Chapter 11 #2
Okay, maybe not just. It’s maybe been a while. But still. That took time. Effort.
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 actually asking me to call him? Because ‘simply wondering’ isn’t something you do.”
“I can simply wonder,” he says, making exaggerated air quotes.
“No, you can’t. You’re Dad. 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. ANY man.” Emphasis on any. This is literally crazy. Growing up, boyfriends were practically mythical 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.
Then there was the Bolivian guy. Six months of dating—exciting at first because we were so different, exhausting by the end because those differences ran deeper than I’d realized.
Our values never quite aligned. What mattered deeply to me barely registered to him, and that gap only widened over time.
Finally, there was the pastor’s son from my old church. He ended things quickly, and honestly, I felt relieved. There was no spark. That’s when I learned something important: shared faith alone isn’t enough. There has to be chemistry, too. Something alive.
I need a spark. Similar values. A man who is driven.
And that clarity is exactly why Nate feels so dangerous.
“I know him,” Dad says, pulling me back to the present. “He’s one of the good ones.”
He isn’t a man of many words. But when he does speak like that, it means something.
I blow out a slow breath, pondering for what feels like a full minute.
“Well… if you’re saying that, maybe there is something to this. Maybe God is in it.”
“You still have two weeks, Lizzie,” he reminds me. “You don’t have to make your decision this morning. But you can at least call him and thank him for the breakfast basket.”
He’s right.
But I still can’t quite believe that my dad—my fiercely protective, suspicious-of-all-men father—is willing to bet on someone. For him to bet on anybody…? To believe so wholeheartedly in someone that he’s willing to bet on that person’s character?
That’s big stuff.
And honestly? Part of me wouldn’t have wanted to call first anyway. I’ve always liked the idea of being pursued. Mom used to say men like to chase and not be chased, that calling first could make things lose their spark. That idea lodged itself somewhere deep in my mind and never quite left.
But Nate has already made his intentions clear.
And after this beautiful start to my morning… how could I not call to thank him?
I head back inside to the kitchen, where the corded phone hangs on the wall. His card is sitting right next to it.
I roll my eyes. That was definitely my mother’s doing. She must have found it when I was in the bathroom last night taking off my makeup.
I dial the number.
Two rings.
“Nate’s house, Camila speaking.”
“Your favorite brunette calling,” I reply.
She laughs loudly, warmly, the kind of laugh that fills a room even through a phone line. I can almost picture her throwing her head back dramatically.
“Well, well, well. I knew I could bet on you.”
What is with everyone betting on people today?
“I just wanted to thank Nate for the beautiful breakfast basket he sent over this morning. Is he around?”
I don’t know why I’m nervous to talk to him. Why am I nervous?
“Sugar, he’s out at the moment,” she says. “But he told me if Lizzie calls, to take your number so he can call you as soon as he gets back.”
“That’s fine. Do you have paper and pen ready?”
I give her my phone number, reciting it carefully.
“I know he’ll call as soon as he gets in,” she adds. “I’m looking forward to seeing you again.”
I can almost hear the wink in her voice.
“Me too,” I say, smiling despite myself. “You’re a catch, Camila.”
“When everybody seems to think so, why would I deny it?”
Now it’s my turn to throw my head back and laugh.
The day has started out nicely, after all.