Home Again (Finding You Book 1) Read online

“Yes, I’m visiting my family. Haven’t been back for a while. I’m a little nervous about it, actually,” I replied, wondering why I said that to a stranger.

  I observed her squint at the computer screen, look up at me, and look down again with a slightly embarrassed look.

  "Is there a problem?"

  "Um, I can't seem to find your reservation on the system,” she said.

  After a few phone calls, my lovely car rental assistant informed me that my booking had been canceled due to a system error. My options were to come back in a few days or accept a refund.

  I was tired and starting to get irritable, so I decided to take my money, wondering if I should just get a taxi home and change my plans for the day. It would be an expensive trip since my hometown was twenty-three kilometers outside of Lisbon and south of the River Tagus.

  I checked with the other car rental desks, but with no previous booking, I was still without a car. I realized I had no other option but to take a cab and made my way back toward the arrivals area where the taxi stands would be. I was almost ready to go, but first things first. Before I set off, I picked up a coffee and custard tart to go.

  The trip was starting off on the wrong foot, but I remained optimistic, although I was really wondering if a taxi driver would try to take advantage of me by taking a longer route instead of a more direct one, just to earn more money on the fare off a tourist. The car rental assistant had assumed by my looks I wasn’t Portuguese, so I’d have to make sure the taxi driver was aware that I wasn’t just a tourist.

  I was thinking too hard when I accidentally ran into a guy, hard enough to knock his suitcase out of his hand.

  “Hey, watch where you’re going!” the man said while bending to pick his suitcase up off the ground.

  I quickly replied, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see you there.”

  I helped him by grabbing the bag from where it landed on the ground and held it out to him, and suddenly, he smiled broadly when he looked at me and said, “Joel? Joel, is that you?” I looked at him, and he must have seen the confusion on my face because he continued, “It’s me! Chico, from school. What are you doing here? It’s been a long time. Are you here to see your family?"

  It took me a moment to think of who Chico was, and then I had a vague memory that he was one of the kids who went to school with David and me. His real name was Francisco, but we always called him by the diminutive Chico. He, David, and I used to share lunches when we didn’t like what our moms packed for us.

  “Hey, Chico, how’s it going?” I asked, giving him a hug. I couldn’t even remember the last time we’d seen each other. “Sim, I’m here to visit my family. How about you? Going on vacation?”

  Francisco went on to tell me that he’d just returned from a business trip and was on the way to meet his wife and children waiting for him outside the terminal when I bumped into him.

  “Is your granddad picking you up?” he asked.

  I explained the situation with my rental car cancelation and how I was just on my way to get a taxi.

  “No way,” he said. “We’ll give you a lift. We still live in Caparica too. My wife, Mariana, will be happy to see you. Do you remember her?”

  “Oh my God, you married Mariana? I still remember when you pulled her pigtails in year four, and she said she hated you forever.” We laughed about that all the way to the minivan.

  Mariana hadn’t changed a bit. Yes, she was now an adult mother of two—three if you included Chico—but she still had the same bouncy brown curly hair and freckles across her nose. She’d always reminded me of a doll.

  Chico and Mariana’s little twin girls, Tatiana and Cátia, were adorable. As soon as we pulled out of the airport, they wouldn’t stop asking questions about where I was from and if I’d been on the airplane with their dad. Adorable.

  Ten minutes into the journey, the girls decided I was no longer interesting and started chatting with one another in whispers.

  We hit the IP7 freeway heading southwest away from Lisbon and toward Caparica, and I took in the view of the river as we approached the bridge. With the windows down, my sunglasses on, and the wind blowing around me, I was finally beginning to relax.

  It was only a thirty-minute drive from the airport to Caparica, where my family lived, but I asked them if they would mind taking me the further fifteen minutes south to my favorite beach, to which they said they were happy to do.

