Chapter 22 Ligaya
LIGAYA
I’m sweaty and breathing hard. Tristan is pressing me against a wall with his sculpted body, hands rough on my hips. His mouth tickles my ear while our bodies grind.
“This cunt is for me. I’m going to worship it, Ligaya. And then I’m going to ruin it for anyone else, because you’re mine. Only mine.”
Tristan is suddenly on his knees, licking his way to my core. His tongue presses against my clit, stimulating that delicious ache between my legs. I moan and writhe, wanting more of his mouth. More of his cock.
“You need my cock, don’t you, sweetheart?” he says before ripping my underwear off. “First I’m going to eat you out so good, you’ll beg for it over and over—”
My alarm cuts through the erotic dream. Without my explicit permission, my hand has lowered to my wet center. Half-awake, my skin is flushed and my thighs are pressed tight to ease the ache between my legs. My extreme horniness must be the result of the rampant hormones coursing through my body.
Body: Liar. You were horny for him before you got pregnant.
Brain: I suggest you focus on the word ruin, since that is the most likely scenario.
I shut off my alarm, but I’m slow to get up.
Not sure if it’s because I want to hang on to the sensual dream, or if I want to bolster my resistance to his seduction.
There appears to be no resolution to this internal debate between my body and my brain, so I haul myself out of the bed to get ready for the day.
Catching my reflection in the mirror, I wince at the reality of my situation.
What is this pregnancy “glow” people speak of? I’m about as glowing and attractive as a microwaved potato.
I ease into a routine that includes herbal tea and cantaloupe.
For some reason, that combination is the only one that calms my morning queasiness.
The other part of my routine is less comforting.
It consists of sending thumbs up emojis to my parents whose new hobby is to send me links to articles on prenatal care.
Today is about the dangers of bowling for pregnant women in their third trimester.
The unlikeliness of that being relevant to my circumstances—since I never bowl and am nowhere near the third trimester—is not worth pointing out.
I told them about the pregnancy the day after I told Tristan, although I’ve not shared the name of the father.
What if he changes his mind about being involved?
My parents have known him for so long, they’ll be hurt if Tristan walks away from this obligation.
And somehow, their hurt will worsen my sense of abandonment.
Nothing truly locks Tristan into this decision, after all.
If he isn’t involved in the long run, I don’t want them seeing my baby and thinking of him.
Only Ami knows, and I’m fine with that.
This afternoon is my first ultrasound. Tristan asked for the medical facility address and promised to be there, but I’m not holding my breath.
I’m going to ruin it for anyone else, because you’re mine. Only mine. The dream-induced seduction haunts my every thought.
The more it repeats in my brain, the more it sounds like a promise, and not a threat.
***
Centerstone Women’s Health is tucked between a dentist and a Pilates studio.
The waiting room has fake ferns in the corners, framed watercolors of generic sunsets, and a bowl of lollipops at the check-in desk.
This is the first medical appointment I’ve had since I confirmed my pregnancy and fully decided to keep the baby.
As I look at the generic room with couples on benches and baby magazines on the coffee tables, I’m struck by how ordinary everything is.
But how can it be ordinary? This is the first time I’m meeting my baby!
“We’re running a little late,” the receptionist says apologetically.
“No problem,” I reassure her, looking at my phone to see if Tristan sent a message since he’s running late, too.
I sign in and then sit across from another couple holding hands while waiting. There’s a tinge of insecurity blossoming in my chest, but I quell it. I don’t need anyone’s hand in the waiting room.
Another twenty minutes pass as I wait to be called for my appointment. No text from Tristan, and that’s fine.
I’m ready to do this on my own.
“Ligaya?” The nurse’s voice is shrill to my ears.
Shit, I’m not ready.
“That’s me,” I say weakly.
“Are you waiting for the father?”
“No, I am not.”
I follow the nurse into a dim room to find the sonographer waiting. In a steady, professional tone, Annie informs me that she works directly with my OB-GYN.
“Go ahead and lie down, Ligaya. Please lift your shirt and lower your waistband. You can keep your underwear on. Just enough to expose your lower abdomen.”
This feels very vulnerable, even without stirrups or a speculum. Stretched out on the table, I make a note to Google search Do babies know if you’re scared? and Can anxiety give your fetus trust issues?
“The tech forgot to warm the gel, so it’s a tad uncomfortable,” she warns. She’s not kidding. The second it hits my stomach, I let out a squeaky gasp like someone dropped an ice cube down my pants.
“Ligaya!” The door swings open and crashes against the stopper with a bang.
I squeak again.
“I’m here,” Tristan announces while rushing to my side dramatically, like he’s storming a castle.
“Does it hurt? Shit, I didn’t think an ultrasound would hurt that badly!”
I roll my eyes. “It doesn’t hurt.”
“You sounded like they were gutting you.” His eyes are wide, hair ruffled in a ridiculously sexy way.
“And you know that sound how?”
He shrugs. “Deduction.”
“Calm down, Sherlock. The gel is freezing.”
Annie clears her throat, and we both look at her apologetically.
“I’m Tristan,” he tells her with a friendly smile. “Sorry I’m late. Practice went longer than expected, and traffic from Columbus was nuts.” His voice is too loud for the small room.
