How has he pitched me? This whole situation’s strange for even me to get my head around, and it’s not exactly parent friendly. Knowing Tiago, he probably blurted everything out. Jesus, I bloody hope he didn’t.
I’m spiralling – literally. I grip the handle tighter as I wheel my case down the circular ramp towards Arrivals. What am I doing? Why in the world did I agree to this?
And why can I hear Pitbull playing from tinny speakers?
As I round the final bend, I don’t see Tiago under a Dolphins cap like he said he’d be. I see lots and lots of Hispanic girls, all chatting around a boombox. A couple look quite like Isa. In fact, one looksreallylike?—
She’s pointing at me.
‘¡Ya llegó!’
Now they’re all screaming.
And rushing in my direction.
I resist the urge to hold my passport up as some semblance of a shield.
I think this is where I die. Stampeded in Miami Airport. Opposite a man with an alligator on a Gucci lead.
‘JULES!’
‘It’s so great to meet you. I’ve heard so?—’
‘Let me take your bag.’
‘¡No me empujes, Gabi!’
‘Hi, Jules, I’m Tiago’s cousin?—’
‘This is heavy as fuck!’
‘I’m ahugefan.’
‘¡Tati, pon Will Smith!’
The space around me shrinks, bodies all pressing into one another. Through a gap in their heads I spot a Colombianflag being flung in the air. Will Smith’s ‘Miami’ rings out, impressively drowning out the Arrivals Hall din.
This is very… sweet and everything, but I’m painfully conscious of passersby. Photoscan’tend up online. Tom thinks I’m here for a brand meeting – and it conveniently aligns with my old friend Isa’s party. I don’t know how to explain the Great Colombian Welcome Wagon if this gets back to him.
‘She’s onvacationfromLondon!’ snaps a girl with dyed blonde hair and severe roots to a security guard. ‘We wanna give her a proper Miamiwelcome.’
At last, the turquoise flash of a baseball cap catches my eye, and a part of me I didn’t know was missing settles back into place.
‘Give her space!’ he’s yelling. ‘What did I tell you? She doesn’t like flying!’
Anxiety about this trip strangely overpowered my fear of plummeting from the sky. I’m not good with leaving my comfort zone, and this is one hell of a new experience. I couldn’t sleep; I couldn’t relax to my pink noise. I frantically shoved pretzels in my mouth for ten hours straight, listened to the Disney Channel playlist Tiago made me (Kim Possible’s on therefour times), and binge-watched telenovelas. I can’t remember a single Spanish phrase – not that I imagine any of them will be applicable this week.
As our eyes meet, I tell the butterflies in my stomach to shut up.
‘I’m sorry,’ is his welcome. Hassled is a good look on him. ‘I tried to sneak out, I swear.’ He searches my face. ‘You ok? How was the flight?’
Stressful. Sweaty. Salty. ‘Fine.’
He half smiles, a soft look in his eyes. ‘I’ll pretend I believe you.’ He looks around at his sisters and cousins who have nowmelted back into their cliques, and blows out a heavy breath. ‘Alright, everybody.¡Listos, nos fuimos!’
Only the girl who was yelling at airport security moves, sticking her foot out and crossing her arms. I make a mental note never to mess with her. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us?’
‘Nope, not here.’ Tiago’s arm steals around my shoulders like he’s my personal security. It feels nice. Natural, even. The height difference is perfect.
