My instinct is to retort, but I fight it, instead choosing to sit with the bomb she just dropped so I can process its implications. For the past year, I’ve tried so hard to make this relationship feel normal and natural. But the truth is, it’s not. And until this moment, I haven’t considered that she might be faking it too.
I study her face, looking for any sign of doubt. “What about your inheritance?”
“What about it?” She shrugs, her expression still full of pity, like she’s surprised I don’t understand her reasoning. “You really think it’s worth marrying for money?”
Instead of answering, I throw the question back at her. “You don’t?”
“At one point I did. In the beginning,” she says, clasping her hands in her lap. “But is it really worth a lifetime of complacency?”
Even though I had the same thoughts, her calling our relationship complacent aloud makes me bristle.
“Sorry,” she says, probably noticing the way I flinched.
“No, it’s okay.” I roll the velvet box between my hands. “You’re right.”
She raises a brow but doesn’t respond.
“I don’t want to get married either,” I admit. “At least not right now. And not because my dad is dangling a hefty inheritance just out of reach.”
Fuck, the repercussions of this may be brutal, but I’ll deal with my dad later.
“I love you,” she murmurs. “I just?—”
“I know,” I interrupt. “Me too.”
Resting her head on my shoulder, she lets out a long sigh. “I think I’m still going to skip the excursion, though. We could both probably use some time alone.”
As I hop off the van that shuttled a small group of us here, I feel lighter than I have in a long time. Hayden made the rightchoice, suggesting we take some time for ourselves. I need to process my thoughts after what just went down.
Our folks may lose their shit when they find out. They fully expect Hayden to come back with a shiny new adornment on her ring finger, not broken up from her boyfriend. But I suppress thoughts of that dreaded conversation and focus on what’s right in front of me: a spectacular island.
I brought my camera along, eager to play around and capture the beauty Crete has to offer. Dodging giant cicadas—those fuckers are aggressive—I make my way to the front desk.
I’m escorted to a private cabana. A young man with a camera is not-so-discreetly lingering nearby, so I flag him down. Sure enough, he’s the photographer my mother hired. His name is Aaron. He’s American, too, and he’s working at the resort for the summer.
I’m only hit with an inkling of heartache when I explain the cancellation to him. More than anything, I’m relieved. Luckily, his response doesn’t hold even an ounce of pity like I anticipated it would. Instead, he notices my camera and changes the subject.
Come to find out, he’s been traveling to Europe on a work visa for the last three summers as a luxury resort photographer.
After he promises to pass along more details about how he got involved in his work and we exchange contact information, Aaron excuses himself. I drop my bag at the cabana and sling my camera strap over my shoulder. Then I kick my sandals off and follow the path to the beach. I’m reluctant to leave my belongings behind, but the hotel assured me that they’re cautious about the private property of their guests and that Crete is fantastically safe. The sand is like powdered sugar beneath my feet compared to the sand back on Long Island. Crystal-clear water laps against the shore, providing a peaceful soundtrack. Quickly, I find myself lost in a fantasy of doing this full time—photographing traveldestinations for a living—and for once, instead of pushing it aside, I indulge in the dream.
Several boats anchored about two hundred yards out are bursting with eager snorkelers. Some are already in the water, splashing and chattering.
Using my camera, I focus on one person, then another, then another, until I zoom in on one woman in particular. Her neon pink bikini immediately seizes my attention as she waits her turn to slip into the water. The instructor is talking and gesturing with his hands beside her, probably giving her the rundown. With my finger trained over the shutter button, I pause, ready to snap a shot of her. But I rear back when she turns and pushes the guy behind her in the chest.
What was that about?
I peer over my camera, but they’re too far away for me to see what’s happening. Instead, I use my camera like a spyglass. I depress the shutter button just as she drops off the edge of the boat and into the Sea of Crete. When she bobs above the surface, I pull back and check my camera’s display.Got it. Frozen in midair. Bold yet delicate, with the White Mountains in the background. Her long hair held captive by the wind and the biggest smile on her beautiful face.
After roaming the beach and climbing rocks to get the best shots, I return to the resort grounds. Damn, this place is incredible. The staff is attentive and friendly; the aesthetic is both intentional and practical. There is no shortage of images for me to capture, that’s for sure. Almost instantly, I know I want to return to Crete just to stay here.
Putting a pause on picture-taking, I follow a narrow path to a small taverna that shares the resort’s beach. Lunch at the resort is included, but I’d rather experience a little local flair.
“Sparkling or still?” the young server asks.
“Still is fine,” I reply. “Efcharistó.” I thank her, stumbling over the one Greek word I’ve picked up since I arrived.
After eating the most delicious saganaki and grilled octopus, I wash it down with complimentary raki, a traditional after-meal drink my grandmother would probably say will put hair on my chest.
