Chapter 11
Lizzie
I sigh and look over at my alarm clock. Eight AM.
The fan above me whirs in steady circles, slicing the quiet air. The house is completely still, the kind of silence that only exists on a Saturday morning when no one has anywhere to be. My family loves to really take Saturday as a day of rest.
Sunlight slips through the blinds in thin golden ribbons, stretching across the floor and creeping slowly up the side of my bed. It looks peaceful.
I normally love Saturday mornings like this.
But today I’m just lying here, watching the overhead fan go by a thousand times, trying to make sense of why my mind refuses to rest.
I didn’t sleep well last night. I tossed and turned, over and over, replaying every moment of yesterday evening.
It unsettles me—how much space one evening managed to take up inside me.
How one dinner, one conversation, one pair of eyes looking at me across a table could make me feel like the axis of my life tilted ever so slightly.
I think everyone wonders about “the one” at some point.
The person you’re going to spend the rest of your life with.
The person who will walk beside you through all the mundane Tuesdays and all the unexpected storms. But do people really lie awake all night after one date wondering if they’ve already met him?
Maybe they do. Maybe I’m the naive one.
But I, for one, have never tossed and turned after a single evening with a man and found myself contemplating the direction of my entire future. Even thinking that feels dangerous. Like stepping onto a path before you’ve checked if it actually leads anywhere.
Still… one date can reveal more than people realize.
The external things are easy to notice. I’ve always imagined being with a man my height or just a little taller.
Dark hair. There’s something about the S?o Paulo accent that makes my insides melt a little.
Paired with his deep voice, it feels almost unfair.
And the fact that he’s a few years older than me—steady, grounded—that’s something I’ve always hoped for.
But it’s the internal things that matter. The ones that stay after the initial impression fades. And those are the ones that unsettled me most last night.
I throw off my sheets and step lightly toward the bathroom, my thoughts following me like shadows.
He’s in love with God. Not just someone who attends church out of habit or expectation.
Not in a shallow, checkbox kind of way. There’s a sincerity to him—a depth—that you can’t fake.
It reminds me of that saying: going to church doesn’t make you a Christian any more than standing in a garage makes you a car.
He isn’t like that. His faith feels genuine.
That matters more than anything.
He’s a businessman, too. I’ve always admired that. It usually means discipline. Responsibility chosen over comfort. It suggests someone who follows through, works hard to not just let life happen to him.
And he’s honest.
That struck me almost immediately, the way he spoke about his divorce.
He didn’t rush past it or smooth over the rough edges to make himself look better.
He told the truth plainly, even when it would have been easier not to.
There was a courage in that honesty that stayed with me long after the evening ended.
These are qualities I’ve always imagined in the man I would marry.
And suddenly, that thought doesn’t feel hypothetical anymore.
Which makes everything far more complicated.
So the question becomes painfully practical… would it even make sense to explore this? Or would I be wiser to go back to Belgium and continue the life I’ve carefully built there? The adventures, the friendships, the quiet routines that have become familiar and safe.
Do I even see a future here, in Brazil, beyond these two weeks?
And what if he didn’t feel what I felt yesterday? What if this is all one-sided, and I’m mentally rearranging my life around something that only exists inside my imagination? Is it really worth risking the life I’ve spent two years building for a connection that might not even be mutual?
But I don’t know how he couldn’t have felt it.
It was electric. A current humming quietly between us, invisible but undeniable, flowing back and forth in the pauses between our words and in the way our eyes kept finding each other again and again.
And most of all… could he be the man God is directing me toward?
The thought makes my chest tighten with both hope and fear.
I brush my teeth, then my hair, clinging to the small comfort of being productive, as if neat strands and minty breath can somehow bring order to thoughts that feel like they’ve been tossed into a washing machine on the highest spin cycle.
I make my bed next, tucking in the sheets and smoothing every wrinkle until the surface is crisp and orderly. There’s something grounding about it. If my room looks put together, maybe my life will feel that way too.
I slide open my closet and spot a soft gray tank top. Comfortable. I grab a pair of jeans to go with it—something simple but ready for the day. Slippers go on last so my feet don’t have to touch the cool tile.
Maybe I’ll make coffee and sit outside this morning. Let the sounds of the outdoors filter into my brain until everything feels less tangled.
