Miles
There’s something almost meditative about tidying up after a beautiful meal. The clink of plates, the low gurgle of the faucet, the hum of satisfaction lingering in the air like the scent of thyme and citrus. For a moment, as I stood in my kitchen gathering up forks and empty mimosa glasses, I was exactly where I needed to be.
Cecilia leaned back in her chair on the lower deck with the languid elegance of someone who had perfected leisure into an Olympic sport. Her green caftan fluttered in the soft breeze, and she sipped the last of her blood orange mimosa with a soft hum. Hudson, by contrast, was slouched in his seat, legs splayed out like a cat that had just conquered an entire Thanksgiving feast. His sunglasses were perched crookedly on his nose, and he looked devastatingly smug.
I started stacking the plates, trying to do it quietly—like maybe if I moved softly enough, no one would notice I was cleaning and just leave me to it.
No such luck.
“Oh no you don’t,”
Cecilia said, rising like a slightly tipsy phoenix in silk.
“You cooked. We’ll clean.”
“I’ve got it,”
I said, already turning toward the kitchen door.
“I prefer it this way.”
“Of course you do, Alphabet Boy,”
Hudson chimed in, stretching with a groan.
“But I’m not just gonna sit on my ass like some kind of hungover prince while you rinse egg yolk off artisan dinnerware.”
I raised a brow.
“You’re absolutely welcome to sit on your ass. In fact, I encourage it.”
Hudson stood anyway, and to my complete non-surprise, so did Cecilia. She picked up the fruit bowl, and Hudson followed behind her with the prosciutto platter, trailing a scent of citrus and cologne that somehow still lingered despite all the cooking I’d done.
“Honestly,”
I said as I held the door open for them, “I orchestrated this whole breakfast to give you both a break, not assign you post-brunch chores.”
“Consider it a communal gesture,”
Cecilia said airily as she floated into the kitchen.
“Besides, I live to critique your sponge technique.”
“You have notes on my sponge technique?” I gasped.
“Darling, you scrub counterclockwise. It’s very unsettling.”
Hudson dropped the platter on the counter and let out a bark of laughter.
“That’s what’s unsettling to you? The direction in which he sponges, and not the fact that this kitchen looks like a food blogger’s fantasy sponsored by Le Creuset?”
I rolled my eyes and opened the dishwasher, beginning to load things precisely the way I always did—utensils sorted by type, plates angled just-so, glasses on the top rack only. I could feel Cecilia watching me. Judging. Lovingly, but judging.
“I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear that comment,”
I muttered, and then louder, “You two don’t actually need to help, you know.”
“Which is precisely why we’re doing it,”
Hudson said. He rinsed off the mimosa carafe with surprising care and passed it to me.
“Besides, I’m buying good karma. You’re clearly the type who remembers who dried the forks when they’re deciding who gets invited to the next dinner party.”
“That’s absurd,”
I said, loading the carafe, although he wasn’t entirely off the mark with that one.
“You say that,”
Hudson replied, “but I’m not risking it.”
Cecilia handed me the fruit bowl.
“Also, it’s nice being in a kitchen like this again. There’s something satisfying about cleanup when it follows a perfect meal. And I will admit, it was perfect.”
I smiled, despite myself.
“Thank you.”
As we settled into a rhythm—Hudson drying, my mother poking fun at my obsessive sequencing, me pretending I wasn’t enjoying their help—I felt something loosen in me. Like I could breathe again.
“So,”
Hudson said casually as he wiped a glass.
“How much longer?”
I paused mid-rinse.
“What do you mean?”
“I mean,”
he said.
“You’re what, day three into your retreat? Four?”
“Three,”
I responded, rinsing the lime-zested fruit bowl.
“I rented the house until tomorrow.”
“Damn,”
Hudson commented, setting a glass down on the towel.
“That went fast.”
“Time flies when you’re playing host and keeping up appearances,”
I replied, half-joking, half-sighing.
He looked at me for a second, not saying anything, just watching. His gaze wasn’t invasive, exactly, but it held weight. Like he saw more than I was ready to acknowledge.
Cecilia broke the silence naturally.
“You could always extend the trip.”
“I could,”
I said.
“But people have lives to get back to. Work. Family. Reentry is inevitable.”
“Reentry,”
Hudson repeated.
“Sounds like returning to Earth after orbit.”
“Sometimes it feels that way,”
I admitted, stacking plates in the dishwasher.
“This place—it’s like a pause. But everything waiting back home just hits harder after too much stillness.”
“You make it sound like a vacation from reality,”
Hudson said, and then smirked.
“Which I guess is exactly what it is.”
I nodded. “Exactly.”
We worked in silence for a moment. The faucet gurgled. Hudson tapped his ring against a glass absentmindedly. Cecilia hummed something that sounded suspiciously like a French café song.
“You ever think about just… not going back?”
Hudson asked.
I turned, tilting my head.
“To Jersey?”
“To whatever ‘real life’ is for you.”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Rinsed another plate.
“Yes,”
I said finally.
“All the time.”
Hudson nodded slowly, like he already knew the answer. He dried another glass and didn’t push any further.
