat at the kitchen island and just… exhaled.
What a night.
Calling Hudson Knight out had felt like releasing a pressure valve I didn’t know I had. I’m not that person. I don’t snap. I make herbal infusions and color-code my gratitude journal.
But something about him—those smug little smirks, that inflated ego, that absolute disregard for basic human etiquette—set me off like a champagne cork at a budget bachelorette brunch. It was like every passive-aggressive HOA board meeting I’d ever attended had taken human form, downed three shots of tequila, and decided to rile me up.
And I let him have it. Not with screams. Not with drama. But with surgical, honey-dipped sarcasm.
It was glorious.
Still, I found myself reflecting. What had gotten into me? I usually rise above this kind of nonsense. I let the volatile people spiral while I politely sip my mint water and pivot to safer topics. But tonight?
Tonight, I snapped.
And honestly?
It felt good.
I leaned back against the kitchen island barstool and closed my eyes. The ocean waves outside were rhythmic and calming, crashing softly like applause from a very refined, very judgmental audience. I imagined Hudson somewhere out there, still surrounded by shirtless disciples, performing the gospel of his own ego, utterly unaware that the best part of his night had already walked away.
Me.
I wasn’t shaken. I wasn’t offended. If anything, I felt a little bit empowered. Like maybe I didn’t have to be the composed one all the time. Perhaps the world wouldn’t end if I got a little messy now and then. Maybe… just maybe… there was room for both the polished and the erratic inside me.
Topper then brought me back down to reality, trying to jump at me to get my attention. His tiny paws pattered excitedly across the hardwood like a wind-up toy on overdrive. He flopped onto his back in front of me with dramatic flair, tail wagging and belly bared. I kneeled down, the hem of my linen pants brushing the floor, and rubbed his soft tummy while whispering, “Yes, yes, my good boy. I know. I’m home now. You may resume your kingdom duties.”
He gave a happy grunt and licked my wrist before scampering around the island, clearly expecting a bedtime treat. As I followed him, I noticed a handwritten note in my mother’s elegant script resting on the sleek, glossy countertop near the dog food and treats:
I let Topper out around eight o’clock. I have since retired for the evening. I shall see you in the morning. With all my love.
I smiled. Trust Cecilia to pen a note like she’s living in a Jane Austen novel.
Stepping out of my shoes, I padded down the hallway to my bedroom, stripped out of my carefully tailored dinner ensemble, and slipped into something far more my speed: a pair of cozy sweatshorts and an oversized sea-foam green beach sweatshirt with a faded Rehoboth Vibes Only print. I did a quick finger comb with my hair—still chic, obviously—and whistled for Topper.
“Alright, sir. One last spin around the beach before bed. Don’t make me regret this.”
Once I got him into his harness and leash, we exited through the side gate that opened right onto the sand, the moonlight stretching silver across the ocean like someone had spilled a bucket of glitter from the heavens. The salty breeze was cooler now, whispering secrets only the sea knew, and Topper trotted ahead, nose twitching at every seashell and dune grass shadow.
As we made our way along the water’s edge, I let my thoughts drift with the tide. My divorce from Owen still lingered in the corners of my heart like dust in an old armoire—easy to ignore when you’re busy, harder to ignore when it’s quiet. I remembered the late nights we’d spent planning dinner parties, the sound of his laughter while we rearranged furniture and the way he used to sneak tastes of frosting from my mixing bowls.
But that was another life. A closed chapter. And here I was—still standing, still stylish, still successful.
Despite everything, I had built something for myself. My brand, my business, my books, my beautifully manicured empire of curated living. I was proud of that. No matter how messy things got, I always had that foundation to fall back on.
“We did good, didn’t we, Topper?”
I said aloud, watching him paw at a crab shell like it was plotting his downfall.
“Not bad for someone who once nearly cried in the aisle of The Container Store over a discontinued spice rack.”
