SOFIA
no te deseo lo peor :) – MARLENA, Paula Mattheus
“Be careful,”Ilias’ voice came through the phone, laced with concern. “You don’t know them. And we still don’t know what they really want.”
“I looked them up,” Sofia admitted as she walked through Ericeira’s narrow streets, now brimming with tourists. June wasn’t exactly high season, but the town had become a hotspot for surfers, and she didn’t mind. More people, more tours, more income.
TerraVive’s sponsorship had given her the chance to upgrade her gear, hire Penelope, a smart, funny Portuguese girl who had just gotten her PADI and was studying marine biology, and pay João a modest stipend (though he kept refusing it). But she needed Salacia and its tours to stand on their own. And Ericeira had been the right choice to do so.
“And? What did you find?” Ilias asked. From the background noise—waves crashing, voices chatting—he was likely calling from the Athlete Zone.
“They’re legit. A fast-growing startup. Basically, their job is sniffing out whether eco-institutes are bullshitting or not.” Her pace slowed as she turned a corner and saw the trio waiting for her near the restaurant. “I have to go. Just got here.”
“Wait.”
“What?”
“Are you wearing that sundress?”
“Nope,” Sofia grinned. “A new one I bought. I’ll send you a picture later.”
“You’re playing with me, habiba.”
“Focus on the competition, Ilias.”
“I will. I miss you.”
“I miss you too.”
She hung up before her mouth betrayed her heart. The second she did, she sent him the photo of the chocolate brown sundress she had bought on a second-hand online shop a couple of days ago. Then she slipped the phone into her purse and walked toward the waiting trio.
“Hello, Sofia!” Asma chirped.
“Hi. Let’s head inside, I booked a table.”
The message was clear: We’re doing this on my terms.
Gianpaolo greeted her with his usual blazing smile. A Tuscan transplant who had moved here thirty years ago to surf, long before Ericeira was trendy, he was now a local legend.
“Sofia, che piacere rivederti! Rosa mi ha detto della prenotazione. Come stai? E Ilias?”
He launched into a flurry of questions about her life. She hugged him tightly. He was around her father’s age, perpetually youthful in spirit and permanently dressed like he’d just steppedoff a longboard. He had definitely followed her on socials because, gosh, he knew all the gossip.
“Everything’s great,” Sofia smiled, answering in Italian. “Could you put us in a secluded corner? We need to talk business.”
Gianpaolo eyed the trio behind her, and nodded.
“Come with me,” he said, switching effortlessly to English, probably knowing that they weren’t from around there just from their looks. The trio followed her without question.
He led them to an interior patio, a hidden gem with a grapevine canopy, a tiled fountain, and the classic Portuguese calçada beneath their feet. They took seats at a round table tucked into a private corner. Asma sat on Sofia’s left, Leif on her right, and Callum across from her.
“You’re part Italian, right?” Asma asked, breaking the ice.
“Yes. My dad’s from Genova. Do you know where that is?”
“Close to Cinque Terre?” Callum asked, his accent thick but manageable, for now.
“Sort of.”