  Fonte de Telha was the furthest beach David and I could get on the train, and I couldn't recall if we used to go there because of the beach itself or for the adventure of going as far away from home as we could on our own.

  Chico and Mariana dropped me off at the beach and then kindly offered to drop my bags off at my grandparents’ house.

  “Thank you so much for the lift and dropping my bags off. I hope we can meet up for a meal while I’m here so we can catch up.” I gave Chico a hug and my phone number and then turned to Mariana. “You, beautiful lady, will have to tell me how you ended up with the kid who put a stink bomb in your school bag.”

  Mariana smiled at me and then exchanged a look with her husband. A single look that shouted love, intimacy, and a load of fun.

  After we said our goodbyes, I waved at the kids who waved right back at me the entire way up the dirt road until the minivan was out of sight.

  The first thing I did was turn to look out at the ocean and take a deep breath to inhale the salty air, then I took my shoes off, rolled the legs of my jeans up a bit, and walked toward the sandy beach. The feel of the warm sand between my toes was magnificent, especially after a seven-hour flight and the rental car debacle.

  I walked as close to the water as I could while still on dry sand so I could sit without getting wet.

  I drank the coffee on the drive over, but the custard tart was calling my name. The smell of the cinnamon and the feel of the flaky pastry in my hands had my taste buds watering.

  That first bite was heavenly. The custard filling with a hint of cinnamon almost melted in my mouth. There was no easy way to eat one of these delightful pastries other than by shoving it all into my mouth once I enjoyed the first bite.

  When I was young and custard tarts were more readily available, I loved eating the custard filling first using one of the tiny spoons my parents used to stir their coffee. Then, once the custard was gone, I would fold the pastry on itself and eat it in one bite. My heart ached, but I couldn't help smiling as that memory hit me and thought back to my mom's words.

  "Joel, look at that mess!"

  "But, Mom, there is officially no easy way to eat one of these."

  I’ve always loved the ocean. Looking out at the reflection of the sun on the water was almost hypnotizing. It was the same ocean I swam in every summer when I spent time with Grandma Jojo in the Hamptons, but it felt so different when I looked at it from this side. The waves were gentle, massaging the sand in a rhythm that said, “Welcome home.”

  Was I home?

  With my feet buried in the sand and my gaze fixed on the horizon, I thought about the time when I was ten years old and my mom broke the news that would change our lives.

  "Joel," Mommy called. "Sweetheart, we have to talk about something very important."

  I put my book down and went out to the living room where my mom was sitting on the couch. Her face was serious, and I wondered if I forgot to do any of the chores before sitting on my bed to read my adventure book. I could pinky swear I tidied my room and even made sure all the socks in the drawer matched.

  "Honey, I have some news to tell you, so I am going to need you to listen very carefully, okay? Do you remember Grandma Jojo, Daddy’s mom?"

  I nodded. "Yes, we met her last year when we went to visit America. She has white hair and smells nice. She said I looked like Daddy when he was my age." Mommy smiled, but her eyes were shiny like she wanted to cry.

  "Joel, Grandma Jojo has lived on her own since Granddad Bill went to heaven. She's been a little bit unwell recently, and she needs some he
lp. Mommy and Daddy thought it would be fun for all of us to go to America and stay near Grandma Jojo for a while. Do you understand what that means?"

  I took a moment to think and then asked, "Am I going to school in America? Is David coming with us too?"

  Mommy looked down as though she was thinking of what to say and then looked at me with a sad smile. "Well, David's home is here with his mommy, so he can't come with us."

  "No!" I shouted. "I'm not going with you! I want to stay here with David!" I ran to my room, closed the door, and threw myself on the bed as tears clouded my vision. I reached out for my Superman doll and squeezed it tight.

  It was midafternoon by the time I made my way to Caparica and my grandparents' house. Taking the beach train had brought back even more memories, mostly happy ones. My mom getting up early to make sandwiches for lunch, my dad carrying the heavy cool bag full, and my favorite part, running to David’s place to call him to come down to the beach with us. His mom always gave us a box with delicious cake, since sometimes she was working and couldn’t come with all of us.

