Miles
There is something oddly sacred about the ritual of setting up your own beach sanctuary. I had carved out a perfect spot earlier that morning, strategically placed halfway between the shoreline and the dunes, just close enough to hear the waves crashing without being sprayed by them. My striped navy and cream beach umbrella arched proudly above me, fluttering slightly in the sea breeze. Beneath it, my chair was angled just so—facing the sun, but not directly—because even when I’m relaxing, there’s always intention.
And let me tell you: the sandwich I’d packed was an edible masterpiece. A freshly baked fennel focaccia roll—soft but sturdy—sliced and layered with thinly shaved turkey, arugula, provolone, crisp cucumber ribbons, and a whisper of garlic aioli I whipped up. I added a thin swipe of fig jam on one side of the bread because I believe in contrasts—sweet and savory, crunchy and creamy, indulgent yet refined. It was wrapped lovingly in parchment paper and tied with twine like a tiny gift to myself.
I paired it with hand-cut vegetable chips I baked just before coming to the beach—zucchini, sweet potato, and beet—and tucked in a tiny mason jar of herb-yogurt dip on the side.
Before I took a single bite, I laid everything out on a navy linen napkin and snapped a series of overhead shots for my followers. My Instagram story lit up like Christmas morning. Within seconds, hearts and comments started rolling in.
@CoastalCrumbsAndOrder84: DYING over that fig jam twist!
@SunsetSips_3247: How is your beach lunch prettier than my wedding spread?
@RehobothTabletop: , write another cookbook already!
I smiled, satisfied. Then, inspired by the moment, I propped up my phone against my beach tote and went live.
“Good afternoon, everyone,”
I said, angling the camera so my lunch—and the rolling surf in the background—were perfectly framed. My oversized straw hat cast just the right shadow across my face.
“It’s a gorgeous day here in Rehoboth Beach, and I thought I’d pop on to share a little tip: never underestimate the power of a well-packed lunch. Whether you’re at the office or soaking up the sun, eating something beautiful—something intentional—can completely change your energy. Today’s sandwich? Focaccia. Turkey. Arugula. And a whisper of garlic aioli and fig jam. The fig jam is the secret. Life is about balance, flavor, and yes—even indulgence.”
I took a slow, deliberate bite and closed my eyes dramatically. “Mmm,”
I hummed, swallowing. “Divine.”
The comments rolled in:
@TheMealPrepMuse: This is ASMR for foodies.
@NeatBitesDaily: You’re giving beach Martha Stewart, and I’m here for it.
@TheOrderlyAppetite761: Please host a coastal picnic series!
After finishing the sandwich—and giving a few more bites the reverent attention they deserved—I ended the live video, tucked my phone away, and walked toward the water.
The sand was warm beneath my feet, soft and golden, and the scent of salt was thick in the air. The ocean shimmered like a promise. I stepped in slowly, letting the cold shock my system. Water swirled around my ankles, then my knees, and before I knew it, I dove in—completely submerged in the Atlantic’s embrace.
I surfaced, slick and laughing, then closed my eyes and floated on my back, arms stretched wide, the sun pressing kisses to my cheeks. The ocean held me like an old friend. For a few minutes, I was no one. Just a body, floating. Whitaker: blogger, brand guru, recovering perfectionist—dissolved into something simpler.
When I returned to shore, I towel-dried lazily, salt crusting on my skin, and sank back into my lounge chair. The sun filtered through the umbrella, casting dappled light across my thighs. A warm breeze played with the ends of my damp hair. My stomach was content. My mind was quiet. I leaned back, exhaled deeply, and thought: this. This is the life I built.
Not a husband. Not a timeline. Not a white picket fence. But this.
A perfectly packed lunch. The ocean. Peace.
And for today, that was more than enough.
But little did I know that my serenity was going to be cut short.
Someone shouting cut through the idyllic lull of my afternoon like a rusty knife through silk.
“MOTHER FUCKER!”
It was not the sort of exclamation one typically heard on this stretch of Rehoboth Beach. I froze mid-sip of cucumber-mint sparkling water, the chilled condensation dripping onto my forearm as I squinted toward the disruption.
Trash. Absolute trash.
Who yells like that on a beach?
