Silence.
He frowned at the screen, checked the signal.
“Sofia, are you there?”
“Yes,” came her voice, low, small, defeated. Then a sniff. The kind that pulled the ground out from under him.
“Hey… is everything alright?”
Another long pause. But he could hear her. Breathing, sniffling. Then, a heavy inhale. “No, I can’t come to Brazil tomorrow. My sister just called me—” Her voice cracked. “—and…”
He didn’t need her to finish.
“Is it your Dad?” he asked, gently.
“Yes.” And then she shattered. The sobs broke out of her like a storm, shaking her. All he wanted was to hold her, to pull her into him and tell her…He paused. No, nothing would be okay. She was losing her father. Someone she adored. And the grief would be big and brutal and sharp. His own heart had broken to his father’s death, more of guilt than actual love toward a man who had given him life, surf and heartbreak.
She cried for minutes. He said nothing. Just waited.
Finally, she spoke through the tears. “Sorry. My sister called and said the doctors think he has weeks. Maybe a month. I have to go back to Italy. I need to stay with them, with him, before—”
Her voice broke again.
“Can you turn on the camera?” he asked softly.
“I’m a mess,” she whispered.
“I can’t stand to be away from you right now, when you’re feeling like that.”
“Okay.” Her voice was barely a breath.
The screen lit up. She was curled in bed, hair pulled into a messy bun, one of his stolen shirts draped over her, her eyes red and swollen. Streaks of dried tears marked her cheeks, and yet, she was still beautiful. Still Sofia.
“Better?” she asked, burying her face into the pillow.
“It’s okay, habiba. It’s okay. It’s normal to cry. And it’s okay that you’re going there,” he said, his voice tender.
“Are you sure?” she asked. “Are you not mad?”
“How could I be mad, Sofia?” His brow furrowed. “You’re grieving. You’re hurt. You’re sad. I know you wanted to come to Saquarema, but it’s best you go back to Genova.”
She nodded. “I found a flight for tomorrow morning. I’ll have to pay 300 euros, but it’s worth it.”
“Elvira will be in charge?”
“Yes. And Penelope, the new girl. I’ll work from Genova, emails and whatnot. Elvira will handle the tours.”
“Good.” He paused, looking at her carefully. “How do you feel?”
“Like a terrible daughter. Because I should have been there this whole time and I haven’t. Because I was around frolicking—” He couldn’t help a snort. “—and having fun while he was dying.”
“You are not a terrible daughter, Sofia. You call your parents daily. You’re always checking on them. You’re more present than people who live a door away from their families. But you have a life, a good one, that you built from the ground up after it fell apart. You’re a very good daughter, Sofia. And I know your father knows it too.”
Another sniff. A smaller, aching sob.
“I’m sorry to be a cry baby.”
“I didn’t shed a tear when my dad died, and then went to therapy for two years to deal with it. So, do you know what I learned from that?”
