2. Homecoming
Homecoming
The road from northern Georgia to Ann's dad's place outside Atlanta is mercifully empty. Massive trees line the back roads, their leaves drifting down in the late-autumn chill. It’s only been a few hours since we took care of that piranha-headed thing, and with a shower and the promise of some rest, I almost feel giddy. Or I would, if Ann would quiet down.
“I already told you, Al, the place was cleared out by the time we got there,” Ann says, straining into the receiver.
There's an equally strained sigh before I hear Al with his thick Spanish accent yelling back through the receiver. “I heard you the first time. But we know there are more of them out there.”
“Well, if you want to find them, leave your stupid swamp and come look for yourself. Oh, wait—you can't.”
There's some muffled cursing in Spanish before he replies, “Fine, take your vacation. I'm just telling you not to let your guard down, okay? Just because that one was alone doesn't mean there aren't more watching you.”
“Aw, is someone actually worried about us?” Ann teases.
“Ask him if he can send us some cash,” I remind Ann as I notice a white vintage Cadillac in the rearview mirror.
“Oh yeah! Shay wants-”
“I can hear her. You're on speaker phone,” Al snaps back. “And you both have plenty of money. Just go make a withdrawal from an ATM.”
I grimace. “You know we both lost our wallets to the one in Atlanta.”
“Well, whose fault is that?” he huffs back. “Take better care of your things.”
The line goes quiet, not hung up, but he's right.
As much as I hate it, Al is usually right.
Finally, that obnoxious voice comes back.
“I can wire you some money at your dad's place, but you are paying me back every dime next time I see you. Maybe sticking around there will be a good idea. You can get your crap in order.”
“Thank you, Al,” Ann says with a toothy smile. “Love you, miss you.”
She promptly hangs up just as Al is about to add something.
“I have no clue how you two haven't killed each other by now,” I say, glancing back to the road.
“It's simple. I literally can't kill him. As far as anyone knows, he's immortal. And he can't kill me because he loves me like a daughter,” Ann says, scrolling through her playlist.
“I'm pretty sure he likes me more than you.”
“Yeah, but I saved his life.”
“I thought you just admitted he couldn't die.”
“There's more than one way to save a life,” she mutters, staring at the phone.
I nod, appreciating just how true it is, especially coming from her, after all she's done for me, and even wanting to stay with me after what I did to her. I reach over and take her hand, then bring it to my lips for a quick kiss.
“What was that for?” Ann giggles as she picks a Dolly Parton song for our road trip playlist.
“I just love you,” I say, smiling as my eyes flick between her and the open road.
She doesn't say anything to that; she doesn't need to.
We just descend into the chorus of 'nine-to-five' before singing along to the next song and the next.
All the while, I keep thinking about that creature den and about how patient Ann was with me.
I also keep thinking that something still doesn't sit right with me about the state we found it in.
We're almost to her dad's place when I finally get the nerve to ask the question, “Do you think last night was too easy?”
It takes her a moment to realize what I'm talking about before answering, “I don't know, I wasn't in there when you got him.”
She says it gently, appraising, trying not to sound judgmental.
It hurts a little because I know she's tiptoeing around the situation. It took me a bit, but after we left the den, I realized that anxiety never really left Ann. She thinks my frustration over how things have been going lately has more to do with her and monsters than me and my own fears of the life I’m offering her.
I take her hand again, reassuringly, wishing I could properly articulate how I feel.
Instead, as always, I just give up and pivot back to work.
“But it was weird, right? The place didn't just look barren; it looked completely stripped. When I went to attack the guy, he seemed surprised, but not like they usually do. Seemed like he couldn't fathom that someone else would attack him.” I mutter as we pull into her father's subdivision.
“Turn here,” she says, still thinking, pointing left. “I don't know. I'm just glad we got the son of a bitch.”
She points one more time for me to pull over in front of a cookie-cutter one-story home with a big garage and an equally big truck parked out front.
We barely have time to get out of the van before a tall, broad-shouldered man—what I imagine every high school quarterback eventually turns into—steps out the front door.
