38620, Santa Cruz de Tenerife

My eyes peel away from the half open window of the taxi to rest on the piece of paper crumpled up inside my fisted palm. The warm breeze winds through my black curls, cooling down the glistening skin of my neck and collarbone, where sweat has settled to pearl on my too-hot body.

Despite the fact that I was born in Reunion Island—one of those tiny pieces of land adorning the Indian Ocean—three decades on the Emerald Isle was more than enough to tame my natural defences against the blazing heat of sweltering havens to mush. People always assume I thrive under the sun because of my complexion, when it isn’t always the case. I too melt and red.

The taxi driver glances up at me through his rear-view mirror and voices something in Spanish, the words exiting his mouth in one long, blurry melodic sound. With the pace at which he speaks, his Tenerife accent, and his bass vocal range, the few years of Spanish I learnt in school and college are rendered useless. So I smile at him and blink.

“Hm?” I hum, adjusting my posture at the back of the car to lean closer to his driver’s seat.

I brace myself, activate my listening skills, and wait for him to repeat.

“Ten minutes,” he tells me in English instead.

Ah!

“Gracias,” I thank him.

I am ten minutes away from my final destination. Ten minutes away from meeting Rafael Morales, the pen pal the secondary school I attended in Galway paired me with as a means to improve my Spanish. Most of my classmates didn’t take the epistolary exchange seriously and lost touch with their pen pals within days of graduating from Coláiste Ciarán. But not me.

Rafael and I bonded almost straight away. I remember the first letter I received from him. Back then the envelopes were sent to the school and distributed to the pupils by our teachers. I was reticent to open his at first, because I originally didn’t want to be paired with a boy. What could I possibly share with a boy? I was young, and shy, and so self-conscious. The sole idea of socialising with someone of the opposite sex made me sick to my stomach. Fortunately it wasn’t up to me.

Rafael’s first letter began the traditional way; the way we are taught at school:

Marina Boyer,

Coláiste Ciarán,

Sallylong Rd,

Salthill,

Co. Galway,

Ireland

Rafael Morales,

Las Reinas,

38620,

Santa Cruz de Tenerife,

Spain

October 29, 2008

Dear Marina…

Rafael’s class was to write in English, mine in Spanish. After we both graduated, however, we decided to lose the Spanish and communicate solely in English. The switch happened organically. Rafael went to college to study tourism, and every class he took was in English. Some were in French, so he did seek my help with his assignments once or twice over the years, but we never kept it up.

My heart pounds in my chest as the taxi slows its pace to round the corner to drive through the busy car park of the hotel, whose bleached walls erect before us. My eyes dart to the worn out piece of paper in my hand as I flatten it on my lap. Viejo Teide Hotel, 38620, Santa Cruz de Tenerife, I reread quietly. We decided to meet up at his workplace. I thought a public meeting spot would be a good idea in case Rafael turned out to be a catfish… which I doubt very much. Unless someone hacked him, of course. We have been friends for fifteen years after all, and we met through school.

The thought crossed my mind on Tuesday, four days ago, when I realised we had never video called each other. The first year after graduating from secondary school, Rafael and I stuck to epistolary writing. After that we switched to emails, before moving on to instant messaging. Messenger and WhatsApp came in handy then. We followed each other on social media, too, and often shared photos with one another, but videos were never a thing.

Our first three months exchanging letters was like talking to an old friend. I felt closer to Rafael than the people physically present in my life. Soon we promised each other that we would meet up in person, Tenerife (Spain) and Ireland both being EU countries and all, hence the no-video policy. Our first time seeing one another in the flesh had to be real. In person, rather than on screen.

Rafael is that one friend I don’t need to talk to every single day to know he has my back no matter what despite the distance. We went through months and months of silence before, because life happened, without once doubting we would be able to pick up our friendship where we left it off. We always messaged each other with great news, and not-so-great, knowing genuine happiness and encouragement would follow suit without fail.

When things went to shit between Tadhg and me two months ago, Rafael was the first person I texted. And sure enough my phone rang within seconds of the message being delivered.

“Marina,” the familiar voice resounded on the line, hints of concern and sadness coating my name.

“He’s gone, Raf,” I wailed. “He grabbed his stuff and left.”

A sniffle from me, and silence from Rafael.

“Like… he didn’t even turn back, like,” I went on, tears cruising down my flushed cheeks.

Another sniffle.

