Chapter 17 Ligaya
LIGAYA
The final curtain of a production is as wonderful as it is devastating.
Sometimes, when the group of kids is especially memorable, I get sentimental.
Not the sobbing-into-tissues kind of wreck, but a surge of nostalgia for something you know is temporary.
You’re smiling until your cheeks ache while your insides splinter with pride and that weird connection only teachers and theater kids understand.
A mix of relief and heartache because it doesn’t matter how many shows you do, each one demands your commitment, your presence, your courage.
Each one asks you to leave a bit of yourself on the stage.
The audience is still applauding. I see Lucy Hughes, our Wednesday Addams, eyeliner smudged, black braids halfway undone, beaming like she won a Tony. She catches my eye and mouths, Thank you, Miss Torres.
I flash her a heart gesture with my hands.
The lights dim, the curtain closes, and another high school production is in the books.
Cue the chaos.
Parents storm backstage, armed with flowers and Starbucks gift cards.
Kids are shrieking, hugging, crying. The tech crew is mainlining Red Bull.
Mandi, my fellow masochist in musical theater education, stands next to me with sweat on her brows and the manic expression of a woman who hasn’t slept in a week.
Toby approaches with a prop skull tucked under his arm like a football.
“You guys did it!” he exclaims, pulling us both into a hug.
“We survived.” Mandi exhales heavily. “We should be knighted.”
“Or committed,” I quip.
Exhaustion looms over like a cloud about to downpour. Tomorrow is strike day, when we take down the set, organize the costumes, and sort through whatever unclaimed hoodies, script pages, and emotional baggage the kids have left scattered around backstage.
But tonight? Tonight, we have karaoke.
It’s tradition. Post-show decompression at Pitch Slapped, our favorite hole-in-the-wall bar between Centerstone and Cincinnati.
Teachers only. Occasionally a spouse or sibling sneaks in.
The bartender knows us. The drinks are cheap.
The audience is easy to please. And the songs are unapologetically sappy.
I glance down at my phone, staring at the top of my feed.
Tristan: I can’t make any of the shows. I’m sorry about that. The team is traveling Thursday and Friday. Home game on Saturday.
Tristan: Tell the kids to break a leg.
Me: I will.
Tristan: Flying back tonight.
Tristan: How did they do?
My thumb hovers over the screen.
But then I remember why I decided to stop this ridiculous back-and-forth. We said one night. One perfect night. There’s no point second-guessing my decision to end things there.
I had asked him where he lived in Columbus, and he had said something about a temporary condo. It was clear he would be returning to Colorado after the season.
Back to his real team.
Back to his real life.
It sucked to be ghosted in high school after a passionate kiss. A fling while Tristan has a foot out the door—out of the city—is going to feel much worse when things inevitably end.
“I invited your hockey crush,” Toby sing-songs, tossing the skull from one hand to the other.
My head snaps up. “You did what?”
“I told Tristan where we’re going.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
Because karaoke is about relaxing, and Tristan is the opposite of relaxing.
He is a temporary thrill packaged with permanent regret.
“I’m sure he’s too busy,” I console myself.
“He’s not too busy. He had a game in Columbus tonight, but it just wrapped up.”
“You’re insufferable.” My grumbling has no effect.
“Only when I’m right.”
By the time we make it to Pitch Slapped, the place is semi-packed with familiar faces. Someone is wrapping up a Britney song. Mandi holds a drink the color of antifreeze. I nurse a beer and order food.
Halfway through my fried cheese stick basket, the door swings open.
Tristan enters in a sharp suit with an even sharper jaw.
His hair is a bit damp like he rushed out of the shower.
Everyone at the bar does some comedic variation of the gawk.
Heads turn. Jaws slacken. A slow sip of their drink. An unblinking stare.
Tristan’s eyes scan the room before landing on me.
“Hey,” he says when he reaches the table.
“You came.”
“Toby invited me.” He sounds almost accusing. Before I can dwell on it, he continues. “Congrats. I heard the show was amazing.”