“Sir,” Annie says with a stern edge that suggests she has wrangled worse. “Are you the father?”
He nods, looking down at me and glancing at my belly covered in icky cold gel. I prop myself up on my elbows and deadpan, “We’re done, actually. It turns out I’m giving birth to dragons.”
Annie chuckles. “You haven’t missed anything,” she addresses Tristan.
She presses the mic shaped tool to my stomach and starts sweeping it slowly across the gel. I turn my attention to the monitor, heart in my throat. The black-and-white image flickers, a blurry snowstorm of shadows and shapes.
Suddenly, there it is.
“That,” she says, pointing to the blob fluttering steadily inside the larger blob, “is your baby’s heartbeat.”
Everything inside me goes still. My baby blob is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
She tilts the tool slightly. Her eyebrows lift.
“Huh,” she murmurs. “Hang on.”
Hang on?
I glance at Tristan. He appears equally alarmed.
The doctor frowns in concentration, adjusts the probe again, and clicks the screen. More swirling static. Another flicker of light. Sounds project from the computer speakers: whooshing interspersed with the galloping of teeny tiny horses.
Clappity-clop, woosh, clappity-clop.
Annie shifts the tool to the other side of my stomach and the heartbeat goes away and comes back.
A second little clappity-clop.
No.
No way.
She turns to us with a slow grin.
“It looks like we’ve got two heartbeats.”
“What does that mean?” I ask like she spoke in code instead of straightforward English.
Tristan sits at the edge of his chair. “I’m sorry, did you say two heartbeats? Are you sure?”
“They look great. Measuring on track. You’re having twins.”
“Twins,” I mumble at the same moment that Tristan exclaims “Twins!”
Tristan lowers his eyes. “We’re having twins. Can you believe it?”
I reach for Tristan’s hand. He doesn’t hesitate. His fingers entwine with mine like he’s just as desperate for the contact.
Brain: This is fine. Many people have twins.
Body: He’s so hot with stubble. He’s got the face of a movie star. Let’s sit on it.
Uterus: WHY DID NO ONE ASK ME?!
“What are you thinking?” he asks with his brows furrowed.
“I can’t think when my bladder is this full,” I whisper back since I was ordered to have a full bladder before the ultrasound.
“You’re around nine weeks. Your due date at thirty-eight weeks—that’s an ideal scenario for twins—is . . .” She pauses to check her calculations. “June twenty-eighth.”
Annie continues talking about bloodwork, next appointments, and what to expect when I see my OB/GYN, Dr. LeGuin.
Tristan asks some questions which tells me he’s at least paying attention.
I’m barely able to hear words. My eyes stay locked on the screen while the doctor snaps photographs.
She hands Tristan the flimsy print outs.
“Congratulations,” she says to both of us. “Take your time getting cleaned up. The bathroom is across the hall. Make sure you book the next ultrasound on your way out.”
When she leaves, Tristan helps me sit up. His palm is warm and a little shaky on my back.
“I was ready for one,” I murmur. “But two?”
He nods slowly. “Two.”
“How are you taking this so calmly?”
Contemplating our entwined fingers, I realize holding hands is something we keep doing naturally.
“All week, I was nervous about the ultrasound. And what I was most worried about was . . .” He pauses.
“Was?”
“What if you’re not really pregnant? That’s what kept me up at night. It’s stupid, I know, but it really stressed me out.”
“You think I’d lie about it?”
“No! I was being paranoid and unreasonable about the situation. My fear was that it was all a mistake somehow.”
“And now?”
“Knowing you’re not only healthy and pregnant, but also carrying two babies is a fucking relief, to be honest.”
“You’re a strange man, Tristan Thorne. But thank you. Thank you for being calm about this. I’m freaking out.”
“Some people say having twins is easier because they keep each other company.”
“You made that up.”
He chuckles. “Yeah, I did. But it sounds true, doesn’t it?”
I smile because he’s right. “It does.”
“I want to be here for them. For you. That’s all I’ve thought about.”
I stay quiet, staring at our hands and nodding.
“You’re crying,” he says in alarm. Tristan stands in front of me and cups my face so our eyes hold. “What’s wrong? Are you upset about the news?”
“I’m not upset,” I say honestly and yet my tears fall. He catches them with a gentle swipe of his thumbs.
“Tell me why you’re crying.” There’s a hint of desperate begging in his voice.
How to explain this sense of being overwhelmed?
Of this moment as a threshold of before I saw my babies and after.
The pictures by the table are evidence of my world changing irrevocably.
“I’m crying because there are no words. I’m feeling a lot of things. Relieved and happy because they have heartbeats and the doctor sounds confident that everything is normal. Most of all, and don’t make me regret saying this, I’m so fucking glad you’re here.”
Admitting that last part unburdens me. Knowing I can count on Tristan to hold my hand through this process means the world.
“I’m here.” His confirmation is solemn, and his stare is so palpable it feels like a solid wall. A wall with a massive sign that demands I stare back. The moment draws me in. My body yearns for the soft surrender of leaning into his hard body. I want to inhale him and hold him and kiss him.
Instead, I pull away.
“Should we check our calendars before scheduling the next ultrasound?” I ask, finding my feet and heading to the hallway bathroom.