We went back to our chore dance—me rinsing, Hudson drying, Cecilia pretending to supervise—and I realized that somehow, without even trying, the three of us had created the kind of morning I didn’t know I needed. One where breakfast wasn’t just food, and cleanup wasn’t just dishes. It was a ritual. It was care. It was something that looked suspiciously like peace.
And I didn’t want it to end.
Soon, the final spoon clinked into the dishwasher with a sense of finality, and I wiped my damp hands on a crisp linen dish towel that I’d folded into quarters. The kitchen sparkled—just as it should. Every surface was gleaming, every pan scrubbed within an inch of its copper-bottomed life, and the glasses were back in the respective cabinets, arranged by size, hue, and angle like an interior design shoot for Veranda.
“Well,”
I exhaled, placing the towel just so on the countertop.
“That concludes brunch service.”
“Five stars,”
Hudson said, leaning back against the counter.
“Would dine again. Especially if it comes with post-meal elbow grease and sparkling conversation.”
I smiled faintly.
“You’re only saying that because I didn’t make you clean the egg pan.”
Cecilia chimed in with a wry hum.
“He tried, darling. I intercepted it. No one should be subjected to ’s wrath if they dare ruin the seasoning on his copperware.”
Hudson raised his hands.
“Noted. Don’t touch the sacred pans. Understood.”
There was a pause. The kind that comes after a satisfying meal and a shared task. The kind where everyone is full, a little buzzed from mimosas, and not quite ready to return to real life.
“Well,”
I said, stretching slightly.
“I have quite the schedule today. I planned another beachside afternoon with monogrammed towels and chilled rosé, of course. Then, I made dinner reservations at La Fable. And after that…”
“Cancel it,”
Hudson interrupted.
I blinked.
“I’m sorry?”
“Cancel it all.”
He stepped forward, arms crossed, but not in a combative way, more like someone with a mischievous plan tucked under their sleeve.
“You’ve been scheduling the hell out of this weekend. But I’ve got something better in mind.”
I squinted at him.
“You want me to cancel my entire carefully planned itinerary so we can do… what, exactly?”
He grinned, and damn him, it was one of those cocky, lopsided grins that somehow made your instincts flare and melt at the same time.
“That’s part of the fun. You don’t get to know. But I promise it doesn’t involve caviar bumps or table linens.”
My arms instinctively folded.
“I don’t like surprises.”
“I’m aware,”
he said.
“Which is why this will be good for you. Stretch that control muscle a little. Or… I guess, un-stretch it?”
I didn’t reply right away. Instead, I looked over at my mother, who had perched herself on the corner of the breakfast nook, sipping the last of her mimosa and swirling the contents like a queen playing with time. She looked at me over the rim of her glass with a faint arch of her brow.
Not a word. Not a sound. Just that brow, high and knowing.
Her words from last night floated up like bubbles in a champagne glass: “Go off-script for once, darling. You might surprise yourself.”
I sighed, a breath longer than it needed to be.
“You know what?”
I said. “Why not?”
Hudson straightened, clearly caught off guard by how quickly I’d surrendered.
“Wait, seriously?”
“Sure,”
I said, though the word felt foreign on my tongue.
“I’ll be down for whatever it is you have in store. But if it involves rollerblades, karaoke, or matching tank tops, I’m out.”
Hudson beamed.
“Noted. We’ll keep the tanks in the reserve pile.”
Cecilia gave a dramatic little clap, then pointed her mimosa glass at me.
“Look at you being spontaneous. I feel like I just witnessed a small miracle.”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help smiling.
“Let’s not get carried away.”
Hudson grinned and took a playful bow.
“I promise you won’t regret it.”
“I’m already half-regretting it,”
I muttered, but my tone was teasing. I wasn’t actually regretting it. I was just… startled. And maybe even a little intrigued.
I noticed my mother watching us again, that same amused glint in her eyes, bouncing between Hudson and me like she was watching a very slow but promising game of ping-pong.
I knew that look. It was the something’s happening here look.
“There’s nothing going on,”
I said pointedly, mostly for her benefit.
Hudson raised a brow.
“Who are you talking to?”
“No one,”
I said quickly.
Cecilia just gave me a Mona Lisa smile, as if she knew the punchline to a joke I hadn’t even told yet.
I felt my face flush and busied myself, adjusting a perfectly aligned spoon on the countertop.
Hudson didn’t comment. He just smiled again—that damn crooked smile—and reached for his sunglasses on the island.
“Well,”
he said, slipping them on.
“You better get changed. I’ll meet you out front in two hours. And wear something you won’t mind getting… adventurous in.”
I stared at him.
“That could mean anything,”
I said, suspicious.
He winked. “Exactly.”
As he sauntered out of the kitchen, whistling something off-key, I looked back to Cecilia. She didn’t say a word—just sipped, smiled, and arched that same brow again.
I groaned.
“Don’t start.”
She took a long, slow sip of mimosa.
“I’m not starting anything, darling. I’m just… observing.”
“Well, stop observing.”
“That’s not how mothers work.”
And with that, she slid off the counter and floated off, leaving me alone with my sparkling kitchen, my neatly stacked to-do list still taped to the fridge, and the sensation that maybe—just maybe—I’d cracked the door open to something different today.
Something… unscripted.
And the more I thought about it, the more I was surprised by myself because I might be okay with that.