“Take a picture with me before we leave,” he says, positioning us so the house, dock, pool, and beach are in the frame.
“I didn’t think the paparazzi came on this trip.”
“Just want something to remember this island by. Say cheese!” He pulls me into his front and snaps a couple of selfies of us smiling at the camera. Then he presses his lips to my temple before releasing me. Preston has made no other moves since his confession in the hot tub, but he still lets me know he is here and waiting when I decide I’m ready.
The thing is, I think I am ready. But I’m also scared. I don’t know how much of my feelings are real and how much is just a matter of circumstance. When you spend more than a month with a person that there is an obvious physical attraction to, it is natural to develop feelings. But, can I trust these feelings? Can I trust myself? I think I can trust Preston. He has been nothing but a gentleman this entire time. He’s been a quiet support and assurance in the most turbulent situation. Why can’t I meet him halfway? He’s there. He’s waiting. He’s ready. Can I be? That’s what falling is, right? Taking the leap of faith that your partner will catch you at the bottom. I have no doubt that Preston would catch me. So, why am I hesitating?
“Will you send me those?”
“Mmm, I would, but you see”—Preston pauses for effect and leans into my space—“I don’t have your number.” He taps my nose, then winks at me before taking my bag and disappearing out the front door. The drive to the dock is short where we load our luggage on the boat that brought us here a month ago.
Sidling up beside Preston at the wheel, I lean my head onto his shoulder as we watch our island home get further and furtheraway. Preston drapes his arm around me and offers small kisses to my temple and forehead occasionally but otherwise we are silent for most of the trip back to the mainland.
“I guess I will have to bite the bullet and give you my number then,” I say, breaking the silence, and picking up his phone. He makes no move to take the phone from me. He doesn’t say anything at all, except to tell me the six-digit passcode. I navigate to his photos first to see the pictures. The last image is of me with my eyes closed and a bright smile on my face as Preston presses a kiss to my temple.
It’s a blissful moment that he captured for eternity. I love it. I glance up at him and he smirks when he catches me from the corner of his eye. Still, he says nothing as I swipe through his pictures. There are more pictures of me than the selfies we just took. He has a picture of me sleeping on the couch. He has a picture of me sitting by the pool with the sun sinking below the horizon in the background. Normally, I hate people taking pictures of me without permission. But the pictures Preston has don’t feel like an invasion. They are simply pictures of me in candid moments. I’m not dolled up. I’m not posing. I look free. I look happy. I’m struck that this is how he sees me. This is the woman I want to be. And I want to be that woman with him.
Our first stop on the mainland is a small market by the marina to buy some essentials. We wear masks and maintain the social distancing requirements but not many people are out.
It was easy to forget that a pandemic was ravaging the world when Preston and I were on Long Caye. Being back in civilization is a change. A store clerk greets us and explains the current town restrictions enforce a shopping schedule for the residents. Each village has its own designated shopping day for grocery items to limit the number of residents at a location at one time. They also explain some of the local shopkeepers are strugglingdue to the lack of tourism but remain open if there are non-grocery items we need to purchase. All good information to know as we start the next leg of our adventure.
“I’m also thinking we should get some sunscreen and bug repellent for all these outdoor activities you have planned. Maybe something fun to do at the house? What do you need?”
“Not sure. I’ll handle the food while you look around.”
Half the store seems to be filled with trinkets and souvenir memorabilia and the other half is stocked with more essential items. Leaving Preston to his task, I survey the options, grabbing beach towels, a bag, sunscreen, lotion, bug spray, and a few other cosmetic items.
Preston walks up with a cart full of food while I am bent over a small supply of nail polish. “Get everything you need?”
“Almost,” I say, glancing back at him. “I haven’t painted my nails in forever…I couldn’t resist.”
“Here, let me take that so you can look.” Preston grabs the stack of items from my hand and puts them in the cart.
“Thanks. There aren’t many colors but I think I can find one here.”
“What color do you normally paint your nails?”
“Most of the time they’re freshly manicured with either a French tip or clear polish,” I say, debating how much I want to say.
“That’s it? You strike me as more of a pink or bright polish girl.”
“I am. My team doesn't like when I use bright polish. It distracts and ‘takes away from the character’ when filming. And then for publicity, it needs to be about the image or the event, not the color of my nails.”
“That’s fucked up.”
It’s very fucked up. I didn’t even realize how much until I saw this small selection of nail polish. Painting my nails now feels like an act of rebellion. It's an indescribable desire to go all out.
“So the brightest colors it is, then.” Preston starts pluckingthe nail polish one by one off the shelf. My mouth falls open. I am dumbstruck. How does he always get it?
When I don’t say anything, Preston turns to me. “What?”
I don't know what to say. I don't know how to explain to him how much that small action meant to me.
“I don’t need all of those,” I say instead, pointing.
“Of course you do. You can paint your nails however you want however many times you want while you’re here. We’re going to make sure you have plenty of options in case we never see nail polish again.” Preston smiles widely at my silent acceptance of his plan.
“Anything else you need for a manicure? Isn’t there something to help get it off?”
