“Just go with it, man,” Max says from the door. “It’s a Brazilian elder’s prerogative to help you gain five pounds in a single sitting. The tias won’t rest until you’re as buff as I am.”

“Buff, huh?” I ask, raising an eyebrow as I let Solange’s mother guide me to the mini-feast the sisters have prepared. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”

Max’s snide response gets swallowed by the fresh round of excited chatter ushered in by his and Lina’s arrival. I can’t help grinning when Mariana pinches Max’s cheeks, then wraps him in a bear hug that looks comical given her small frame.

“Any updates?” Lina asks.

We shake our heads, and before anyone can say another word, she’s walking out the door—looking for answers, I’m sure.

Izabel hands me something encased in foil. “Here.”

I unwrap her offering, and the mouthwatering smell of garlic and spices enters my nostrils. “What’s this?”

“Sanduíche de fraldinha na manteiga e alho.”

“Which is . . . ?”

Solange joins me at the table, standing close enough that her arm brushes mine. “It’s a flank steak sandwich. Plenty of butter. Plenty of garlic. Squishy, yummy bread.”

I waggle my eyebrows at her. “Say that again. Just once more. Slower this time.”

Grinning, she bumps my shoulder. It’s a small thing, but that show of familiarity seems just as meaningful as a hug. I’m surrounded by Solange and her family, and I truly feel a part of this gathering, as though I belong here. As though I’m taking up space in Solange’s world, and she’s okay with that. One of the upshots of always telling women precisely what they can expect of me is that I’m rarely invited to meet their parents. Until Ella. Who had her own reasons for letting me into her life. So, yeah, this is nice. But it doesn’t escape my notice that none of the husbands are here, and I wonder whether it’s because they’re the kind of men who make promises they can’t keep. Solange certainly believes her dad is one; maybe he’d still be in her life if he had been honest about his limitations.

“You don’t want to try it?” Izabel asks, a dispirited expression on her face.

“He probably wants to wash his hands first,” Solange says.

She’s not entirely wrong, but the travel sanitizer in my front pocket is an adequate substitute; I quickly reassure Solange’s mother as I rub it in. “Oh no, that’s not it at all. Was just thinking about something.” I take a bite of the sandwich, and after chewing a bit, make a chef’s kiss gesture. “This is delicious. Truly, truly excellent.”