As we approach the kitchen, I realize that the woman standing there is my age: short with dark waves of hair perched in a bun on her head and a faded blue scarf tied at the top as a headband. She wears a loose white dress and slippers. Her eyes look tired, but they glow when they see Darien, and a smile spreads across her face. She has his clever smirk and expressive eyes.
Darien embraces his cousin with jovial greetings as Karolina beams and says something in Portuguese that sends them both into a riot of laughter. She gestures inside, where four other people are craning their necks to see us from around a dining table.Helloandoláande aiare in the air, happy sounds of reunion.
Before I can even start to take stock of all the people around the table, someone’s hustled me into my own chair and put a plate in front of me. Karolina takes a seat beside someone who I believe is her husband. He holds a very loud, very small bundle in his arms.
‘My nephew,’ whispers Darien. ‘Felipe. Total daddy’s boy.’
I watch as Karolina smiles down at her son, offering him a finger to hold with that tiny hand of his. Her husband beams down at them both, plants a kiss in her hair.
Something wiggles its way into my heart as I watch them: sadness? Envy?
But I’m quickly distracted from my moment of pause when the family members eagerly turn their attention my way. A tangle of questions in Portuguese fly towards me, and as chaotic as it is, I can feel the affection practically emanate from them. I don’t even try to hide my resulting joy. I’ve longed to feel this chaos, this affection, for the past year.
‘Guys, guys!’ Darien waves his hands frantically. It’s as humorous as it is sweet. ‘Não fala português!’
A resounding ‘ohhh’ of understanding echoes around the table. There’s a momentary bustle to choose a representative speaker before Darien’s mum silences all the overlapping chatter with a flail of her hand and an excited little, ‘Shantal, let me introduce you. First …’ She points to Karolina. ‘You’ve met Karolina. Felipe, the littlest; Cassius, hispai; and then this here …’
‘Tia Manuela, Mãe’s sister; and Tio Julio,’ Darien finishes happily. ‘My aunt and uncle.’
Tia looks like she could be a twin to Mrs Cardoso-Magalhães, except for her striking hazel eyes. Tio, in his straw fedora, smiles contentedly at us both, and then, to Darien, says, ‘Took youthislong?’
His remark makes everyone at the table laugh, and I chuckle. The statement reminds me of my family’s embarrassing jokes.
They exchange looks full of mischief and excited smiles before Tio Julio turns to me. ‘Oh,filha, imagine how relieved we are to find out he’sfinallybrought a girl home to meet us.’
A blush reddens Darien’s cheeks as I glance his way with a barely concealed grin. I’m the first. There’s a certain gravitas to that title.
Chapter Forty-Six
Shantal
Family dinner was everything I’d been missing and more.
I got to listen to all the embarrassing baby Darien stories, met two relatives over video call, heard how Darien got his start karting, and received multiple helpings of dinner while I was at it. They lavished affection and kindness like nothing else I’ve ever experienced. And it was truly beautiful; when it came time for us to leave with full bellies and hearts about to burst of happiness, I almost didn’t want to.
But that same little bit ofsomethingthat had threatened to ruin my night wraps its claws around my heart early the next morning. It is the first thing on my mind when my eyes flutter open to the sun peeking through the slats of the blinds in the bedroom of Darien’s house in Santa Teresa.
I don’t expect the pain to hit me, and I think that’s why it hurts so badly.
I watch Darien’s back rise and fall with breaths, his hair tousled against the pillow beside me. After the dinner lastnight, we’d both returned in high spirits, wine-blush staining our cheeks as we laughed our way through the best of each family member’s quips. Now, that feels like a distant memory.
I can’t stop thinking about Darien’s cousin, Karolina, and her family.
I imagine Sonia playing with her son, holding him as he grabs her hand and she smiles down at him, brushing a hair from her face as she leans down to press her cheek to his. I imagine that he grows up, and she takes him back to 63 Beach, where his tiny feet make grubby footprints in the sand when he walks between his parents. He points to a fish in the water and Sonia laughs, hugging him tight.
My throat closes up. My breathing snags.
I can still see her decorating the nursery, a week before she died. She wore these overalls with plain-coloured shirts under them and made scarves into headbands. She hung blue bunting and whales and sailboats on the walls, compared photos to decide which ones should go on the dresser, folded clothes so small you could fit them in her husband’s hand. They’d laughed about that, both of them. Creating that room filled them both with joy.
‘Shantal.’ Darien’s voice, sleepy, sounding as if I am underwater and he’s on land. ‘Hey, Shanni?’
I swing myself out of the bed on unsteady legs, but I need this. I rush over to the sliding doors that open onto the balcony and push them so that I’m outside.
My shoulders heave as I struggle to breathe. Strangled cries escape me. I allow myself, for the first time, to replay what happened that night.
‘Shanni!’
Darien’s voice is panicked behind me. I hear the balcony door slide open and then feel his arms around me, the warmthof his bare torso against mine. He rubs my back and strokes my hair. His heart thuds in sync with mine as he whispers, ‘Breathe, Shanni, breathe. God …’
