I have a life in Belgium.
Not a hypothetical one. A real one. A life I worked hard to build. And I’m not about to throw it all away just because one man happens to check several boxes on my imaginary “dream husband” list.
That settles it.
No calling Nate today.
I repeat it to myself like a rule, like something that will become true if I say it firmly enough.
I leave in two weeks. That’s final. God hasn’t shown me otherwise… or at least, that’s what I’m telling myself.
“Ahem.”
I hear a throat clear.
“Delivery for a Lizzie.”
I turn to see my dad standing there, holding a beautiful wicker basket tied with a velvet green bow.
“What’s this?” I ask, immediately suspicious.
“I’m not sure,” he says casually. “I was told it came from Nate.”
My jaw goes slack as he sets it down across from me.
Slowly, I untie the bow and open the basket. Inside is an assortment of breakfast items arranged with care—croissants, an English-style tea mug and saucer, English Breakfast tea, tropical fruits cut and displayed beautifully, Brazilian ground coffee ready to be filtered, gourmet biscuits, honey, small cakes, and cheese.
It’s a perfect blend of European and Brazilian elements, woven together intentionally, not randomly. Thoughtful. Personal.
“Are you going to call him?” My dad asks, interrupting my train of thought.
“Am I going to call him?” I echo, incredulous.
“You’re not Pimenta, Lizzie.”
I chuckle despite myself.
“I just can’t believe this. Are you actuallyaskingme to call him? Because ‘simply wondering’ isn’t something you do.”
“I cansimply wonder,” he says, making exaggerated air quotes.
“No, you can’t. You’reDad. The most jealous man I know when it comes to your daughters. When Gabby was dating a guy this summer, you wouldn’t even let him hold her hand when you were around!” I gesture, incredulous.
“And she better not have done it when I wasn’t around either,” he mutters, eyeing me as if I might confess something scandalous on the spot.
I roll my eyes. “Case in point, Dad.”
He sighs, then says quietly, “I know Nate’s story. And I’m betting on him.”
I practically hear screeching brakes in my mind. Everything I thought literally five minutes ago decided to go on a crash collision course again with the possibility of Nate.
“But… you never like any man.ANYman.” Emphasis onany. This is literally crazy. Growing up, boyfriends were practicallymythical creatures Dad treated with extreme suspicion. If he could’ve stood on the porch with a shotgun to scare them away, he absolutely would have.
I’ve had three boyfriends in my twenty-five years of life. Honestly, I’m not even sure the third one fully counts.
Those relationships didn’t make me cynical. They made me clearer. Each one, in its own awkward way, helped shape the list in my head of what I actually want.
The first was when I was nineteen. Dad never liked him. I eventually realized he lacked drive—he drifted through life comfortably, content with doing the bare minimum. I could already see how small my life would become if I stayed with him. So, I broke up with him.
