They Thought I Didn't Understand Portuguese

Caroline's POV

I stood on the yacht deck clutching Gavin's urn, which I knew was full of nothing but sand. The Florida sun was brutal, even at a funeral.

Two weeks. I stared at the polished mahogany box in my shaking hands. Two weeks since they found his life jacket floating in the Atlantic.

Everyone around me was dressed in black, whispering condolences that sounded more like accusations. I could feel them staring at me, judging. Did she push him to this? What did she do to him?

I didn't have to wait long for someone to say it out loud.

"You!" The scream ripped through the quiet. "This is all your fault!"

Gavin's mother came at me like a hurricane. Her face was destroyed with grief and rage. I stumbled back, almost dropping the urn.

"If you two hadn't fought at the bridal shop, if you hadn't been so impossible, Gavin would still be here!" She was jabbing her finger at my chest with every word. "He wouldn't have needed to get away from you! He wouldn't have gone out on that boat!"

My throat closed up. The urn suddenly weighed a thousand pounds.

"I'm sorry," I whispered. The words scraped out of me. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know...I never thought..."

"Everything went wrong the day Gavin met you." His father's voice was ice cold. He stood behind his wife like he was pronouncing a death sentence. "You brought him nothing but trouble."

The bridal shop. God, I could see it so clearly. Gavin's face when I said the dress cost too much. The way his jaw got tight. How he grabbed his keys and walked out, slamming the door so hard the mirrors shook.

"I need air, Caroline. I need to get the hell away from you."

Those were the last words he said to me.

My knees were starting to give out. The tears came faster, burning my face. Everyone was watching now, a whole circle of people seeing me fall apart.

"Please." I barely recognized my own voice. "I loved him. I would never—"

"Mrs. Foster." Someone's hand landed on my shoulder. Luis Oliveira stepped between me and Gavin's parents. His face was kind. "I get that you're in pain, but this isn't right. Caroline lost someone too."

Diego Souza moved next to him. "The storm was an accident. Nobody saw it coming. Gavin chose to go sailing that day. That was his decision."

Gavin's mother opened her mouth, then shut it. She turned away, her whole body shaking with sobs. His father stared at me for another second with those cold eyes before he followed her toward the cabin.

"Thank you," I managed to tell Luis and Diego.

Diego nodded. "You shouldn't be dealing with this alone. We know these past two weeks have been absolute hell for you."

My face carefully broken, my shoulders hunched.

The memorial service went on forever. I stood at the front while person after person got up to share memories of Gavin, how charming he was, how ambitious, how "full of life." Every story felt like someone was piling rocks on top of my chest.

"He lit up every room he walked into."

"He was always the life of the party."

"We'll never meet anyone like him again."

When it finally ended, I had to get out of there. I walked to the back of the yacht where nobody else had gone. I need to step away from everyone and breathe. This is all too overwhelming.

I grabbed the railing and stared at the horizon, letting myself cry now that I was alone. My phone buzzed in my purse, probably my friend Maya checking on me, but I ignored it.

How the hell did I end up here? Four years together. He proposed on a yacht just like this one. We had three different Pinterest boards for the wedding. And now I was holding fake ashes over the Atlantic while his parents blamed me for killing him.

I heard voices behind me. Men talking quietly. I didn't turn around, I was too tired to deal with more sympathy or more blame.

Then I heard something that made every muscle in my body lock up.

"Cara, olha como ela chora."

Portuguese.

My grip on the railing got so tight my knuckles turned white.

"Me sinto mal por ela. Quando o Gavin vai voltar e dizer que está vivo?"

When is Gavin coming back to say he's alive?

I forced myself to stay frozen, keeping my shoulders shaking like I was still crying. Behind me, Diego and Luis were standing near the cabin entrance. I could smell their cigar smoke drifting over.

Luis spoke next, his voice lower and more careful. "Cuidado, cara. Não é bom falar disso aqui."

Be careful. It's not good to talk about this here.

"Relaxa." Diego laughed, easy and careless. "Ela não entende português."

She doesn't understand Portuguese.

I saw my grandmother's face so clearly in my head, Avó Helena, holding my hand as we walked through Lisbon. Those summer afternoons in her kitchen where she taught me to make pastéis de nata and told me stories about growing up in Portugal. The way she'd switch between English and Portuguese in the middle of a sentence, this beautiful dance that became as normal to me as breathing.

"Eu te amo, minha querida," she'd say, kissing my forehead.

She died when I was fifteen. We stopped going to Portugal after that, my parents said it hurt too much, cost too much. But I never let the language go.

Nobody knew. Not my parents. Not my friends. Definitely not Gavin, who once made fun of me for barely being able to order tacos in Spanish.

And definitely not these two idiots smoking cigars and talking about my "dead" fiancé like he was on some vacation.

Luis was still talking. "Você acha que ela vai perdoar quando ele voltar?"

Do you think she'll forgive him when he comes back?

Diego laughed again. "Claro. Mulheres sempre perdoam quando o cara volta 'milagrosamente'. Ela vai estar tão aliviada que vai esquecer tudo."

Of course. Women always forgive when the guy comes back 'miraculously.' She'll be so relieved she'll forget everything.

The sun was sinking lower, bleeding red all over the water. I could taste salt in my mouth, from the ocean or my tears, I couldn't tell anymore.

Gavin was alive.

This entire funeral was fake.