“You're here!” Tom's voice is deep and steady, but it's painted with a hint of surprise.
“Yeah! Why wouldn't we be?” she says, going to hug her dad.
To a bystander, it looks like a typical father-daughter reunion. But I can’t help finding it amusing. A girl with a presence that fills every room is suddenly someone’s daughter again. A woman who can seem ten feet tall shrinks under her father’s chin as he rests it on her head.
“It's good to see you, baby girl.”
“Good to see you too, Dad.”
I stand there smiling before I realize they're staring back at me, Tom leaving one arm wide open for another hug. “Well, Shay? You going to get in here or what?”
Heat prickles my cheeks as I close the short distance between us in three quick steps before I'm swept up in the familial hug. My dad didn't live long enough to give me this, but it's so warm and cozy I can't imagine it would have felt any other way.
The man uses his broad arms to crush us in a tight embrace before letting go as Ann lets off a litany of, “Enough already.”
He smiles deeply, then turns his attention to me. “I got the ingredients you texted me. I couldn’t get everything exactly the way they probably did it back home, but the guy at the Middle Eastern market helped as best he could. I can’t wait to try some authentic looby... loobia?”
I chuckle as the painfully Caucasian man tries to recite the name I imagine he's maybe only read a handful of times in restaurant menus. “Loobia Polo.”
“Yeah. That,” he says with an embarrassed smile.
The nice thing about mostly living out of a van is that we never really need to unpack, so we waste no time hurrying inside to get cooking.
We catch her dad up on our lives, minus the monster hunting, and he tells us how retirement is going.
Apparently, he's finally serious about selling the old place and moving closer to Al and us.
Ann receives the news with equal parts excitement and relief.
Finally, the fragrant rice, beef, and green bean medley that's been melding on the old electric stove is done cooking and double-cooking. Despite Tom's limited kitchen, I feel confident I'm about to impress my girlfriend's dad as the moment of truth arrives.
“All right, time for the show,” I say, using a kitchen towel to heft the large pot with one hand and a large serving plate as a lid in the other.
Tom watches in peaked anticipation, and despite how much Ann insisted it was dumb to get excited over rice, I can see the excitement on her face as well. With one swift motion, I flip the pot over so it rests upside down on the dish, then set it on the kitchen counter.
“Moment of truth,” I whisper.
Tahdig is a delicate art. If done well, the pot releases a tall cake of rice with a buttery, crisp crust you can slice like a savory loaf. My mother taught me this when I was young—a rite of passage in our family. Doing it now for Ann’s family feels like a full-circle moment.
I grip both pot handles and gently pull up, feeling the rice slide free.
Once the pot is completely away, I stare in amazement at what a bad job I've done.
The fragrant rice medley still looks and smells as delicious as when I started, and along the edges, a mostly crisp crust of rice grains forms. But as I look down into the pot, I see a thick, black layer of burnt rice coating the interior.
I can think of a thousand reasons why it went wrong: I haven’t made it in ages, I’m unfamiliar with the kitchen, the ingredients, the cookware.
But the ache to get it right for these two is too deep.
Suddenly, heat prickles behind my eyes. I know it should be fine, but the sight is too much, and tears well up—like I’ve failed not just Ann and Tom, but my own parents as well.
I'm standing there, stunned, fighting every urge to cry, too scared to look at either of them after all that wasted time and effort. But before any of those tears have a chance to fall, I feel a firm, reassuring grip on my shoulder as Ann giggles into my ear. “I've never gotten to try it burnt!”
The silly comment earns a wet laugh from me as the grief turns to something softer.
She reaches past me, practically burning her hand on the hot pot as she fishes out a piece of blackened crust before popping it in her mouth and exhaling puffs of steam.
It's all too silly to let my sadness linger; it's exactly why she is the person I most want to be with.
Tom smiles at his daughter’s antics. I imagine he saw the grief on my face, too—it would be impossible not to.
But like Ann, he doesn’t let disappointment linger.
He pulls out three plates and a large spoon, then says, “All the more reason for me to move down, so you can cook it the proper way without my sorry excuse for a kitchen.”