Excerpt
Returning to You
Gwen Tolios © 2022
All Rights Reserved
Chapter One
Lack of Communication
The bustle and urgency of O’Hare Airport calmed Monica’s nerves as she stepped off the plane. Colder-than-wanted air conditioning, people sitting on the floor next to outlets, automated announcements, and large blue signs. After five years of almost constant traveling, bus stations, train stations, and airports were familiar enough to be second homes.
Ay Dios, it’d be nice to not jump around for a bit. From October through December, she’d be home and nestling into her childhood pillows.
She took a deep breath, pushing aside her rising anxiety, and made her way to baggage claim. As much as she knew she had to come, the thought of spending the next three months with her father made Monica bite the inside of her lip. Their past five calls had ended with him yelling at her. For the past year, their relationship had been on edge, and she hated it.
So she came home to fix it.
Waiting for her bags, she logged into the airport Wi-Fi. WhatsApp filled with messages from friends wishing her a safe flight. She typed landed!, then flipped to Instagram. She recorded a short video, complete with an ear-popping yawn, to inform her followers her flight had been screaming baby free.
A soft thunk turned Monica’s attention to the now-appearing luggage. Ten minutes later, she pushed a trolley out the door with one hand and called her father on the other. Eric Ubach picked up on the first ring. “Hey, Globetrotter. Almost there.”
Monica sighed. He’d answered with her childhood nickname. That had to be a good sign, right? “¡Hola, Papi! I’m by the D door.”
“You remember the car?”
Monica rattled off the license plate and Eric laughed. “How you remember things like that, I wish I knew. See you in a bit, mija.”
“Okay, Papi.”
She hung up and took a deep breath of Chicago air, the cold burning her lungs compared to the Mediterranean warmth she’d left. He hadn’t raised his voice. He sounded happy throughout their entire, though brief, conversation. Coming back had been a good choice. They’d spent too long apart for being each other’s only family.
A red Saturn Astra caught her eye, as did the tall, dirty-blond man cramped behind the wheel. Monica waved to get her father’s attention. Eric waved back and cut to the curb. They went into action—opening doors, throwing in suitcases, exchanging brief hugs—to a soundtrack of horns and traffic guards shouting at cars to move. Within minutes, Monica plopped into the passenger seat, grinning. She held up her hands to the car’s heat vent and rubbed her hands together.
Eric patted her thigh and started driving. “How was the flight?”
Monica filled him in, from her mad dash to the gate to the small rivalry she developed with a username on the in-flight trivia game. The conversation made Monica feel younger. Younger than twenty-seven, or twenty-one, or even eighteen. She slipped back to middle school, safe and warm in the car as her father drove her home from school and asked about her day.
She must have fallen asleep during the two-hour trip to Madison because the next thing she knew her dad was shaking her shoulder in the garage. “Come on, Globetrotter. Up to bed. Gotta sleep off that jet lag.”
Monica groaned. “I want to take a shower first. Get the travel dust off.”
“You remember where the towels are?”
“I used to live here, Papi. I doubt it changed too much.”
They lugged her bags into her bedroom. It looked just like she left it heading off to college: high school posters on the walls, the bookshelf full of Baby-sitters Club books, the nest of pillows and stuffed animals on her bed.
She grabbed her stuff and headed to the bathroom.
Ah, American showers. She’d gotten used to older European showers, showerheads above drains with a small lip made of tile to contain water if she was lucky. Now, she relished standing in a basin and not having to worry about water all over the floor or keeping her elbows in. Monica hummed to herself, lathering her hair, when Eric burst through the door.
“Papi!” she shrieked. “¡Lárgate!”
“Just getting something,” he said, opening the medicine cabinet.
Before the shampoo dripped into Monica’s eyes, her dad grabbed whatever he needed and left. The door clicked shut.
Ay Dios! Who cared if the glass was frosted? Her dad should never have come in! Fuming, she scurried to the door, locked it, and stepped back under the spray.
Warm from embarrassment and the steam, Monica quickly finished. Before heading to her room, she took a detour to lean over the railing at the top of her stairs. She heard her father in the kitchen, and as much as she wanted to scold him—it’s not like he hadn’t known she was showering—she couldn’t imagine facing him without blushing scarlet.
“In case you need anything else from the bathroom,” she called down the stairs, “I’m out.”
She hoped her indignation was obvious, but the apology she expected never came. She debated demanding one, but that seemed petty. Plus, who wanted to draw out mutual embarrassment?
Monica crawled into bed. Lying under the sheets, she browsed Instagram and responded to comments. Keeping an active profile kept her followers engaged, which in return increased the likelihood of brands wanting to pay her for a bit of publicity. She never imagined using her business degree more for her side hustle than her day job as customer support for a travel agency, but oh well.
She got a ping from Lisa on WhatsApp.
Lisa: Ah! You’re in America again! How was the flight?
Monica: long, but okay
Monica: what’d you do today?
Lisa: Did some work, then had a lunch date.
Monica: Oo, la la. anything happen?
Lisa: He was cute, but not cute enough.
Monica: hahaha
Lisa: We still doing brunch Sunday?
