Traffic lessens as we move away from the airport. We park at a cafe with tables and umbrellas. 

“You sit,” Tiago says, pointing out a table. “I’ll get food.”

“All right.”

“What would you like?”

I shrug. “Anything. I’m not a vegetarian anymore.”

“You’re not?” He blinks at me in surprise. “Cool. Okay.”

I sit down at the table and release my hair. My head aches, and I massage it. Tiago’s dad doesn’t join me, so I assume he’s staying in the car and waiting for us.

Tiago returns with several fried items, and I sit up taller, excited. 

“Coxinhas! And pasteis!” I pick up the deep-fried ball of dough and chicken and groan as I bite into it. “Oh, I’ve missed this,” I say around a mouthful of food.

“It’s good to see you eating. And enjoying meat.”

“It was a good experience.” I take a bite and stop talking for a moment to enjoy the flavors. Tiago places a can of guaraná in front of me, and I happily chug the Brazilian soda.

“And how is the other food thing?”

I take my time with the next bite, pondering my words. Tiago lived with me during an extremely volatile time in my adolescence, when I was battling two eating disorders. “I’m doing well.”

He reaches out like he’s going to touch my face, and then he thinks better of it and squeezes my hand. “That makes me so happy.”

“Thank you for being there for me,” I say, catching his eyes so he’ll know I’m sincere. “Thank you for being my friend. I wrote an essay on the experience in my freshman English class, and it made me realize how much you influenced me, how much you helped me overcome it.”

He blinks and drops his gaze. “Sometimes I felt such guilt because I wasn’t the nicest person to you. Sometimes I worried I made it worse for you.”

There had been some of that. Dating Tiago had been a roller coaster of ups and downs. But I don’t point that out. “I always knew you loved me.”

He glances up, meets my eyes and then looks away again, and I’m glad because suddenly I’m afraid of what I might see there.

If he still loves me, I don’t want to know.

I finish the pastel and crumble up my napkin. “Thanks for the food. I didn’t realize how hungry I was.” I cover a yawn as sleepiness overwhelms me, my eyes throbbing with the need to shut. “I’m so tired.”

“Come on.” He stands up and places a hand at my shoulder blades when I stand also. “Let’s get you to bed.”

The drive from the cafe to his grandpa’s house is less than ten minutes, but I lean my head against the window and doze off and on for those brief moments. I can barely pry my eyes open when we arrive. I shoulder my purse and get out of the car, and Tiago stops me when I start for the trunk.

“I’ll get your bag,” he says, his tone gentle. “Go to bed.”

I nod. I turn to the house before remembering I need to let my mom know I made it here. I spin back to him.

“Oh. I promised my mom I’d tell her I got here. Can you show me how to call the U.S.?”

Tiago waves me off. “I’ll call her.”

I hesitate. I need to make sure this happens, but my body tells me to accept his offer and get to bed. “Promise you won’t forget?”

“I promise.”

I believe him. I shuffle toward the house with its door in the brick wall. Tiago’s dad holds it open for me, and Grandpa greets me when I come in. He points to the flight of stairs leading to the two bedrooms.

“Your room,” he says, indicating the one on the right. 

I force each foot to lift up the stairs. The lights are dim and the house is dark, but I know my way around. Tomorrow I’ll admire Grandpa’s house with his indoor garden in the small courtyard, but tonight I can’t think of anything.

I pause in the bathroom to remove my contacts, and then I flip off the lights and tumble into the twin bed. 

My mind slows as it nears a dream state, but I’m awake enough to notice the difference between how Tiago is treating me now and how he treated me the last time I came.

If he had been this kind, this considerate, maybe things would have been different between us when I went home.

But he wasn’t. And things weren’t.

***

No one wakes me. My room is toasty from sunlight floating over my bed through the open window when I finally stretch and kick off the thin blanket over me. 

I blink up at the ceiling fan, and it dawns on me that I’m in Brazil. 

By myself.

I’m not alone because Tiago is here, but still—I made an international trip all by myself. A rush of pride and excitement invigorates my limbs. 

I check the time and see it’s almost eleven in the morning. Eleven! I can’t believe they let me sleep that long.

