Hudson
Okay, so here’s the deal: Miles just fucking ghosted the party. Entirely.
One second, he’s here, propped up beside his mother, lecturing me, rolling his eyes like he invented moral high ground. The next? Poof. Gone. Vanished into the night like some snobby seabird whose wings can’t handle the salt spray.
And you know what? It didn’t bug me at first. I did chase after him, but to no fucking avail. So, I tried immersing myself in the life of the party again. I was rolling with the crowd—shots being poured, flirty smiles flung across my line of vision, strappy speedos streaked in neon glow-in-the-dark body paint—but once that quicksilver guy slipped away, everything shifted. I felt it. Something like… emptiness or late-night regret or maybe just asking myself, who’s actually here that I still wanna talk to?
Not many people, honestly. It’s all noise and muscle, laughs that drown each other out, half-naked bodies swaying to music pumped through borrowed speakers. The conversation is shallow:
“You in that new film?”
“Want to do a body shot off me?”
“You gonna model that outfit on the ‘gram?”
Spare me the bullshit.
Truth? I don’t click with that sort of garbage. Sure, it gets me laid and looks good on my stories, but it’s not me. I wanted more tonight. Not more cocktail servers or more shirtless bros. I wanted something… real. Maybe some intellectual banter. Instead, I get another tequila-fueled ego parade.
I drained my drink and glanced over at the dancing lights twirling around the patio. On the one hand, it’s glorious—tangled lanterns, a glow like fireflies on water, hands in the air, something sugary-sweet in the air. On the other hand, anyone could fill this place.
And hell, I kind of get it—Rehoboth brings out that local-town, black-tie-beach-by-day shame. Folks just want to dance, get messy, stop caring. But not me tonight. Tonight, I was going for something else. Or maybe nothing at all.
I was weighing whether to call it, dragging my foot—stitches and all—toward the house door when I felt a tap on my shoulder.
A sharp little tap. Polite. Unassailable.
I turned.
Holy hell.
There she was: Cecilia Hastings. Dazzling even under disco lights. Coral caftan whipped by the breeze, hair soft and styled, high heels absolutely intact for the life of me. Glass of something in hand, and that sharp glance of hers…
I swear I flashed back to earlier— Miles stormed back to the beach house, pissed. Cecilia stayed behind with me. My chest went tight. Heat in my belly.
Shit, did I get excited that his mom actually fucking showed up and stayed at my party while he left?
Pure ego boost drug.
“Cecilia,”
I said, voice smooth, yet I swear it shook like warm glass. I raised my glass in reflex.
“What are you doing here?”
“Don’t play coy,”
she replied, stepping closer with that elegant stride—heaven help me.
“I thought you could use a break from the crowd… and I also think it’s called research.”
She smiled, the mother-of-all smug. But not unkind—warm.
I blinked and stumbled to my across the lawn to make a drink for her. It would be crass for me to have a mediocre bartender serve this queen. I hobbled to the nearest bartending stand and managed to work with whatever I could there. I found two chilled glasses in the outdoor fridge. Perfect. I added gin, simple syrup, amaretto, fresh rosemary sprigs, crushed ice, and a splash of fancy Italian bitters.
You bet your fucking boots I went full-bartender.
I swirled her drink once and slid it across the bar top. “Here,”
I said.
“Let’s call it the Rosemaretto Reverie. I like the serene type—just like you, but the amaretto gives it the nutty edge to represent your son, of course.”
She took it and examined the delicate tan hue.
“Thank you, darling. Although, I’ll choose to ignore the latter half of that comment.”
She took a sip. I watched her eyes kind of drift up in pleasure. I almost knocked over the bottle in guilt-laced pride.
I poured myself one, as well—ice rattled, gin frothed up.
“Your poison, or…?” I asked.
I could barely keep it together when she shot me that approving smirk.
You gotta be kidding me.
“It will suffice,”
she said.
“Thank you, .”
My chest wrenched in that electric way you get when you catch someone watching you, really watching you.
I nodded.
“You’re welcome.”
Music pumped loud now—hip-hop beat blending with DJ chants—and she raised an eyebrow, like impressed, asshole? We’re matching drinks, maybe matching vibes?
Truth: I was relieved as hell. Relief mixed with something that felt suspiciously like pride. She and Miles—yes, they both had stiff collars. But she? She got me. I’m not sure if she actually got me, but she got something. Maybe pity. Maybe intrigue. But at least it wasn’t hate.
“Cheers.”
I raised my glass.
“To peace.”
