Thedessert.
I feel like a cartoon on TV—my eyes have turned into hearts. Dessert has not only called me for a date, it has already ordered for me.
I hope my new friends love dessert as much as I do, because I am absolutely coming back for multiple tasting pots. The passion fruit mousse is calling my name. I can already taste that delicious blend of condensed milk and passion fruit on my lips.
I’m just the kind of person who checks the dessert menu first so I can plan for dinner accordingly.
I don’t know what the evening holds. There’s a cocktail of uncertainty and excitement swirling in my mind. I don’t know if we’ll circle back to what Nate shared earlier, or if we’ll laugh our way through the night, or if this will simply be one of those pleasant, fleeting encounters.
Whatever it is?—
Let’s dive in.
8
Nate
I move to sit in my seat, and as I do, my mind replays the last fifteen minutes like a film on loop.
I have no idea why I told Lizzie all of those things.
When I first found out she was coming to dinner, I didn’t think twice about it. I assumed John was just bringing a friend along—nothing more. The idea that he might be trying to play matchmaker hadn’t even crossed my mind. But earlier, John gave me the slightest look, and I just knew.
And when I saw Lizzie—when I heard her laugh—I knew the idea of her beingjust another friend of John’swent straight out the window.
She’s exactly my kind of attractive: brunette, tall, younger than me. I mentally tick those boxes off my list almost automatically.
I’m the kind of guy who knows what he wants. Last year, when I sat with God and prayed over that list—really prayed—I became certain of what I was waiting for.
I’m not someone who likes to “see where things go.” I’ve already been married. For a long time, I thought I was living my happily ever after, even if my ex-wife didn’t feel the same way. The signs were there, looking back. I just never wanted a divorce. So it stands to reason that I’m not here to date casually. I want a future. I know the type of woman I want to build it with, and I don’t dance around that truth.
Lizzie may check three things on my list, but I have no idea if that’s where it begins—or where it ends.
The question really is… why did I start our conversation withI’m divorced?
I honestly don’t know.
But in a way, I’m glad I did. Because if I ever get married again—whoever she turns out to be—she’ll have to know. She’ll have to know I have two kids. She’ll have to know I have a past.
We all do. None of us are perfect. We put too much pressure on perfection. I’m guilty of that myself. Everything I do, I try to do to the best of my ability. Sometimes the bar is too high—set like the moon, unreachable. That’s where God’s grace meets me.
And whoever I marry one day will have to understand that the places where I have a past are the very places where God has shown me grace.
We settle into our seats, surrounded by leafy plants and the dim glow of overhead lights. Cards rest next to each place setting—red and green—for the meat rodízio.
“Alright, let’s get our food first, and then we can enjoy the night away,” Maria says, clapping her hands together.
John chuckles. “Getting down to business first, my love?” He tucks her into his side and kisses her temple.
“From the look of all that food, I’m with Maria,” Lizzie laughs.
“Okay, let’s go load up our plates,” I say.
We walk over to the table at the center of the room, and I fill my plate with small amounts of different things—rice, a pasta salad, an Italian mushroom dish. I want to leave plenty of space to try the meat. Everything looks delicious.
I make my way back to our table, where everyone has already sat down and a waiter has just come over with some meat.
“Oh, is thatpicanha?” I ask, taking my seat. I love picanha—it’s the prized Brazilian cut of beef, the top sirloin cap. The flavor is intense, the texture tender. It’s perfect.
