Martha wants to take me shopping, so we head to the mall.

Tiago comes with us. We have not touched each other in two days, not even to hug or hold hands. But things are different. It’s impossible not to look at him and remember where his fingers were, where my hand was.

I need space. I’m frightened by this development. He seems to instinctively know it.

Martha buys me a beautiful, sleeveless orange dress with green embroidery, and I want to find a sweater to go with it. She says she’s tired and sits on a bench, so Tiago and I go off together.

“Did you listen to that CD?” he asks. 

 I have a list of songs he gave me to download when I get back to the states, Brazilian music, starting with “Vamos Pular.” But since I have no data and can’t do it yet, he bought me a CD yesterday.

“Yeah, I did.” I nod. “It’s interesting. Sounds like music my dad would like.”

He snorts. “Can’t please you. You hated the music I listened to in Arkansas, and now you don’t like this either?”

“The music you listened to in Arkansas was heavy and angry.”

“Yeah. I was sad a lot.”

“So why would I like it?”

“But you should like the one I gave you yesterday.”

In truth I thought the lyrical ballads a bit boring, but I see that he chose it especially for me. “I do like it. I’m just teasing you.”

“What’s your favorite song?”

I can only remember the first one, so I begin to sing, “Quando o sol bater na janela—” 

He joins in and finishes the lyrics with me. “ . . . do teu quarto.”

I don’t know the rest of the song, but Tiago does, and he sings it as we walk through the mall. He shakes his head when he finishes. 

“You remember the artist, right?”

I pause at a shop with an orange sweater on the mannequin. “Barão Vermhelho,” I say. “Which means, the red baron in English.”

“Good job.”

I go into the shop and attempt my limited Portuguese on the employee. “Can I try this sweater? I want to see if it. . .” I can’t remember the word for “goes” or “works,” so I fall on a close synonym. “ . . . functions with my dress.”

I hold up the dress Martha bought me. 

The woman looks at me strangely. “It functions, yes,” she answers me.

Over her shoulder, I see Tiago laughing. I glare at him. “Thanks,” I tell her. “I’ll take it.”

Tiago contains his mirth until we are out of the store. “It functions, yes,” he quotes her Portuguese. “The sweater functions. It does exactly what it’s supposed to do.”

“Shut up,” I growl. I pull out the skirt and hold it to the sweater. “Yes, they will function quite well together.”

“It looks good. I want to see you wear it.”

“Maybe to church on Sunday. I have two more weeks.” Two more weeks. How quickly a month goes by.

Tiago’s expression changes, the smile wiping from his face. “So soon you’ll be gone.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you think we will see each other again?”

“I don’t know. There are a lot of people in my life that I don’t know if I’ll see again.” I fold the sweater and the skirt and put them back in the bag, not looking at him.

“Is it that easy for you? To let people go?”

I lift my face, holding back a sigh. “I have watched literally everyone I care about walk out of my life in the past year. From my parents to my roommates to Jared to—” I stop short of saying Owen’s name. I can’t heal if I’m constantly bringing him up.

It doesn’t help that he’s constantly on my mind. One day, he won’t be, right? I’ll just wake up and realize I haven’t thought of him in weeks.

That doesn’t make me feel better.

“I knew when I came here that I’d be saying goodbye to you shortly after,” I say. “It’s not that I don’t care. I just know it’s part of life.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He sits down on a bench, and I settle in beside him. “I didn’t think about how you’ve been letting everyone go already.”

“The only constant in my life is God.”

He looks over at me. “I don’t want to think this is the last time I’ll see you.”

“Then it won’t be. We’re the ones who decide if we’re going to see each other again.”

“Do you want to see me again?”

“Of course I do. You’re one of my dearest friends.”

“Even if I see you as more than a friend?”

I lean closer and whisper, “Just don’t tell my husband.”

He laughs, but it cuts off too soon. “You don’t think I could be your husband?”

I look away. “I don’t know. I can’t picture who it would be. I’m tired of trying to figure it out. Someday I’ll get married, and that person will be my husband.”

“Then it could be me.”

“Sure, why not?” I shrug.

“Would you be happy with me?”

I tilt my head and examine him, giving the question the sincere attention it deserves. Tiago makes me laugh. He’s funny, he’s considerate, he gives me space to think and make my own decisions. He respects me.

I remember that was a big one previously, that I didn’t feel he respected me. He does now.

He’s willing to go to church, or at the very least, let me go to church.

And there’s plenty of sexual compatibility.

He loves me. And if I married him, it would be because I love him also.

“Yes,” I say. “I would be happy with you.”

“I would make it happen, Lucia. If you wanted to be with me, I would find a way for us to be together, no matter what it took.”

Would he? My heart beats a little faster at the thought of someone loving me enough to do that.

Even if it’s not the person I want it to be.

“Thanks, Tiago.”

***

The whole family rides together again to church on Sunday. I sit by Tiago. His hand brushes mine in the pew while we listen to the preacher, and then his fingers twist around mine. 

My heart stirs ever so gently. His kindness and attention are winning me over.

In Sunday School, the teacher talks about missionary work, the kind the early apostles of the church did. After, I sit with Tiago outside the chapel while we wait for his mom to stop chatting with people.

“What do you think of missionary work?” I ask.

“It seems like something people do a lot in the States, when they have money and time. It’s not so easy here.”

I nod. I can’t judge the truth to that statement. I’m not fully aware of how finances are here in Brazil. “Is it something that interests you?”

“To go away from my family and talk about God? Not really. I already spent time away from them, and I hated it.”

“You hated your time in Arkansas?” I smile, but his words sting.

“No, silly.” He bumps my shoulder. “I hated being away from my family. I don’t want to go again if I don’t have to.”

“I plan to go on one.”

“I know. When do you think you’ll go?”

“I want to finish college first. So when I’m twenty-one or twenty-two.”

“Where did Owen go?”

“Chicago.” I fall silent. I’m remembering that moment in his house when he opened his call. “The day he got his call was the day he broke up with me.”

“Have you considered that maybe you’re not meant to be with him?”

I turn to Tiago, more irate than I should be. “Well, that’s fairly obvious, isn’t it? That’s what it means when people break up. They’re not meant to be together.”

“Sorry,” he says, and I back down, ashamed.

“No, I’m sorry. He’s just . . . a sore spot.”

“Is he in Chicago now?”

I check the date on my phone. May 21. “In less than two weeks.”

He puts his arm around my shoulder and hugs me.

I lean into him, accepting his comfort.