Chapter 21 Tristan
TRISTAN
If you’re in, so am I.
The words flowed out of me without restraint. Hearing myself only confirmed my intent. There’s no way I’m walking away from my responsibility. Respecting and supporting Ligaya’s choice to keep the pregnancy is the right thing to do.
She’s dressed in leggings and an oversized T-shirt that slips off one shoulder.
Nothing fancy, but she’s beautiful without even trying.
Her hair’s twisted up in a loose bun, a few soft curls escaping at her temples.
Her lips are a beacon for my attention. They’re red and puffy as if we just kissed.
My eyes glaze over a little and I shake off the images of our night together.
It’s important to focus on what she said instead of obsessing over how good she tastes. Pregnant. That’s the headline here. Not the shirt, not the shoulder. Definitely not the sudden sharp awareness of our intertwined fingers.
Her townhouse is bathed in the soft light of the winter sun filtering through linen curtains. Everything in here carries Ligaya’s unique touch. Warm tones, textured blankets, leafy plants in mismatched pots. Lived-in and thoughtful and personalized.
The opposite of the club’s soulless design.
It’s her home. Meanwhile, I’m the one-night stand who is only here because I got her pregnant.
When Ligaya admitted that she had been thinking about the pregnancy for weeks, it landed like a sucker punch.
What stings is that she assumed I wouldn’t want to know what she’s going through.
Did she think I would try to influence her one way or another?
Does she think I’m an asshole who doesn’t respect a woman’s right to choose what’s right for herself? I respect her decision, whatever it is.
“Now what? What do we do?” I ask.
She stands up instead of answering and I suffer a moment of uncertainty that she’s going to kick me out. Instead, she serves us water in the kitchen.
“I secured an ultrasound on the twenty-second.”
“Can I be there?”
“If you’re in town,” she says before nearly drowning in her rush to gobble water.
I leap to pat her back and keep rubbing it even after she’s stopped coughing. Her herbal aroma draws me closer, the gentle hills of her shoulder blades delicate under my palm. I want to pull her close and bury my face in her hair, but she steps away.
“I’d like to be there,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets. “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.”
She nods. Her eyes flicker with uncertainty like she can’t decide if she wants me to go back to the couch or to push me out the door. I don’t like either option.
“Do you want to get out of here for a bit?” I ask. “Some air? Walk outside maybe? Are you well enough to walk?”
“I’m pregnant, not made of glass,” she deadpans. “I was actually going to run to the store. I’ve been craving cantaloupes.”
“Let’s do it. I’ll drive.”
She seems about to object but instead shuffles to the door. Helping her into her coat feels weirdly intimate.
We don’t talk much on the way there. The silence gives me plenty of time to think about that loaded conversation.
An hour ago, I thought Ligaya Torres was done with me for good. Now, she’s a woman carrying our baby. I can’t shake the feeling that if she hadn’t gotten pregnant, I might never have heard from her again.
That doesn’t sit well.
The parking lot at the Meijer grocery store is a chaotic sprawl of brake lights and half-abandoned carts reminding me this is the height of the holiday season.
We take a slow, looping drive past a dozen rows before we find a spot wedged between a rusting minivan decorated with a “Baby On Board” sign and a shiny SUV overflowing with shopping bags.
The air is icy sharp, our breaths creating white puffs. People shuffle past, carts overloaded. There’s a child wailing somewhere near the cart corral and the thud of a car door slamming cuts off the sound.
I have the stupidest thought, which is where did all these kids come from? I’ve never noticed how many kids exist. And all of these people at some point found out they were going to be parents. It’s surreal to count myself as one of them.
Inside, Meijer hums with overbright fluorescents and the constant warble of pop renditions of holiday music.
The store smells of cinnamon pastries they stack near the registers this time of year.
A plastic animatronic Santa moves with stiff cheer beside a table full of peppermint bark tins and deeply discounted advent calendars.
Shoppers are bundled with heavy puffer jackets, snow boots crusted with slush, scarves hastily knotted.
