Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
Naomi
W e part ways in the resort lobby, Fran hurrying off to Raft and me slinking up to my room to pack. I didn’t fully settle in over the last few days, knowing I’d have to move, but I still have items strewn from one end of the room to the other.
I’m just tossing my last bikini from the porch railing toward my suitcase when I catch my own reflection in the mirror. I smile at the girl there, tossing my hair and posing.
There’s no denying it—island life looks good on me. I left my hair to dry naturally this morning after an early swim in the ocean and it’s dried into soft, beachy waves. I gave up on makeup, so my only highlight is my lash tinting, giving me a slightly glammed up natural look that I’m absolutely loving.
Even my curves, which I adore but still try to smooth out with flattering cuts and colors, look voluptuous and sun-kissed, from the tan lines on my shoulders to the new smattering of freckles on my chest.
I feel like a goddess.
Snatching up my phone, I do what I do best, capturing just the right angles, creating some really stunning images.
I can’t post it to my socials yet, and somehow…I don’t even want to. I’ve spent a lot of years dolling myself up in the freshest styles and hippest filters, trying to match my own face to the aesthetic of my perfectly curated channel.
The girl looking back at me from the screen doesn’t fit the look at all, but somehow, I like her more.
On a whim, I pull off my top and run the hand not holding my phone over my bare breasts, enjoying how the cool breeze from the patio door sends goosebumps up my arms and pebbles my nipples.
I snap a couple shots that only include slivers of my face, focusing on the bare skin of my chest and the shadows cast by my fingers.
Glancing through them, I’m struck by the bold contrast and edgy rawness of my own image. I scroll back up a few weeks to some of the shots I took of myself in Austin. Meal prepping in a matching two-piece sweat suit. Sipping perfectly foamed matcha in front of a living green wall in a café down the street.
I pause on that picture in particular, zooming in to look closely at my face.
This was taken when I was happy.
Full days before I knew my life was about to come crashing down.
My hair and make-up are perfect, my outfit portrays the ultimate afternoon out with the lady friends vibe I was going for, even though I was completely alone. I’m smiling, like I always am, mouth open just slightly as if I’m laughing at something one of my besties said.
I scroll up even more, a frown spreading across my face as I see photo after photo with that exact same expression.
How could I not have ever noticed this before?
My signature look is just me pretending to be happy.
Pretending to be hanging out with my friends.
I scroll back down to the images I just took of myself, alone in my hotel room.
Most of them have my face cut off, but a few show my full expression. I zoom in on one and inhale sharply. There’s no fake happiness. No pretending to be someone or somewhere that I’m not.
It’s just Naomi. Real and raw and completely unfiltered.
Sam’s face comes to mind as I’m looking at myself. I close my eyes and remember how it felt when he was looking at me. When he was touching me. I open them again, and the girl I see on the screen is exactly her.
I finally have words for how I felt when I was alone with that man.
Purely and completely in the moment.
It’s how Sam lives his life, and when I’m with him, I feel like I could learn to do the same—if he would only let me.
The text conversation this morning went better than I expected after Sam’s radio silence since the night before. When his line went dark after we’d both gotten off, I thought for sure I’d lost him.
Now I don’t know what to think.
He’s on my mind even more than he was in the weeks after he left Austin, and back then I was getting off to that video on the daily. Now that I’m here, and he’s in on my little secret, the whole thing feels bigger. Meatier. Not like something shameful that hovers over my head, but something alive and growing.
Does he feel it, too?
I know I probably shouldn't send him topless pictures of myself while he’s at an important meeting with Dom, Fran, and the wedding couple, but somehow the idea of him looking at me, thinking of me, in such an inappropriate setting makes it even hotter.
He doesn’t have to look if he’s too busy.
I literally have nothing to lose anymore.
I choose the best, most anonymous of the bunch and toss it into our message feed, biting my lip in nervous anticipation as its status shifts to sent.
When it changes to read mere seconds later, I’m unable to contain my squeal of excitement. He’s looking at me with Dom sitting right there. Maybe sitting next to him.
I shouldn’t have sent it.
I could get us both in big trouble.
Why does that feel like the best part?