They’re simple, handcrafted. An art piece.
“Which ones do you like most?” I ask.
She picks up a large circular pair with a palm tree etched into each one. “I think these are beautiful.”
She moves to put them down, and before I can overthink it, my hand rests gently over hers.
She looks up at me, a question written plainly across her face.
“Here,” I say, taking them. “Let me get them for you.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she reluctantly lets me take them out of her hands.
“I want to,” I say simply.
I walk to the cashier and pay, then hand the earrings back to her. She looks up at me, and her eyes light with stars in a way that feels far bigger than a pair of earrings should warrant.
Her green eyes seem to have a speckle of caramel in them. They’re so beautiful, and they especially light up with that smile of hers.
“Thank you. I love them.” Her grin is wide.
“I thought you might like a memento from today.”
“Well, you’re right,” she says definitively, like the matter is settled.
We step back out onto the street. Our arms brush again, and this time I don’t hesitate.
I just take her hand.
It fits easily in mine, fingers threading together without effort. I curl my hand around hers, and she doesn’t pull away.
I glance over and see her fighting a smile.
It just… feels right.
I file that thought away. That’s something to pray about later.
We continue walking, drifting in and out of stores and stalls, laughing and talking as we go. Each stand feels like a small snapshot of the place—local crafts, woven bags, painted ceramics, bright fabrics swaying lightly in the breeze.
Different smells float through the air as we pass. Fresh fish on ice for sale. Tropical fruit stacked in colorful pyramids, and more hanging in nets. Pineapples sliced open, juice stands buzzing with blenders, sweet and citrusy scents mingling with the salt from the ocean still clinging to us.
“I used to love climbing trees and grabbing fruit to eat or make juice with when I was growing up,” Lizzie says. “Honestly, I don’t even know how my mom let us roam the property like that with no supervision. There could’ve been snakes…” She pauses. “Therewasa time my uncle found a six-foot snake in our backyard.”
I shudder. “I won’t lie to you—growing up down south has put me off snakes for life. I’m very happy living in an apartment.”
She throws her head back and laughs. “City boy, huh?”
“What can I say?” I shrug easily. “I’ve made peace with it.”
“Did you do much outdoors growing up?”
We pass another row of stalls, eyeing them up absentmindedly.
“Well… yes and no,” I say. “I played with neighborhood kids sometimes. But I started working when I was eight.”
She stops walking entirely. “Eight?EIGHT?”
I can’t help but chuckle. “Yes. Eight.”