The shriek had come from several yards down the shoreline, near the water’s edge, and a cluster of horrified beachgoers had already begun to gather like seagulls around a dropped funnel cake. I sat up straighter in my lounger, pushing my sunglasses up the bridge of my nose. From this distance, I could see a figure sprawled out dramatically in the wet sand, clutching his foot like a man shot in battle. His sunglasses were askew. Blood. Actual blood pooled around his foot.
I cursed under my breath, tossed my linen napkin onto the remains of my beautifully arranged lunch setup, and sprang to my feet.
Some part of me was already moving before my brain had fully caught up. Years of planning elegant parties and rescuing half-burned roasts had trained me for crisis situations.
I was crisis. I lived in crisis.
And now, apparently, I was running directly into one on a beach I had intended to spend in blissful solitude.
As I got closer, the figure came into clearer view. Shirtless. Muscled. Dramatic.
Hudson. Of course.
I skidded to a halt, my feet kicking up sand. He was lying on his side like a wounded model in a war movie, one foot lifted slightly, bright crimson dripping from the arch. His sunglasses hung uselessly off one ear.
“Are you okay?”
I asked, kneeling beside him.
He looked up, squinting. Then he smiled.
“Alphabet Boy.”
Of course.
“Don’t speak,”
I snapped, waving over the nearest beach rental attendant.
Once the beach attendant arrived, I gave him specific instructions.
“Go to my beach chair, the one with the umbrella and the striped towel,”
I sternly said, pointing at the spot.
“There’s a beach bag underneath. Inside is a white medical case. Grab it. Now.”
The beach attendant blinked.
“You brought a first aid kit to the beach?”
Hudson laughed. A sharp, ridiculous sound.
“Of course he did. He probably has it alphabetized by injury.”
I ignored him and took off my shirt and folded it, pressing it down gently on the wound. Blood seeped through it almost instantly.
“Woah. I didn’t expect you to have that kind of body. Why are you trying to hide it?”
Hudson added.
All I could do was roll my eyes heavily.
“Seriously? You’re bleeding a whole damn puddle while I’m helping you, and you think this is the perfect opportunity to flirt?”
“Better now than never. I could die from this,”
Hudson replied.
“Doubtful,”
I quickly said.
“You don’t know. It could be infected. Maybe sepsis? Could spread to the heart, and then I’m done for.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. You stepped on a shell or claw or something sharp,”
I muttered.
“It’s deep. You’ll probably need stitches.”
“You’re surprisingly good at this,”
Hudson said, studying me with amused eyes.
“I host dinner parties with open flames and guests who drink too much prosecco. This is nothing.”
The beach attendant returned, huffing, handing me the medical kit. I popped it open and began working quickly—cleaning the wound with saline, applying pressure with gauze pads, and wrapping the foot in a compression bandage.
Hudson tilted his head, inspecting me closely.
“You do this for all your beach neighbors, or am I just special?”
“You screamed loud enough to startle birds in Lewes,”
I said, checking the tightness of the wrap.
“I was worried someone had been attacked by a jellyfish or a seagull.”
“Nope. Just a sexy shell with a vendetta.”
“You need to go to the hospital,”
I said.
“That gash might need sutures. Definitely a tetanus shot.”
“Great,”
he muttered, wincing as I shifted his leg.
“I’m gonna hobble into Beebe Hospital like a sunburnt pirate.”
I hesitated.
“Are you here with anyone? Friends? Family? Anyone who can drive you?”
He looked at me, and the cheekiness in his eyes softened just slightly.
“No. Came alone. Don’t really have anyone to call.”
That landed somewhere deep in my chest, inconveniently between irritation and empathy. I exhaled, standing.
“Fine,”
I said.
“I’ll take you. But only to the emergency room door. Don’t expect me to stay and hold your hand.”
“ Whitaker, my personal beachside Florence Nightingale.”
“Get up before I change my mind.”
I helped him to his feet—gingerly, as he leaned heavily on me—and together, we limped back toward the beach house, drawing more than a few stares along the way. We rounded the side and made our way to my parked SUV. Hudson, with blood-splattered sand clinging to his leg. Me, in my tight red swimwear, holding a half-naked man in a sleek, shiny black speedo—like some ironic twist on a romantic comedy.
Only this wasn’t a dreamy encounter.
This was a mess.
And I had just agreed to drive it to the hospital.