Ilias was there, casually leaning against the kitchen counter, eyes on the ocean. His curls were damp. His skin sun-warmed.
“You went surfing?” she asked, scanning the room. Empty. Had she imagined the voices earlier? Was she still drunk?
He turned, surprised, and smiled. A big, bright, heart-punching grin that made the sun look like a backup dancer.
“Good morning, habiba.Sleep well? How’s Sober Sofia feeling?”
“Lower your voice,” she mumbled, pressing two fingers to her temples. “And why are you calling me Sober Sofia?”
“It was an inside joke with Drunk Sofia.She was living her best life last night.” He chuckled, holding out a mug of what smelled like coffee. “Drink this. Perfect for a hangover.”
“Are you sure?”
“No. But it used to help me when I drank.”
Sofia blinked. The realization clicked. “You didn’t drink last night?”
“I haven’t in two years. So, nope. Not even last night. I came back from surfing half an hour ago.”
She took a sip of the coffee. Australian coffee was supreme, even for an Italian.
“And why did you quit drinking?” she asked.
Ilias gestured for her to follow him outside into the garden. She walked after him, her eyes catching on his ass in those surf shorts, then on his broad shoulders stretching under his loose tee.
What did Drunk Sofia say?
She curled into the armchair while he dropped onto the couch. He looked effortlessly good, relaxed, sunkissed, unbothered by her death-by-hangover state.
“I quit drinking because I turned into someone I didn’t want to be. Violent. Messy. I should’ve stopped earlier, but, you know… social pressure.”
Sofia frowned. “You? Violent? You don’t seem like it.”
“Drunk Ilias was a different beast. So, I keep him away from people I love.” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. Those stunning, unreadable hazel eyes, somewhere between green and brown, flecked with gold that caught the light like they carried their own secrets.
Sofia nodded slowly. “Do you want to talk about it?”
He shrugged. “I went to therapy. Last time I got drunk, I punched a wall and called my father a piece of shit. The next day, he died. Totally unrelated, but still… the last words I ever said to him were, ‘Fuck off, you’re a shitty father and a shitty husband.’”
The air thickened. Sofia’s heart clenched. She hadn’t expected to hold this kind of pain the same morning she was holding her head from spinning. Ilias always looked so easygoing, always smiling. But maybe that smile was the mask. A coping mechanism.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. It was all she could offer while her mind, traitorously, pulled her back to her own father. “I’m sure he didn’t take it personally. Sometimes we say things we don’t mean when we’re angry.”
Ilias shook his head, a somber curve to his mouth. “Oh, he took it personally. For sure. But I’m not convinced he cared. He never did. In the end, he loved himself and Azul more. That’s it.”
“What happened?” she asked gently. “You said you learned to surf thanks to your father, and you sounded fond of him.” She hesitated. “Only if you want to talk about it.”
He let his head fall back, exposing his throat, dotted with stubble. “The day before he died, I found out he had a second family. While my mom was raising us in Málaga, he used Azul as an excuse to spend most of his time in Imsouane. It was easy to believe him, easy for him to take the ferry from Algeciras to Tangier, then drive down to Imsouane. Easy for him to build a second life.”
“Ilias, I’m so sorry. That must have been horrible.” She didn’t know what to say, how to react. He was staring at a fixed point on the wall, like he wasn’t really seeing it at all.
“Amira and I were adults,” he continued. “Finding out your father has a second family in your thirties is traumatizing, but… I should’ve had the emotional resources to deal with it better. I mostly just felt bad for my mother.”
“Did she know?”
“She suspected it,” he said. “But Amira and I found out randomly, one night, when he was talking with Yasmine and their son. I was half drunk because we were supposed to celebrate my second USL title, but it turned into a fucking nightmare. And then—” He exhaled. “Well. Then he died, and I fell into a spiral. Depression. Call it what you want.”
Sofia stood and moved to the couch, sitting beside him. She took his hand resting on his thigh and gently stroked it. “I’m truly sorry, Ilias. I don’t know what to say.”
