Chapter 20 Ligaya
LIGAYA
I feel nauseous, and it has little to do with morning sickness. Not trepidation, exactly, but something close. That jittery anticipation before opening night when you wonder if every choice you made on the show will be met with derision or—and this is much worse—indifference.
I curl into the corner of the couch, blanket around my shoulders one moment and thrown off the next. The distant thrum of cars reminds me that soon, Tristan will arrive for the most awkward conversation of our lives.
Since seeing the doctor two weeks ago, I’ve cried and sulked, went into denial and binge watched Bridgerton, ate and puked. Even my students have expressed concern because I haven’t posted the full auditioning schedule for the next play yet. I’m never this late for anything.
Yes, pun intended.
Work has turned into an inconvenient distraction from my current obsession: how to tell Tristan that I’m choosing to keep the baby.
I don’t expect anything from him, except to understand that this decision is ultimately mine.
Pregnancy is pushing me to investigate how I feel about my life and what I want for the future.
I’ve come to the conclusion that I want to share my life with a child.
Did I imagine I would start a family without a partner? No.
But I’ve always wanted kids. Being a teacher in public education has yet to extinguish my desire to be a mother. So, why not now?
My decision to be a mother shouldn’t depend on the dating pool of my particular demographic.
I’ve been on and off the dating scene for almost ten years.
Centerstone and its surrounding cities have yet to convince me that the love of my life is within driving distance.
Waiting for fate to intervene is like waiting for a high school musical to win a Tony Award.
This isn’t a conventional arrangement, I know.
But I’ve seen the ways that conventionality is overrated.
Some of the nicest, most well-adjusted kids are raised by single parents.
The support of good friends and relatives can nourish and enrich parenthood in ways that partners cannot or will not.
I’m in a position to shelter and feed and care for a baby by myself.
My job is stable, and my community is supportive.
My parents and sister will love this child more than the world.
So will I. Not sure I’ll be a great mom, but I’ll spend my life figuring out how to be one.
The only puzzle piece I can’t place is Tristan.
A loud knock makes me jump. I nearly tumble in my rush to open the door.
He stands on the porch, broad shoulders wrapped in a crisp button-down shirt, long legs in perfectly tailored gray pants, and an expression so piercing, it makes me feel exposed. Naked.
More to the point, his smoldering gaze makes me want to get naked.
Let’s do it. Let’s strip for your baby daddy. My out-of-control libido jumps up and down, eager to reunite with its favorite orgasm donor. It is, but still.
The last thing this conversation needs is a booty call. That’s my brain, being reasonable and adulting.
“Hi, Ligaya.” The intimacy of Tristan’s gravelly voice catapults me right back to our night together.
Body: What’s so wrong with revisiting that night? He’s already here, looking like the cover model for a romance novel.
Brain: Shut up. You are not in charge.
Body: He’s staring at your mouth like he wants to kiss you again.
Brain: Kissing is how we got here.
Body: It’s not like you can get MORE pregnant.
Brain: That is not helpful.
Body: I’m not going for helpful. I’m going for fun. The naked, reverse cowgirl kind of fun.
“It might save us time if you shared whatever is going on up there.” He taps his temple.
Tristan’s lips twitch like he read naked, reverse cowgirl on my forehead.
“Come in,” I say, stepping aside, wishing I could slam the door on this loud internal debate between my brain and my body.
He walks in slowly, filling the air with his ridiculous mojito scent of fresh mint and warm sugar.
“Can I get you something to drink? Water? Something stronger?”
“I’m fine. I came from brunch with my parents.”
“How are they?”
“Ever sit in a room that looks like a magazine spread for a cozy Christmas but feels like a meat locker?”
I give a sympathetic smile, although I can’t imagine having parents like the Thornes. We settle onto opposite ends of the couch.
“What did you want to talk about?”
Here we go.
I fold my hands together in my lap and then unfold them again. Although I’ve known Tristan for years, I have no idea how he’ll react to news like this.
“First, I want to say I don’t need anything from you. I’m letting you know out of, um, respect. Courtesy.”
He raises a brow. “Courteous is the first thing that comes to mind when I think about you.”
I don’t react to his gentle sarcasm. I’m gearing up to say something more significant than a comeback.
“Sorry. You were saying.” Tristan leans forward, elbows on thighs.
I swallow. “I’m pregnant.”
He blinks slowly. Once. Twice. Hazel eyes widen, specks of green brighter than normal.
“You’re sure?” he asks.
I nod. “Three home tests and one at the doctor’s. Breakdown in the parking lot and everything.”
His jaw flexes. “Are you feeling OK?”
Surprised by the question, I clear my throat to answer.
“My nausea is mild. If anything, the worst symptoms happened before I found out I was pregnant. Sore and sluggish, I thought I had a nasty flu.”
He simply nods, running slightly trembling fingers through his hair.
Tristan doesn’t show anger or disbelief.
That’s something.
He doesn’t jump off the couch and out the door.