She clinked hers against mine.
“To peace—and interesting neighbors.”
That got a smile past my own eyes. And for once, the night wasn’t a vanity blitz. It was something a little more…subtle.
“It’s… loud behind me,”
she suddenly said, nodding toward the back patio stage where a DJ’s speakers pulsed bass like a living thing.
“Yeah,”
I laughed softly.
“I’m pretty surprised you’re still here, actually.”
“I stayed because—surprise—I wanted to talk to you alone.”
I gave her a sly smirk.
“No need to make any further requests. I can take a hint. And, of course, I’d be glad to speak to you in privacy.”
So, I led her inside, through a sliding glass partition, into a cozy lounge area lined with low sofas and soft lighting—a little reprieve from the thumping music and flashing lights out back.
We found a niche near a mini-bar and sat on the bar stools.
Cecilia leaned in.
“So… about your neighbor.”
I frowned.
She raised her glass.
“Miles. He’s the best son ever, really. No mother could ask for a more wonderful boy…”
I braced. What was she going to say?
She tilted her head and sighed.
“But he’s going through a rough patch right now. He and his husband—excuse me, ex-husband—are divorced, and Miles hasn’t made that news public yet. I was surprised when he told me, because in person—and also online—he and Owen were presented as this perfect couple. He even portrayed that to me.”
I shrugged.
“Divorce in Hollywood has a shelf life. Google doesn’t show what happens behind locked doors or after midnight.”
She nodded, eyes serious.
“He caught his former husband, Owen, cheating. That’s why he’s out here in Rehoboth this weekend. Resetting.”
She paused.
“I just thought you should know. He’s… fragile.”
For a moment, I felt something sour in my chest. Empathy? No. It wasn’t exactly, but whatever it was, it was something. But I nodded. “Thanks.”
She changed the subject.
“Your turn—spill. What’s your scandal, ? I mean one that Page Six and any media outlet hasn’t already covered, if there are any, but sure, try and surprise this old lady.”
I chuckled and waved a hand like Cinderella pushing off a glass slipper.
“No. They pretty much hit all of them. But sure. I’ll talk about one or two of my not-so-proudest moments you probably heard of. Let’s say the tequila sunrise at the Beverly Hills Hotel bar escalated. My PR team had to clean up lipstick fights with someone wearing stilettos.”
I smirked.
“Then there was the yacht incident. That one—never let me live it down.”
Cecilia laughed, bright and unguarded.
“I love that for you.”
“Drama’s the lifeblood, woman,”
I confessed.
“But I pay for it later—like literally getting stabbed in a back alleyway by a fucking shell. What the hell did I ever do to it?”
I rubbed my foot, still hurting from this morning.
“I promise—my agent was beside herself once I told her about what happened after I got home from the hospital. She scolded me and said I should have gotten my foot insured. ‘If Heidi Klum can get her legs insured, you could have easily gotten those beautiful OnlyFans feet insured too,’”
I said in a high-pitched voice, mocking my agent, Celeste.
Cecilia took a sip.
“Gay men do drama well.”
“You can say that again,”
I said with a smirk.
We were silent then, nosing our glasses; the muffled house DJ vibrated behind us. I felt calmer. Unexpectedly. Who knew privacy between two people could be… nice?
I cleared my throat.
“Where’s Miles now?”
She checked her phone.
“He texted saying he… drove into town.”
She looked surprised.
“He didn’t say where.”
Hmm. Potential cliffhanger? I tried to read her face, but she just shrugged.
We lingered. The beat thumped, and we sipped. I felt oddly… human. Balanced somewhere between chaos and calm. Between self-destruction and self-awareness.
My eyes hovered near hers.
“I admire how relaxed you are at a rager like this.”
She gave me a warm and almost knowing smile.
“We all need new experiences. Again, this is research for me, darling.”
Maybe tonight wasn’t just about loud music and shock value. Maybe it was about edges softening—mine and maybe, just maybe, his across the way.
“Ugh. Maybe it’s the liquid courage talking, but I kind of want to go find your son right now, Cecilia. Fuck all this mess behind me.”
Cecilia then let out the loudest laugh.
“Oh, honey! Miles is a special man. These caterwauling fools don’t hold a candle to that catch. I knew it all along. Go ahead… go find him.”
“Really? You think I should?”
I check for reassurance.
“It’s not about what I think. Go with your gut or your heart… certainly not your liver.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
Those quick quips.
The apple didn’t rot far from the tree.