Except for the teenager in pajama pants and flip-flops, because of course.
Ligaya beelines for the melons. She knocks and places her ear by a cantaloupe as if she’s checking if someone is home. The chosen one is put in our cart.
“What else are you craving?” I ask.
“You don’t want to know.”
“I asked, didn’t I?”
“Fancy pickles. And that canned whipped cream you spray directly into your mouth. And maybe cold mashed potatoes with too much salt. Many culinary experiments await.”
Ligaya’s determination is hypnotic as she paces the refrigerated deli section like a detective at a crime scene, muttering “No, not the right kind of pickles” under her breath. When she finds the correct brand, she lifts it in the air like a trophy before putting it in the cart.
Off she goes again.
Before we reach the end of the aisle, another shopper crashes her cart into mine. Although annoyed, I mumble “sorry” while trying to walk past.
“Oh my god, Tristan? Tristan Thorne?”
I freeze in front of a familiar-looking brunette.
“It’s Katie Price,” she says, patting her hair and smiling coyly.
Katie isn’t the first high school classmate I’ve bumped into since moving back to the area.
Lots of people, Ligaya for instance, have chosen to settle in Centerstone.
It’s been ages, and yet Katie is acting like we’ve been buddies all this time, sliding up beside me.
The glitter of her nails catches the light as she tries to give me a hug.
I lean down for a fraction of a second so as not to be completely rude, then step back.
“Wow, you haven’t changed at all,” she says, touching my arm without permission. “Still tall, still handsome. Still trouble?”
We went to junior prom together, but I’m pretty sure that doesn’t give her the right to flirt so openly. We’re in a grocery aisle, for fuck’s sake. And there are children!
Cringing, I attempt to leave politely, but she doesn’t wait for a response. “I’ve been watching the Mavericks this season. We should totally catch up.”
“You remember Ligaya,” I say, pointing to my baby mama at the end of the aisle.
Ligaya lifts a hand.
“Hi, Katie. How are you?” She walks closer. I take the opportunity to wrap my arm around Ligaya’s waist.
“Oh, hey, Ligaya.” Katie’s eyes flick to where we’re connected. “I didn’t realize you guys were together.”
“We’re not,” Ligaya says evenly.
Katie raises an eyebrow. “No?”
“We’re having a baby,” I blurt out of nowhere.
Maybe I said it to wipe away the dismissive look Katie’s giving Ligaya.
Maybe I said it because I’m annoyed at how quickly Ligaya said we’re not.
Maybe I made a public declaration because it feels real when I say it out loud.
Maybe I just needed to see how Ligaya would react.
Katie’s brow raises. “That was fast.”
“See you around,” I say, already guiding Ligaya away, my hand resting lightly on the small of her back. By the time we get to the next aisle, Ligaya still hasn’t commented on my unsolicited declaration that we’re having a baby together.
“Hey, that just came out. Was that weird for you?” I finally find the balls to ask.
“Telling everyone I’m pregnant with your baby an hour after I told you about it? A little. Though I am pregnant with your baby, so it’s already weird,” she says with a deflated sigh.
Her cheeks are flushed, her bun is sliding sideways.
“You look tired,” I blurt.
She gives me a narrowed glare. “Gee, thanks. That’s what every pregnant woman wants to hear.”
“I mean, you’re doing a lot. Your body is doing a lot. Are you getting enough rest?”
I’m acutely aware of how small she is next to me. How breakable. My chest constricts at the thought of anything happening to Ligaya and the baby she’s carrying.
Suddenly, she bumps me out of the way with a solid hip check that would topple anyone lighter than my two hundred pounds.
So much for fragile.
“Oh my god,” she says, eyes lighting up, “they brought back the sour cream and ketchup ripple chips.”
She grabs a bag. Then another. “They discontinued these in 2019.”
“As they should. That’s disgusting.” I make a face at the pictorial rendition of the worst flavor combination imaginable. “Are you sure they aren’t reselling an expired lot?”
“Expired? These will outlast the human race. Now where’s the whipped cream?”