“It all happened so quickly,” I breathed. “I don’t get it. I thought we were fine yesterday. We even went to his parents’ for tea in the evening. I keep replaying the whole thing in my head. I just don’t understand…”

“Marina, I’m so sorry,” he said in that distinctly charming accent of his.

I nodded, even though I knew he couldn’t see me. I then shifted and twisted on the couch to grab a tissue from the oak coffee table between me and the telly to blow my nose.

“I’m not gonna ask what happened… not yet anyway,” Rafael told me. “Unless you wanna talk about it, of course.”

“No…” I shook my head.

“What can I do?” he asked.

And despite the distance, I could picture elfin lines wrinkling the skin between his eyes as he genuinely pondered upon what he could do all the way from Tenerife to help me glue the broken pieces of my heart back together.

“I don’t know.” I shrugged.

“Can you send me his address?”

I chuckled quietly at the request.

“No, but I appreciate the thought,” I told him with a faint smile.

“Always.” I could hear him grin on the other end, too.

We went quiet for a moment as I replayed the breakup in my mind, wiping the endless fountain of tears off my face.

“Will you watch Scream with me?” I asked after a while, my voice weak, veiled with unsolicited sorrow.

“Let me get my laptop,” he replied without an ounce of hesitation.

Nine weeks later, and I now walk through the sliding doors of Viejo Teide Hotel, my pink hard-shell suitcase trotting behind me. The staff smiles at me as I approach reception.

“Hola, bienvenida,” the woman greets me with a gleeful welcome, before proceeding to spit something I do not understand in fast-pace Spanish.

“Perdón,” I apologise. “English?”

I watch the gears rotate in her brain as she readies herself to switch languages. I don’t blame her for hesitating; at first glance, I look exactly like the locals here. Cinnamon-coloured skin, brown eyes, and black curly hair.

“Of course,” she chirps, rolling her Rs. “How can I help you?”

“I’m here to see Rafael Morales,” I reply. “He works here.”

A smirk twitches the left corner of her mouth.

“Mr. Morales has taken the afternoon off,” she lets me know. “Do you have an appointment?”

My brows narrow.

“No, I don’t,” I admit.

Why would I need an appointment to see Rafael? I think she is mistaken as to whom I am here to see. So I get a hold of my phone, unlock the screen, and scroll through Instagram. I show her a photo of my friend, one that he posted a week ago.

“That’s him,” I tell her, pointing at the tall, dark man standing in red swimming shorts on the pebbled beach of Playa de San Blas.

The receptionist’s cheeks flush and she nods profusely.

“Yes, Mr. Morales is off this afternoon,” she repeats.

“Oh,” is all I say.

“What’s your name?” she asks me, rummaging through the pile of paperwork behind the counter.

I hesitate, wondering whether I should say my name in English or French.

“Marina Boyer,” I say, opting for French.

“Ah, yes, Miss Boyer,” she rejoices, the nail of her index finger tapping the sticky note before her. “Mr. Morales is waiting for you in his suite.”

“His suite?” My eyes round and I blink.

“Yes, on the top floor.” She points to the left of the desk. “The lifts are at the end of the corridor. “Do you need help with your luggage?”

“Uhm, no, thank you,” I mutter, looking down to my suitcase and back up to meet her gaze.

She smiles. I wait for her to give me an explanation as to why and how Rafael got to avail of a penthouse in a five-star hotel, but she remains silent, and I don’t bother asking. So I wheel my pink valise behind me as I make my way to the brightly-lit corridor, where floor-to-ceiling glass windows offer natural light to the resort’s residents. I punch the upward arrow on the wall and the metal doors open to invite me inside the lift. I press the PH button for the tenth floor, my heart hammering my ribs with anticipation.

Maybe the receptionist got it wrong. I retrieve my phone from the back pocket of my denim shorts and check the photo of Rafael I showed her. Yep, that’s him; tall and fit, suntanned olive skin, short dark hair, and a million-dollar smile.

How could Rafael afford a suite on a hotel staff salary? When he asked me to meet up with him at Viejo Teide Hotel, I assumed we would be spending time at the bar, or in the lobby. Have I been catfished?

A ding and the doors open to reveal a large balcony-like hall leading to a single soundproofed door. The sun beams in the cloudless azure sky, its rays shining over my right forearm as I slowly near the penthouse. Moisture has settled over my palms, and this time I know it isn’t because of the heat. What if Rafael isn’t Rafael?

I pause behind the door, take a deep breath, and swallow the knot that expanded in my throat. What if this is a mistake? But my hand rises with a mind of its own, ignoring the drumming in my ribcage and the shallowness of my breathing.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.