I’ve never been one for abrupt endings, but tonight was different. I stumbled outside and told the DJ to shut down the music. I took the mic from him as I cleared my throat.
“Okay, everyone!”
My voice rattles the place. Heads turn.
“Party’s over,”
I say, sweeping my hand like a doomed emcee.
“Pack it up. Finish your drinks in the car. Delaware has an open container law for passengers. So, you’ll be fine. The cops won’t bother you. Fetch your shoes. We are done here!”
A chorus of groans and complaints—but mostly compliance. Rehoboth devotees of anything-but-boring just rolled their eyes, shrugged, then shuffled toward the exits.
One guy—scratch that, two guys—tipped me with half-empty vodka sodas, “Thanks for the night, Knight.”
I shrugged, accepting the glass, but not the compliment.
Within fifteen minutes, the backyard is eerily quiet. The DJ’s gear is unplugged—speakers cold. Empty plastic cups litter the sand like confetti aftermath. A single glow from string lights overhead trembles like a dying ember.
I run a hand through my hair—crutches thumping softly—since the foot’s wrapped up, and I can’t escape the odd sting of guilt. Or longing. Something lukewarm and confusing in my chest.
I hurry toward the sliding glass doors as much as I can and cross to the driveway, casting a look back at what was supposed to be the party of the summer. Now, it’s just an empty shell, echoing with ghost laughter.
Leather slip-ons on—my good ones, which are also loose enough to fit my bad foot in.
Phone in hand. I think into Miles’ mind before I summon the Uber.
Where would he go, someone practical, refined?
I’m not sure any of those places existed on a late summer night in Rehoboth, but I was determined to try to find out.
My loafers shuffle against the driveway pavement. The moonlight paints everything silver. But it’s not enough. Everything’s wrong without him.
So, I grabbed an Uber and decided to start off at Baltimore Avenue because where else?
Downtown Rehoboth Beach isn’t that big, and tonight, that works to my advantage. My foot throbs with every step, but I’ve got a mission: find Miles Whitaker. He’s too damn refined to vanish without a trace. So, I start where most people would—Aqua, where we first met yesterday.
I lean against the entrance, struggling to balance on one leg while keeping my crutch tucked under my arm. The air hits me with pulsating beats and the smell of vodka. Bodies swirl—angels in white lace, devils in red leather—all dancing cheek-to-cheek, the scent of cologne mixing with sweat and desperation. My eyes sweep the crowd, scanning for the tall, poised figure I’d memorized—someone I could spot from a mile away. No dice. Mile-high lashes and tanned cheeks everywhere, but not him.
I continue to glance around. Too loud. Too sweaty. Too, well… not Miles’ scene. I get the sense Alphabet Boy would sooner alphabetize seashells than brave this kind of crowd.
I swing my crutch and walk out of Aqua, wondering if he went to Diego’s, then stop. No, I think that’s not it either. He’s the type who prefers substance over sass, notes over nightclub nonsense. A guy like that—he’d pick ambiance over booze any day.
So, I pivot one-armed and head across the street to The Top of the Pines—one of those cozy piano lounges with dim lighting and martini glasses frosted just right. I grunt from the foot pain as I climb the steps to the second floor of the building, wrapping my fingers around the wrought-iron railing for support.
Inside, it’s a world apart from Aqua’s neon chaos. Candlelight shivers across dark wood, a lone pianist’s fingers tickling out a smoky jazz ballad. Couples sip in hushed tones, laughter measured and polite. The air smells of cedar, citrus bitters, and something daintily floral.
I make my way in, eyes scanning the crowd with purpose. Then, I see him.
There: sleek, straight-backed, shirt crisply pressed, staring at the pianist—or maybe just lost in his own thoughts. His profile is unmistakable: high cheekbones, eyebrow arch, that quiet poise. A refugee from some perfect catalog, now only half-lit in candle glow.
My throat tightens, and damn if I don’t fight the urge to grin like I just found the golden ticket to Willy Wonka’s Chocolate Factory.
I take a shaky breath, adjusting my crutch, sliding it forward foot by foot until I have a clear view. He hasn’t seen me yet—too absorbed in the music or even something deeper or maybe too polite to notice the havoc I bring. I lean against a nearby chair, half-shadowed, heart pounding like a subwoofer.
Mission accomplished: Miles Whitaker is right where I expected him to be—with a martini in hand, meticulously observing life from the sidelines.
A slow, smug smile creeps over my face. Of all the people in all of Rehoboth Beach, here tonight, he’s the only one I needed to find.