  I planned on visiting my grandparents and great-grandma before going to my parents' apartment to freshen up and settle myself before the big family dinner.

  My parents had never sold the small apartment we lived in before going to America, so I was glad to have my space.

  My grandparents had told me the dinner was going to be hosted at Café Lima, so the thought of seeing David again woke up a kaleidoscope of butterflies in my tummy.

  As I approached my grandparents’ house, it was like they could feel me coming up the street. My grandmother, Violeta Gomes, came out of the house with her arms high up in the air as if she could start hugging me from thirty feet away. I hurried toward her and smiled.

  "Avó Violeta. I’ve missed you so much."

  "Oh, my beautiful grandson. Look at you so grown up. And don't you look so handsome," Grandma said as she gave me the tightest hug I'd had in a long time. "Come inside and say hello to your granddad and great-grandma."

  Grandma must have been quite excited about me being home because she started babbling so fast it was hard to keep track of her words. Was she even breathing?

  "Did you have a good flight? I hope you're not too tired. Your aunt, uncle, and a few of your cousins are coming over for dinner. They are all looking forward to seeing you again. Your friend Chico came by and dropped off your suitcases. I was so surprised to see him and his family! I cleaned your apartment, so it's all ready for you. I made up all the beds, although I suspect your old one is now too small for you, so you might want to sleep in the bigger bedroom. I've done a little shopping for some essentials, but you will come over here for your meals. You’re so skinny! Are you eating enough? Don't worry. I'll be sure to make all your favorite foods that you used to like.”

  There and then I appreciated my fluency in the Portuguese language, which was mostly thanks to my mom. I allowed Grandma to go on and get it all out of her system without interrupting. After all, it had been twelve years since she’d last seen me.

  As we entered the house, Grandma told me to go through to the living room where Granddad and Great-grandma were waiting while she prepared some coffee and a snack. I loved the smell of my grandparents’ house. The wood polishing wax was predominant, but there was something more that I couldn't identify. It was just what I’d grown up with, and it felt so familiar and comforting now that I was surrounded by it again.

  As I followed the corridor to the living room, I could hear the chattering. "Olá, Granddad, you're looking good," I said while I walked toward my granddad for a hug.

  "Olá, son, great to have you back," Grandad said, his eyes watery with emotion that reflected how mine must have looked too. I had to turn away before I was a sobbing mess, and I hadn't even greeted the matriarch of the family, Avó Deolinda, my grandma's mom.

  "Vovó, you don't look a day over thirty. What are they feeding you here?" I asked.

  "Ah, my boy, that's the daily tipple. A small shot of anise liqueur will keep your heart beating strong and the extremities warm." She winked. "Let me look at you," she said as she put her soft hands on either side of my face. "You look just like your father when he came to Portugal. He was a very handsome man and knew just how to get into the soft spot in my heart.

  "There was no one good enough for my beautiful Sílvia. She was my baby girl, and no boy around here dared to turn their eye toward her. I told her she should wait until she met a boy who made her heartbeat so fast it was like she swam in the ocean all the way to Spain and the right boy would make her want to do it over and over again. Of course, with those shiny blue eyes and blond hair, she couldn't resist."

  I looked into my great-grandmother’s eyes, and it was like she was looking through her mind's eye directly into the past rather than at me. Then just as quickly, she was back in the moment. "Of course that nose," she said, looking up at my eyes and tapping my nose. "That is all your mom's."

  "And may I ask which part of me is me?" I asked.

  "Ah, my son, that is for you to decide, but don't forget that whoever and wherever you are, you are also ours and this will always be your home."

  I couldn't help but feel that my ninety-year-old great-grandma had the uncanny ability to read the one thing that had been plaguing my thoughts ever since I found myself without my only family in the country I'd called home for the last eighteen years.