I head toward the kitchen when a sharp squawk echoes from the living room.
I glance over at the parrot cage, still covered with its sheet from the night before.
“Hey, hey! Let me out! Let me out!” Squawk.
I can’t help but laugh. Pimenta does this every single morning, indignant that he hasn’t been let out as soon as light has hit his cage.
“I’m coming, I’m coming, Pimenta,” I call.
“Not fast enough, apparently!” Squawk.
I shake my head, smiling as I walk toward him. This parrot keeps me constantly on my toes. I have no idea where he picks up half of these phrases, but he uses them with impeccable timing.
I pull the cover off his cage, and he immediately shuffles along his perch, blinking at the sudden light.
“You’re going to have to give me a second,” I tell him. “I need to make coffee first, and then I’ll let you out.”
“Can I get a strawberry?” he asks, tilting his head with exaggerated innocence, as if he knows exactly how manipulative he sounds.
And I’m a total sucker for it.
“Okay, okay. You can have a strawberry. I’ll make my coffee and come back with one, okay?”
“Thank you, Lizzie Bell!” Squawk.
I laugh as I turn toward the kitchen, stepping into the warm brown space. I reach into the cupboard and pause when I spot my very last bag of English Breakfast tea.
I exhale slowly.
Just another reminder of the life waiting for me in Belgium. Another thread pulling me in two different directions.
I heat the water, scoop spoonfuls of coffee into the paper filter, and soon the aroma rises to meet me—rich, dark, and comforting.
If the phrase “the world has woken up” had a scent, it would be this.
Fresh coffee, slightly caramel-toned, reminding me faintly of my favorite dessert ingredient: condensed milk.
I grab milk from the fridge—milk that came straight from my dad’s cows—and pour it into my cup. A spoonful of sugar and my coffee is ready, signaling to my brain a new chapter of the day has begun. Let’s get your head in order, Lizzie. Chapter eleven, maybe, after all that tossing and turning.
I pull a strawberry from the fridge for Pimenta, slicing off the top and cutting it into small pieces.
That little parakeet really keeps me on my toes.
Coffee in one hand and strawberry in the other, I return to the cage and open it. He hops eagerly onto my fingers, accepting the fruit with obvious delight.
“Here you go, little guy.”
“That’s the good stuff!” he squawks.
I laugh. “It really is. Want to come out and fly for a little bit?”
“Yes, please.”
I lift him carefully, letting him perch on my hand. His feathers glow in the morning light—yellow, orange, green, and flickers of blue woven together like God painted him with joy.
We pass what we call Mom’s greenhouse—really just a living room with floor-to-ceiling colonial windows.
Rustic sofas with bamboo cane frames and soft white cushions sit among a jungle of plants.
Hanging ferns drape from the ceiling, monstera leaves fan out like open hands, and potted parlor palms and umbrella trees crowd every corner.
Outside, banana trees sway gently, making it feel as though the house itself has been gently swallowed by greenery.
I step out onto the wraparound back porch where hammocks hang lazily and chairs wait for quiet mornings like this one.
I settle into a chair, releasing a slow breath as Pimenta launches into the air.
He flutters between the small trees near the porch, flashes of color darting through the leaves.
He’s been trained well enough that he always stays close, his bright feathers easy to spot as he loops back and forth like a tiny ball of color.
I close my eyes for a moment, letting the sounds of nature seep into me—the rustle of leaves, distant birdsong, the hum of a world already fully awake.
This part of Brazil really is beautiful. Wild and lush and alive in a way that Europe never quite is.
That’s definitely a point in the “stay longer” column.
Or at least… stay a few extra weeks.
I know that would be awkward for the Blancs. They rely on me. But maybe they could manage for a couple of weeks without me? Maybe it wouldn’t be such a big disruption.
Ugh. I don’t know. Is it worth it, is it not?
IT WAS ONE DATE, LIZZIE. GET A GRIP.
The thought snaps through my mind like a rubber band, sharp and undeniable.
It was one date. Why would I call him? Why would I even consider rearranging the life I’ve carefully built over the past two years in Belgium? Time with my uncle’s family, exploring cobblestone streets, making friends, learning French until it finally feels natural on my tongue.
I’ve just become fluent in French.