Topper barked at the waves and then circled back to me, ready to go home. I gave the shoreline one last look—the quiet lapping of the waves, the vastness of the stars, the gentle tug of the wind—and felt a deep, full-body kind of gratitude.
Grateful for the career I have poured myself into. Grateful for the strength I never knew I had until I had no choice but to use it. Grateful for this house, this beach, this second act of mine.
We turned back toward the beach house, footprints in the sand marking our return. Maybe tomorrow would bring more chaos. Maybe it wouldn’t, though, and just be easy breezy. But for tonight?
Tonight, I had peace.
And a freshly steamed set of pillowcases waiting to cradle my well-earned dreams.
We were just a few steps away from the house when Topper suddenly froze, his little ears perked up, tail stiff. I followed his gaze and then—oh, for the love of all things hygienic.
Two men.
Naked.
On my beach.
Well, technically, not mine—but close enough to call the authorities if need be. One of them was sprawled across a beach towel like a centerfold reject from a failed OnlyFans account, and the other was straddling him with all the subtlety of a dollar-store romance novel.
“Oh, come on,”
I muttered under my breath, shielding Topper’s innocent eyes.
Then the top guy turned his head slightly, moonlight catching his face just enough to give me the full horror of recognition.
Hudson Knight.
Of course. The universe wasn’t finished mocking me tonight.
“Get a room!”
I snapped, loud enough for the sound to cut through the slap of waves and whatever other… noises they were generating.
Hudson looked up, not even mildly ashamed, and grinned like a frat boy who just keyed a Prius.
“Heyyyyyyy. Alphabet Boy! What, you stalking me now? Didn’t know you were into live shows.”
I recoiled.
“Stalking you? Please. I was returning from a beach stroll with my dog. You know, something civilized people do.”
“Well, civilized people shouldn’t be walking around judging others with their pristine little sweatshirts and monogrammed dog leashes,”
he replied, lazily rolling off his giggling boy toy.
The twink—barely twenty-two by the looks of it if I had to guess, with an earring shaped like a gummy bear and a tan that screamed “no SPF ever”—winked at me.
“You wanna join? He’s got stamina.”
I nearly choked on my own disdain.
“Absolutely not. I value my health. And my standards.”
“Suit yourself,”
Hudson said, standing and stretching as if we were all just old friends bumping into each other at the farmer’s market. His lower half, mercifully, was covered by a wrinkled towel he lazily wrapped around his waist.
“FYI, this beach? Technically, it’s part of my property. Bought it recently. So, if anyone needs to get a room…”
I blinked.
“You live there?”
I pointed to the modern monstrosity next door—sleek, showy, and currently glowing with blue LED lights like it was trying to seduce a spaceship.
“Yup. That’s my little rehab pad.”
Of course. Of course, he was my next-door neighbor for the weekend. I felt my soul leave my body.
“Great. Just perfect,”
I muttered.
“You okay there, Mr. West Elm Breakdown? You’re looking a little pale,”
Hudson said, clearly delighted.
I squared my shoulders.
“Look. I’m not trying to start anything. Just—keep it down. Or, at the very least, keep it dressed.”
“You got it, Captain Cardigan.”
His twink tugged his arm.
“Come back inside. I wanna show you that thing with the whipped cream again.”
“Duty calls,”
Hudson said to me with a wink before turning back toward the glowing beast of a house.
I stood frozen for a moment, Topper watching me like he, too, questioned every decision that had led us here.
Hudson Knight. Next door.
Well, fine. I’d just avoid the property line like it was radioactive. Pretend the West Wing of my little beach kingdom didn’t exist. Easy. Totally doable.
I muttered a prayer to the gods of coastal zoning ordinances and turned back toward my own sanctuary.
Topper trotted ahead like nothing happened. And me?
I just mentally added “install privacy hedges”
to tomorrow’s to-do list, even if I was only staying for three more days. It would totally be worth it.