I hear voices in the kitchen and get dressed before I head downstairs. I’m not surprised to see Tiago there with his grandfather, his longer hair concealed by a baseball cap. He glances at me, and I feel a surge of affection for this boy. I smile at him, and he smiles back.

“Good morning,” Grandfather says in his highly affected English accent.

“Almost afternoon,” I answer. 

Tiago laughs, and then he yells something in Portuguese toward the kitchen.

I expect the maid to appear—it seems everyone has one here—but instead it’s his mother, Martha, who steps into the doorway, wiping her hands on a rag.

“Lucia!” she exclaims, and her nose turns red. “I miss you so much!”

I go to her and hug her, and I think she might be crying. She’s an inch or two taller than me and much rounder, and so sweet. 

She pulls away, sniffling, and pats my arm. “Minha filha Americana. Voltou para mim.”

I understand all of her words, and that fills me with pride. Her American daughter, returned to her. I hug her again. “Sim. Voltei.”

She laughs in delight. “Estás falando português!” she says, and that’s all I get before she rambles off so quickly that it sounds like one long run-on word. 

I must look lost, because Tiago laughs.

“Come sit down and eat,” he says, gesturing back to the table. “And we can talk about what you want to do today.”

I sit down and pour myself a glass of orange juice. Martha brings out a tray of cheese and meat and small loaves of bread. I can appreciate the beauty of this house now with its open-concept floor plan and painted tiles and the exposed strip of roof where the rain can enter and water the indoor garden.

“I can’t believe I slept so late,” I say, a little sheepish.

Tiago shrugs. “I do it all the time. It’s fine.”

I bet he does. I remember countless arguments where I disapproved of his late night party habits. 

It was none of my business, anyway.

“Your hair is long,” he says. “It’s very pretty. I like it.”

“Thank you.” I butter a loaf of bread and add honey to it. 

“And you look great. Healthy. Eating is good for you.”

I have to laugh at that. “Yeah. It’s good for most of us.”

“Was there anything you wanted to do today?”

“Can we go somewhere with internet? I need to check my grades and email my friends.”

“Yes. And then what?”

“Well . . .” I trail off. My goal here is to learn Portuguese, to improve my understanding of the language. But I also want to immerse myself in Brazilian culture. “Would it be all right if we went to the beach? I haven’t been since the last time I was here.”

He gives me a look that can only be described as pity. “Yes. Of course.”

Martha drives us to the public library to use the internet, and I tease Tiago as we walk toward the entrance.

“I know, I know,” he says, grabbing the door and holding it for me. “I should be driving. But it’s not that easy here.”

“Yeah, driving here is crazy,” I agree, leading the way to the computers in the back. “I’d be scared also.”

“I’m not scared!” he protests.

I just laugh and sit at one of the computers. He sits beside me.

I check my grades first and give a whoop of joy. “I got all As in Portuguese!”

“Good job.” He scratches the top of my head, a gentle touch on my scalp. He always used to do that. I called it the “Tiago-scratch.” “Soon you’ll speak Portuguese better than I do.”

“Or at least, I’ll know the rules better than you do.”

He removes his hand, and I open my email program next.

“How is Riley?”

I can’t remember how much Tiago knows about my friend Riley. “She had a baby last week. It was amazing.”

“Wow!” His eyes bug out. “I can’t believe it. Do you have pictures?”

I pull out my phone and hand it to him. “Here.”

I know he’s going through all my photos when he doesn’t give the phone back, but again I don’t care. I’m astonished at how easy it is to talk to him, to feel close to him, after all the time we spent apart and all the hurt we caused each other.

He puts the phone between us and begins asking abouts people, pointing to their picture. “Who is this?”

I finish sending an email and pivot to give him my full attention. “These are my roommates.” I take the phone back so I can point them out. “That’s Camila. She shared my room. That’s Iris, she’s Canadian. That’s Layne, she caused sooooo much trouble last year, but she’s awesome. She’s moving to Guatemala next month.”

“That’s amazing.”

I keep going, pointing out the kids from college who have made up my hours and days for the past few months. “That’s Stirling, he’s watching my fish for me until I get back, that’s my cousin Jordan, that’s Jared—” I pause. 

I have a picture of me and Jared.