“Yeah. The kids were great.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it.”
“You’ve got a whole city to play for. Who are we to keep you from the big show?” I sound pathetic and needy. I cover it by offering him a limp cheese stick.
A few songs pass. Someone does “Bohemian Rhapsody” very badly. They really should make Queen songs illegal in karaoke bars. Toby sings “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now” unironically, belting each note like someone possessed by the spirit of the great Celine Dion.
Then, the DJ calls out, “Next up—Tristan.”
I whip around. “You signed up?”
He shrugs like this isn’t about to turn half the bar into a puddle of melted panties.
No one even breathes as he takes the stage.
He looks down at the mic almost shyly, and it’s too freaking adorable.
Hotness and humility are a deadly combination on any man.
On an athlete wearing a suit? It’s nuclear. Ovaries explode inside and around me.
The opening notes start. U2’s “Running to Stand Still” is bluesy and gritty. A few keys of a guitar strum. The mic rests easy in Tristan’s hand, his stance loose. And then he starts to sing.
Not the kind of karaoke that’s showy or loud.
His low voice is naturally suited to the gritty vibe of the song.
The notes drag themselves across gravel before he sings them.
There’s something magnetic about the way he holds back.
Not shy, but restrained. As if he’s holding the song’s emotion in check.
When he sings “You got to cry without weeping / talk without speaking / scream without raising your voice,” a frisson of awareness makes my body erupt in goosebumps.
The lyrics seem profound, yet there’s no effusive emphasis.
Tristan sings straight through. Nothing flashy.
He simply leans into the lyrics, allowing the blues rhythm to carry the performance.
By the time he hits the chorus, the whole bar is into it, shouting “la-la di day” as if we’re singing around a campfire. People are smiling, swaying in place, raising their drinks, throwing arms around friends’ shoulders.
He stares at me when he sings “she’s running to stand still.” Tristan might be looking at me, but I see something raw in his expression. It’s like he’s telling me a secret he’d never speak aloud. Like maybe he’s the one running to stand still.
His voice softens toward the end, floating to a wisp of a sound more moving because of its subtlety. When the last note fades, everyone claps, whistles, yells for another. Tristan doesn’t linger. He gives the crowd a quick smile, thanks the DJ, then walks back in my direction.
I can’t move, not even to clap. My chest expands but fails to deliver oxygen. I feel intoxicated by a single inconvenient truth: I like Tristan a lot. Too much. Way more than I should.
When we graduated from high school and shared a hot kiss, I foolishly entertained the possibility of something.
My young, immature heart thought that the passion we shared would last till morning.
I never expected him to ask me on a date.
OK, I had hoped, but never expected. At the very least, I thought we’d share a phone call or a freaking ice cream during summer break.
As far as expectations went, mine were basement-level low.
He never even acknowledged that the kiss happened, ghosting me without an explanation.
If that rejection stung ten years ago, how will a sex-induced fling affect me today?
I am a serial monogamist. I’m not used to casual hookups.
It would serve me well to remember that sleeping with Tristan again would be a colossal mistake.
Making out with him in the hallway, as enticing as that sounds, is a terrible plan.
Inviting him over would be akin to inviting disaster.
He might be the record holder of my orgasm count, but our night together is one and done.
I brace myself. “Can we chat for a minute alone?”
His eyes sparkle before he tracks my solemn expression. My face is probably broadcasting the uncomfortable conversation ahead.
Outside, the sky is velvet blue-black. The air carries a late October bite. Cold prickles my cheeks and sneaks down my nape. Arms crossed over my chest fail to keep me warm. Tristan’s face is half illuminated by a flickering neon sign. The thrum of karaoke and laughter turns into a dull backdrop.
I offer the world’s weakest, “You killed it.” But what I want to say is: You’re devastating.
He rocks on his heels, hands in his pockets. “I was singing it for this girl, but not sure that’s working out for me.”
I roll my eyes. “That worked on a lot of girls, and you know it.”
He steps closer. “I only want it to work on one.”
