I still didn’t know who I wanted to be in São Paulo.
I wanted to discover that before promising anybody where I’d spend the rest of my life.
So I told him I’d think about it.
And he let me.
A week later, I knocked on his door.
He opened it wearing sweatpants and holding a bowl of cereal.
“I want you to come,” I said.
He stopped chewing.
“To Brazil?”
“Yes.”
“With you?”
“Unless you’ve got another Brazilian girlfriend I should know about.”
He set down the cereal.
Then he kissed me.
We booked his February flight through Houston at my kitchen table.
He paid for his ticket.
I insisted on covering our meals while he visited.
We argued about luggage, flight connections, and whether he needed to learn Portuguese.
Then he asked something that made me smile.
“What should I call you when I meet your mother?”
