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DO DO DO YOU EVEN SURF, brUH?

F rom the moment Timmy and I set foot in the lively marketplace near my apartment, it’s like he’s guiding me into a hidden slice of paradise. Not that I haven’t been here before—I have, many times, it’s a prime destination on the tourist strip—but it’s the first time I’m seeing it through Timmy’s eyes. He grabs my hand and leads me into a bustling local bakery, his eyes alight, and orders a series of pastries with tropical flavors that I’ve never tried—guava-filled donuts, passionfruit danishes, things I’ve only ever read about.

Of course, I pay, and I don’t mind in the least. With Timmy, life feels like a celebration—he’s taking me on a whirlwind tour of Sunset Cay, and I’m loving every second of it. He’s already helped me out so much, from lending me mattresses to driving me around. Buying a few bougie pastries seems like the least I could do for him.

As we dig into the pastries, I find myself involuntarily moaning at the taste—totally out of character for me, and usually a bit of an ick when other people do it—but somehow, around him, I’m comfortable letting myself enjoy things so openly.

He notices and bursts out laughing, playfully mocking my reaction with a dramatic “Mmm!” and adding, with a wink, “Bet you didn’t think I’d have you moaning so soon, did you?”, drawing a blush to my cheeks and making me laugh. For someone so full of quirks, he’s remarkably carefree, leaning into the absurdity of life in a way I feel myself oddly charmed by.

When we take his truck to the local secondhand store, I’m a little surprised. It’s not a place where I’d usually think to shop. But he takes me by the hand, leading me in, and walks straight up to the shelves, pulling down the oddest-looking kitchen decor and holding it up with a delighted grin. He’s a scavenger with a taste for the eccentric, and somehow, he has an eye for the best among the clutter, finding high-quality knives and practical cookware buried in bins I would have avoided. Before I know it, I’m laughing with him over some creepy ceramic teddy bear he’s pretending is our future dinner companion.

He’s showing me how fun it is to treasure-hunt in unexpected places, and I realize that I’ve been such a snob, in ways I hadn’t even noticed.

As we get in line to pay for the items, Timmy tries on a few pairs of sunglasses from the display, posing in front of the mirror. “Don’t I look cute in these?”

I laugh. “You sure do.”

As we get back to the truck after paying for my items, I spot him still wearing the sunglasses he tried on for fun, on top of his head, and he’s holding an extra Hydro Flask he’d picked out. “Um, Timmy,” I raise an eyebrow. “Why do you have those?”

“Oh!” he says with a little jump, wide-eyed, as if he just realized. “Guess I forgot I was still wearing these, and totally forgot about the Hydro Flask.” He lets out a little laugh, unbothered, and I can’t help but see the harmless innocence in it, like the time I witnessed an elderly woman accidentally shoplift a bag of lettuce at the grocery store because it was wedged in her cart, unseen.

After the second-hand store, we go to Walmart, and my chest blooms with warmth as we walk, hand-in-hand, through the aisles. He bumps into someone he knows, a guy pushing his own cart along. “ Hey man!” he says as the guys fist-bump. “This is my girlfriend, Margaux.”

“Nice to meet you,” says his friend.

He seems to know people everywhere we go, like he’s a well-known figure in the Cay, and it feels reassuring, like he must be a good guy who might help me to build my own community here, too.

Shopping with him is a whirl of laughter and silly poses as he pops out from behind shelves or pretends to spy on me, peering through the most random of objects. It reminds me of shopping trips with my dad when I was young, where he’d chase me down the aisles making animal noises and I’d run gleefully away—joyful and unexpected—and I realize I haven’t laughed this much in ages.

We pick up bedding—a nice duvet set with matching pillowcases. He insists on getting the soft lilac print, his favorite color. And soft lilac towels and washcloths and a bath mat. It’s not my top color choice, personally, but he’s so persuasive and it brings him so much obvious joy, the more soft lilac items that are placed in the cart. He’s so excited, so in love with every choice, that I can’t imagine taking that away from him. I realize his style might not be what I’d naturally choose, but watching him light up with each item he picks out is something else.

At one point, he finds a large stuffed Baby Shark toy. “Baby shaaaaaaaaaark!” he says with the excitement of a two-year-old who’s just enjoyed way too much sugar, his muscular, tattooed arms clinging to the oversized toy like his life depends on it.

I quirk a brow. “You really want this toy?”

“Yessss! Baby shaaaaaaark!” He giggles.

“Fine, add it to the cart,” I laugh, rolling my eyes.

“Really?” His eyes grow big. “Baby Shaaaaaaaark for Timmy?!”

“Bruh, are you speaking about yourself in the third person?” I laugh and shake my head. This guy.

We find chopping boards, basic groceries and cleaning supplies, as well as a little table and chair set that can serve as a computer desk .

“We’ve done well! I think we’re all set!” I say, surveying the contents of the overstuffed cart.

“Let’s get a TV, too!” he suddenly says. “We—you’re going to need one.”

