Chapter 14
Nate
We get back in the buggy and head toward the rental location, passing once more through the palm tree forest. The scent of salt water clings to our clothes and settles into the air between us, like the ocean has decided to come along for the rest of the afternoon.
Once we arrive, I drop off the keys, grab our things, and we head out.
“So, where are we off to now?” Lizzie asks.
“We’re going down to the main street to take a walk before dinner. There’s a market I thought you might want to see,” I say, glancing over to gauge her reaction.
“I guess I’m an open book. I love markets.” She looks up at me, eyes slightly hooded from the sun, and I have to physically stop myself from pulling her closer. Her smile is wide, like she’s happy I knew the market was something she might enjoy.
“Enough to keep me turning the page.” I look over at her, a grin tugging at the corner of my mouth.
The chemistry between us is… noticeable. Stronger than anything I’ve experienced in this short span of time. By all normal standards, it probably doesn’t make sense. But there’s something about her. Joyful, yes—but grounded. Intentional.
And the fact that she’s here with me today tells me she feels at least some version of it too.
I lead her onto the main street, and we begin walking toward the market.
She gasps. “Look at the chicken phone booth! And all the chicken statues everywhere!”
I laugh. “It’s pretty neat, isn’t it?”
Color spills across the entire street. Umbrellas are strung overhead in long rows, casting soft shifting shadows over the pavement. Palm trees line both sides, their leaves swaying lazily in the warm breeze. Bright storefronts sit shoulder to shoulder, their doors open wide, beckoning people in.
There are artistic chicken statues everywhere—painted and sculpted.
A colorful café sits on the corner, simple painted chairs scattered outside, bougainvillea curling around the doorway in bright pink bursts.
Phone booths shaped like chickens, another shaped like a coconut.
Small pastel signs point toward different cities as if the whole street is inviting you to get lost on purpose.
The lampposts are even bright blue.
It’s vibrant, chaotic, cheerful. A feast for the eyes under sunlight that’s slowly beginning to turn gold.
I glance over at Lizzie. She’s grinning like she’s ten years old at an amusement park.
As we continue walking, she slows. “Is it okay if we pop into this store?”
“Whatever you like. I wanted you to be able to see everything.”
“I just spotted some trinkets… and I love trinkets.” Her smile widens in a way that makes it very clear this is one of her favorite things.
We step inside, and the store is packed wall-to-wall with chickens. Wooden chickens, clay chickens, coconut chickens. Chickens on keychains, chickens on plates, chickens on bowls. I turn slightly and find a Wonder Woman chicken staring back at me with wide blue eyes.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many chicken-shaped things in my life,” Lizzie says, laughing softly.
“They’ve definitely committed to the theme,” I reply, scanning the shelves.
She leans in closer and whispers, “The real question is… how did we ever live without anything chicken-shaped in our lives?”
I nod solemnly, as if she’s raised a deeply philosophical issue. “Honestly, I don’t know how we managed.”
She chuckles and moves further along the display, examining everything with careful delight.
She spots a display of coconut earrings and moves toward it.
“Wow, these are so unique,” she says, picking up a pair shaped like starfish, turning them slightly so the light hits the etched texture.
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.
“There was a 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.”
“But… but that’s a big chunk of your childhood gone,” she says, baffled and still trying to come to terms with it.
“It wasn’t because I had to,” I clarify. “It was because I wanted to. I looked up to my dad a lot. He wasn’t really the type to sit around and play games with me, so after school I’d just go to work with him. Watch what he was doing. Learn.”
I pause, remembering the smell of paperwork in the office, the steady hum of conversation, the way he’d nod when I asked questions like that was enough to keep me coming back every day.
“I just wanted to be like him,” I add. “I’m sure that shaped me in ways I still don’t fully understand. But I learned early how to work hard. That always drew me toward the city.”
She studies me for a moment. “Wow. I don’t even know how to process that. Tell me you at least had some fun as a kid.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” I say with a small laugh. “I had plenty of fun. My parents would probably argue I had too much fun sometimes. Mostly the mischievous kind.”
She smiles at that, satisfied.
“I just didn’t have older brothers to play with,” I continue. “And I was always more studious anyway.”
“Well,” she says, squeezing my hand lightly, “my inner child is definitely sad for you.”
Maybe that’s part of what draws me to her. A smile is etched on her face permanently. She’s fun, yes—but it’s not shallow. It’s intentional joy. She works hard, she’s ambitious, but she chooses to enjoy and savor life.
“Don’t be,” I say, smiling. “I enjoyed it.”
“I loved studying too,” she says. “But fun is something I value. You’ve got one life—you may as well enjoy it.”
“I appreciate that about you.”
“Thank you,” she says, a little sheepishly.
We continue strolling down the street, talking about childhood memories and the things that shaped us. But what I’m most aware of is her hand in mine.
There’s some sort of chemistry between us that can only be described as a scientific visceral reaction to each other. A chemical matchmaker, if you will. Something that’s only natural—an attraction that signals all the different hormones to roar to life within the body.
That happens right away and can build as you get to know another person. It’s just a biological reaction.
We have that—at least I believe we do, from all the different reactions I’ve seen from her already.
What’s more striking is everything underneath that.
The more I get to know her—beyond the surface, beyond the obvious attraction—the more I see qualities that matter. Faith. Confidence. Joy. Depth. Family values. Level-headed. Funny.
And she’s leaving. And I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.
It feels like something’s going to need to shift.
Something to pray about, I guess.