He brushes my hair off my forehead. Two swipes before dropping his hand. The tension between us fizzles. The breeze settles. Even the air waits to see what happens next.
“Why didn’t you invite me tonight?” He looks away and then back at me, hinting at insecurity. The compulsion to kiss his pout nearly breaks my resolve.
“I didn’t have to invite you. Toby was on it.”
“You know what I mean. It’s been two weeks, Ligaya. You knew I wanted to see you again.”
The statement lands like a ripple in still water. Not a demand, but a gentle prodding. I swallow. “About that . . .”
“Uh-oh.”
“Here’s the thing. I talked about a one-night stand and getting this out of our system, but I’ve never really done casual sex. I’m not built for it. A fling isn’t for me. It’s not what I want.”
“What do you want?” he rasps, eyes roaming my face and landing on my lips.
“Honestly? I hadn’t dated in a while and having a one-night stand with you, I realized that I’m ready to go out there again.”
He huffs, eyes narrowed in suspicion or annoyance. Probably both.
“Let me get this straight. Sleeping with me is what convinced you to sleep with other guys?”
“It is what it is,” I say with a shrug like this isn’t an impossibly vulnerable conversation. “It’s cute that Toby keeps inviting you to things. He seems to think there’s something between us, but . . .”
“But?”
“You’re the last person I should have a fling with. We’ve got a complicated history. It’s weird when my parents ask about you. Besides, what’s the point? You’re leaving at the end of this season, right? It’s been fun, though. Reconnecting.”
“You’re so full of shit, Ligaya.”
“Excuse me?”
“That night was more than reconnecting, sweetheart. It’s not like that with just anyone, and you know it.”
“I don’t know a damn thing, Tristan. Except that I’m not a puck bunny.”
“I never said you were. And for the record, I’ve never been interested in puck bunnies.”
His fingers brush my wrist tentatively. Then he cups my cheek with one hand, thumb brushing under my jaw.
“Ask me to stay tonight.”
My body swerves closer to him. “Why?”
“Because you’re really hard to walk away from, Terror.”
My knees weaken, but I manage to take a step back. With some distance between us, I cling to the fact that there is a world of difference between finding it difficult to walk away and actually wanting to stay. Tomorrow, I will thank myself for remembering that Tristan has no intention of staying.
“I’m sure you’ll manage,” I quip dismissively. “And although you’re surprisingly good at sad-boy karaoke, we both know this isn’t going anywhere.”
Our usual barbs give me a sliver of strength. We end this now. No random texts or sultry stares or karaoke serenades organized by nosy friends.
“Don’t do that,” he says with a shake of the head.
“Do what?”
“Use your sharp tongue to keep me away.” He pulls me close. “Use it for something else, sweetheart.”
Tristan pauses for a fraction of a second, checking if I’ll stop him.
I don’t.
I can’t.
His hands skim my sides and then spread, one splayed on my back and the other at my nape.
My body is crushed to his. We pause for a half second and then our mouths slam together.
Our kiss is impatient and fierce, with a tinge of roughness.
The sensation straddles the jagged line between pain and pleasure.
I lean into his delicious taste. Our tongues lash hungrily.
The hand on my nape tugs my hair with perfect pressure, eliciting a needy moan.
My bones fail to hold me up. His other hand covers the expanse of my lower back, tugging me till there’s nothing I can do but surrender to his hard, confident body.
Eventually, I find the willpower to push away from his chest.
“We shouldn’t.”
Tristan steps back and drops his arms to his sides, fists clenched like he’s summoning control.
“Sure. If that’s what you want.”
I cross my arms, not because I’m cold, but because I need the barrier.
“Goodbye, Ligaya.”
“See you around.”
He shakes his head as if I’ve disappointed him. When he walks to the parking lot, he doesn’t look back once.
The wind picks up, whipping a lock of hair across my cheek. I stumble back inside where Toby puts a beer in my hand. I’m pulled on the stage to sing the anthem for nineties girl angst, “Torn.”
I sing it unironically.