Monica: yeah
Monica stared at the screen for a moment, wondering if it was worth the fuss of bringing up her dad’s earlier behavior. Probably not, she decided. It’d been awkward, not something she’d ever expect considering how courteous he’d been when she was a teen, but not malicious. For the majority of the past nine years, Eric had been living alone. He simply had to readjust to sharing the house.
And relearn manners? Monica shook her head. People made mistakes, and there were worse ones than barging into an in-use bathroom. No use going all reality-TV-drama over it.
She texted Lisa good night and slipped her eye mask over her eyes.
Monica woke a ridiculous number of hours before her alarm. Giving up on extra sleep, she resigned herself to an early morning. She padded into the kitchen and grimaced at Eric’s coffee machine; Keurig had nothing on good Italian espresso but she was too desperate for caffeine to be picky.
When her father joined her hours later, Monica smiled at his bedhead over her second cup of coffee. The dirty-blond locks were all askew in the back, and the silver she missed yesterday caught the kitchen light. “Morning, Papi.”
He selected his coffee and started the Keurig before turning around to speak. “Morning, mija.”
“Sleep well?”
“Yup.”
Monica waited, expecting a delayed apology. Sorry to barge in on you while showering. I needed to grab something real fast. I knocked and you didn’t answer, but I’ve seen it all before, Globetrotter.
Instead, Eric said, “You didn’t make breakfast?”
“No? I just had cereal and milk. Where’s the chorizo?” It was her favorite. She’d been hoping her dad stocked it; had imagined her first morning back to be an old weekend staple of chorizo and eggs.
“I’m a vegetarian.”
Before Monica could wrap her head around that—he used to crave a bratwurst once a week—he continued.
“Did you not think I wanted breakfast?” He sounded hurt and snobbish, like one of the rich travelers Monica dealt with upset at what time a tour started.
Monica puffed out her cheeks. His girlfriend Gloria must have spoiled him these past two years.
“It’s oatmeal weather.” She looked over her shoulder out of the kitchen window. The day’s dreary gray promised scarves and many mugs of a warm drink.
“Sounds good.” Eric sat at the kitchen table.
She stared at him. Did he expect her to make his oatmeal? Apparently so. Huffing, she filled the kettle with water and flipped the switch.
“Excited to be home?” Eric asked.
She looked over her shoulder at her dad. His tone had softened, the question genuine.
“Yeah.” Monica smiled as she dumped Quaker packets into a bowl. “I’ve missed you, Papi. And I’m not that far from Lisa either. We made brunch plans for tomorrow.”
“I missed you, too, mija. And I’m glad you two are still friends, even after you left.”
“Best friends.” Only true friend, she amended in her mind. All her years bouncing from country to country, Lisa was the only person she kept in regular contact with outside of Eric. She poured hot water on top of Eric’s dry oats.
Her dad smiled at her. “BFFs. Now, hand me my oatmeal.”
She did.
“And the sugar.”
Monica frowned. He could have asked before she picked up her coffee again. Peeved, she drew the sugar bowl toward her to put a sprinkle in her coffee. Would it kill her dad to be polite?
“Globetrotter.”
“Papi, why didn’t you tell me you became a vegetarian?”
“Does it matter?” he snapped.
Monica leaned against the kitchen counter, frowning at his sudden prickliness. “You’re my dad. I thought… I thought you would have told me. I’m sad you didn’t.”
“I don’t have to tell you everything.”
Monica pressed her lips together. “You used to.”
“If I don’t want to tell you something, I won’t.”
Monica stood straighter. “Does that include apologies? I’d like one for when you walked into the bathroom last night.”
“My house, my rules. I go where I want.”
“There’s a thing called privacy.”
“If I want something, I take it. And if I ask for something, I expect to get it. Hand me the sugar.”
She thought about saying no, but her dad’s face stopped her. He looked like a stranger, not the man who made her laugh or took her camping. A part of her feared if she refused, he’d walk across the kitchen and hit her.
Monica had never been frightened of her father before. The thought shocked her, and as a result she took too long to answer.
“If you can’t follow the rules, you can’t stay here,” Eric declared.
“What?”
“You heard me. If you don’t like how I live, in my own house, and won’t help me, why are you here?” He pushed himself away from the table and headed up the stairs. Monica scurried after him.
“Papi, what?”
“I’m packing your things.”
“But—”
“You’re not staying here!”
Tears formed in Monica’s eyes as she watched him stuff the few things she’d taken out of her suitcases back in. “Papi, no! I can hand you the sugar. I’ll lock the doors. I came here to spend time with you. We haven’t seen each other in years.”
“You left once, you can do it again. Here.” He forced one of her suitcases into her hand. “Lisa will let you stay with her.”
“You don’t know that.”
“You’ve been friends for years, she’ll say yes.”
“And you’re my father!”
Eric ignored her. “I’ll drive you to Chicago, make sure you get out of my hair.”
“Papi, I’m not leaving.”
“Yes, you are.” He grabbed both suitcases and made his way to the car, Monica trailing behind. He stuck them in the back seat, then opened the passenger side door. “Get in.”
“Papi, please. Let’s talk about this.”
“Get. In.” Eric repeated.
Monica slunk into the car.
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