“Oh no,” I say, shaking my head. “I wasn’t planning on getting a TV here. I want to focus on writing, and can always watch things on my computer.”

“Okay,” he says, frowning, jutting his lower lip out just a little.

We’re distracted from the conversation as we reach the checkout.

It’s so helpful having him here to help hoist the heavy items into the truck, and having the truck that can fit all the items, too. He makes a task that would otherwise seem daunting feel effortless and even enjoyable.

We park right in front of my building. Having a strong man to help me load things onto a cart and then get them up to my apartment makes a big difference, and it’s also pretty hot watching him lug things around with ease.

It would have taken me a lot of Ubers, and more expense, to get things ready by myself. And I would have been hesitant to get some of the items he assured me I’d need.

He’s making it fun, and he seems to genuinely enjoy helping me.

He even brings over potted plants from Matty's place to give the balcony some personality.

“This was my best friend Darren’s mom’s plant originally,” he explains as he carries a massive pot to the truck. “It’s full of coconut and succulents and banana and ti leaves—one of the most beautiful leaves on the planet if you ask me. You’re going to love it when things start growing bigger. It’ll be like a real little jungle on your balcony.”

Looking around the apartment at all the shopping bags and piles of items, I feel a little overwhelmed, but exhilarated. I have a rough idea of where things are going to go, but spatial planning isn’t my forté.

In fact, when I move to a new place, I usually draw a diagram and send it to Paulo because he’s much better at it than me. But this time, I don’t need to consult with Paulo, because I have Timmy .

“I have plans for this place!” Timmy says excitedly. “Just wait until I have it all set up. Do you trust me?” He looks at me eagerly, expectantly.

“Yes, I trust you!” I laugh.

He beams and runs over to kiss me. “I love being around you so much.”

“I love being around you, too,” I grin, as he races back to the corner of the room.

It’s not lost on me that strong language has been exchanged so soon, but it’s exciting and feels so good and real that I love saying it to him, and love hearing him say it to me. It’s not like we’re actually saying ‘I love you’, after all.

“The desk is going to go here so you can see the ocean while you’re typing, as well as the mountains,” he says excitedly. “But I’ll put that together tomorrow. And then the bed will go here,” he gestures to the spot next to where he’s planning on putting the desk, “so we’ll still be able to see the ocean lying down.”

“Okay!” I say, trying to visualize everything as he explains it. This is a much better layout than one I would have come up with myself.

He works away while I continue to unpack kitchen things and load up the dishwasher and washing machine, and within an hour or two, he says, “Ta da! What do you think?”

He shows me around, and it might be a small apartment, but he’s done such a thoughtful, amazing job.

As promised, he’s saved space so that, while sitting at my desk once it’s assembled, I’ll have the most gorgeous view of the beach and the famous mountain, as well as the hills off in the distance.

From the bed, we can see surfers way out at the break at one of his favorite surfing beaches.

“What do you think?” he asks again, watching my reaction closely as if I’m a competition judge about to give him a score for his efforts.

“Oh my gosh. It’s just amazing. Seriously, Timmy,” I say, hugging him tight and tilting my head up to kiss him. “Thank you so much. I feel a lot better seeing this starting to look like a real apartment, a real living space. ”

“I’m really good at stuff like this,” he explains proudly. “And I’m so happy to help you. I figure we’ll be spending a lot of time here, so we may as well have it set up as perfect as we can get it.”

We get changed and head down to the pool area where he immediately launches himself in, full Superman-style, creating a splash big enough to draw the attention of a few onlookers. He stays under for a while, and then bursts from the water, laughing, unbothered by the stares and enjoying every bit of the fun he’s making of himself—and for me. This free spirit of his is contagious, and I feel lighter than I have in years, as if the weight of my previous worries has drifted away with the ripples he’s made in the pool.

Later, he takes me to a trendy but laid-back bar across the road with swinging chairs—a feature I’m particularly weak for. He snaps photos of me as I sway, and when he proudly shows them to me, teaching me how he adjusted the light and focus on his phone’s camera, I notice he’s captured some kind of radiance in me that I’d almost forgotten I had.

The bartender knows him, and we all chat away like old friends while I sip on a daiquiri made with local rum, and Timmy suggests we share a fresh smoked local marlin dip, and I realize this is the exact life I envisioned—only it’s better because he’s here. After a leisurely snack and cocktail session, we head back to the apartment.

With everything now unpacked, Timmy takes the Baby Shark toy and cuddles with it, beaming as he wraps it in his muscular, tattooed arms.

I snap a few pictures as he grins and rolls around on the bed, looking ridiculous, this giant 39-year-old man with a massive yellow-and-white stuffed toy.

“My baby shaaaaaaark!” He says, grinning, wrapping his arms around it. “Thank you so much for getting this for me. I love it so much!”

After a day full of laughter, adventure, and little discoveries, I hop onto the bed beside him and we lay side-by-side for a bit. My life here is chaotic, it’s unexpected, it’s full of soft lilac, and it’s completely Timmy .

And, like a gentleman, he goes home, promising to pick me up again early the next day.