That’s something, too.
“To be clear, I don’t expect anything from you,” I state.
“This isn’t about you stepping up. I made the decision for my own reasons.
I thought about abortion seriously. I went through the checklist. Am I stable?
Am I safe? Am I enough? And I came out on the other side with a yes across the board. I’m keeping my baby.”
He turns toward me, frowning. “It isn’t just yours, Ligaya.”
“It can be. You don’t have to be involved, Tristan.”
“You think I wouldn’t step up, is that it?”
“That’s not what I’m saying.” I sigh, already tired of my own careful phrasing.
“I’ve had the benefit of time to consider this choice.
You haven’t. Please, before you say anything, think about whether or not you’re ready for a kid.
I’m not functioning from some misplaced pride because the pregnancy is unplanned.
I’m being practical and realistic. At the moment, there are few consequences if you walk away now. ”
His face hardens. “Sorry to break it to you, Ligaya, but there are definitely consequences if I walk away.”
I nod, once again surprised by how he’s responding to the situation. If John, my ex-boyfriend, had this conversation with me, the first thing he’d ask is if it was his. There’s no one more paranoid than a cheater.
“If you need a paternity test, I get it.”
The green specks in Tristan’s eyes flash bright. “Are you done insulting me?”
My brows crease in confusion. “I don’t know what you mean.”
He huffs sternly. “I won’t insult us both by questioning that I’m the father. I take you at your word.”
The weight of that honesty hits me in the chest.
I really look at him for the first time since we sat down. There’s resolve there. Not just concern. Not just obligation. Something like genuine, unwavering determination.
Though maybe I’m projecting.
“I hadn’t slept with anyone for over a year before we got together,” I admit. “And I haven’t slept with anyone else since.”
“Neither have I.”
My eyes sting. I blink quickly and glance away, wrapping the blanket around me and then throwing it off my shoulders. I catch a tear before it falls.
“Don’t mind me. I cry at those car commercials now. The obnoxious ones with bows over the roof. Where do people even get those bows? Fucking capitalism. Ruining Christmas with gigantic bows and luxury vehicles.”
“Are you crying because you hate the bows or because you begrudgingly like them?”
“I don’t know! That was an unsolicited rant, Tristan. Let me live!”
He runs his palm over his mouth like he’s holding back another comment. Tristan’s eyes land on my stomach. No bump yet. Just me in my old shirt and tattered leggings. When our gazes catch, something gentler flickers in his gaze.
“Can I ask you something?” Tristan asks.
“Sure.”
“Are you scared?”
“Every second,” I admit. “But also excited. I never admitted to myself how much I wanted a child until it was real. Even then, I’ve known for two weeks before fully embracing my choice. Take time to decide, Tristan.”
“If you’re in, so am I.” Zero hesitation in his answer. No doubt in his tone.
Something restructures in my brain at the sound of those words: If you’re in, so am I.
It’s as if, by virtue of being spoken, they became something to build on.
It isn’t the same as naively believing everything Tristan says, but the sentence is like a shelf on which to place the seed of belief and watch it grow.
He reaches out, resting his hand over mine. Against my better judgment, I turn my palm up so our fingers interlock. His thumb brushes over my knuckles and strokes cautiously, like he’s petting a skittish stray.
The gesture triggers disproportionate and conflicted reactions from me. I could sob or laugh, stand or lie down, who knows? I can’t decide if I want to be alone or if I want to sit on his lap.
Body: That’s a lie. You definitely want to sit on his lap.
Brain: Be quiet. The adults are talking.
“When did you find out?”
“Two weeks ago. I needed to be sure about what I wanted. Talking to you before I made my decision seemed pointless.”
That statement deepens the furrow between his brows. For the first time since this conversation started, he looks upset.
“Now what? What do we do?” Tristan asks.
We? My head can’t quite wrap around that word.
I should feel relief, right? He’s calm and supportive and eager to help.
That’s a good thing. And yet, there’s no reprieve from my pounding heart and shortness of breath.
Tristan’s willingness to be part of the pregnancy is oddly more alarming than if he walked out the door.
Buying time to formulate my answer, I stand up and walk to the kitchen to fetch glasses of water.
“I secured an ultrasound on the twenty-second.”
“Can I be there?” His voice is closer than I expected, because he’d followed me into the kitchen.
“If you’re in town.”
I avoid his gaze, put his glass on the counter, and take a sip from mine. In my rush to ease my parched throat, I chug too quickly and trigger a coughing fit. The height of elegance, that’s me.
Tristan’s warmth wraps around me as he pets my back and then rubs it up and down. My hacking stops, but the rest of my body ignites in full awareness of his touch.
I step away and clear my throat.
“I’d like to be there.” If he notices my skittishness, Tristan does not comment on it. “What time do you have it scheduled? The twenty-second is our last morning practice before the Christmas break.”
“The ultrasound is scheduled for three in the afternoon.”
“Good. I’ll be there, Ligaya.”