  We had coffee with home-baked bread and ham and talked for a while about the plans for the next few days before I pocketed the set of keys to the apartment and excused myself to settle in and rest before dinner.

  I took my suitcase, and as I dragged it on the cobbled sidewalk toward the apartment, I considered what my great-grandma had said earlier. I felt like I was two people in one body.

  Part of me was Portuguese. I knew the language well and was glad that Mom never let me slack in my practice. Portuguese was all we were allowed to speak at home since outdoors it was mostly English. Speaking Portuguese was second nature, and I was proud that to the untrained ear, I sounded very much like I’d never set foot outside the country.

  Of course, being Portuguese was much more than just speaking the language and knowing the customs and traditions. I just had to figure out what it meant to me.

  I also felt American, having lived in New York for most of my life and also being American on my dad's side. Apart from my holidays in Portugal and early childhood until I was eight, most of my memories and history were in New York, and I felt like I belonged there. I liked the people, the melting pot of cultures, languages, history, and not to mention the great food you could find on every corner of the city.

  How could I figure out where I belonged now?

  Max was my family in America, but at some point, he would find someone he would want to spend the rest of his life with, and there wouldn't be as much time for us to spend together. Not that Max seemed that he wanted to settle down. I was the one more eager to come home to someone every day.

  I was tired of dating men I’d met through dating apps or in bars. It seemed as though everyone my age was just looking for a quick hookup. I got that. In such a big city where everyone focused solely on their career and success, very often relationships came second or even third. Hooking up served a purpose only, to get off and move on.

  I smiled to myself as I approached the apartment door. When did I ever start thinking like an old man? I remembered Max's promise of summer fun and decided there and then as I was pulling the heavy suitcase up the stairs to the second floor that I would enjoy this holiday and be the twenty-six-year-old I was.

  But first, I would have to walk into the apartment that had been my home for the first eight years of my life.

  The apartment wasn't much different from the last time I had been here. The layout was the same, not that much could be changed in such a small space, anyway. It had a kitchen that opened into the living room and then to a balcony of the same width, one bathroom, one master bedroom that h
ad been my parents’ room, and a smaller room that had been mine.

  I loved my room because, despite the smaller size, it also had a small balcony that faced directly toward the apartment building opposite mine, David's apartment. He lived there with his mom when we were young. I hadn't kept in touch, so I was unsure if David still lived there or even in Caparica for that matter. Paula, David's mom, died of cancer eleven years ago when we were only fifteen. I remembered Mom being so upset about the death of her best friend at such a young age. When Paula received the diagnosis, Mom struggled with the distance, and as the last days approached, she came back to Portugal to care for her best friend and was at her side when she finally passed away.

  I wanted to come with her, but at the time, I had exams at school and wasn't allowed to miss any classes. I ended up spending that summer with my grandmother as she became progressively unwell. It was a great summer, and I loved spending it in the Hamptons with her. Despite her frail health, she still had a devilish side to her and encouraged me to pursue a summer romance with another boy who lived nearby. Not that anything had happened then. I’d still missed David terribly, so that boy became the friend I would always see when I stayed with my grandmother and was also the first person outside my family I told I was gay.

  I went to my old room, rolled the shutters up to allow in the afternoon sun, and opened the balcony door and looked out onto the street.

  Some of the shops were different, but the look of the buildings on the outside remained the same, just older and more worn.

  I looked at the balcony across from mine. The shutters were all the way down, so it was impossible to see if someone even lived in the apartment. I couldn't remember how many evenings I’d spent on this balcony chatting with David about our favorite superheroes until one or both of our moms reminded us it was time for bed. Later, whenever I was back home in the summer, we used to carry on with our conversations but using mobile phones long into the night. One thing never changed. The balcony doors always remained open as though by breathing the same crisp summer air, we were both in the same space rather than our individual rooms separated by the street below.