Chapter 23 Tristan
TRISTAN
It feels wrong to be at the parking lot saying goodbye. I stick around after walking her to her shitty old car, unwilling to end this conversation about the biggest news of our lives.
“Did you tell your parents about us?”
“Yes and no. I told them I’m pregnant but haven’t said anything about the baby daddy.”
“And Cathy was OK with that?”
Ligaya’s mother is nothing if not protective and involved.
“She can’t force me to tell her.”
“Why didn’t you tell them I’m the father?” I ask, already dreading the answer.
She doesn’t respond right away but when she does, her voice is almost sweet. “At first because I wanted to give you a chance to change your mind.”
“I told you I was in.” There’s a curtness to my response. How many times do I have to tell her I’m not walking away? Why doesn’t she trust me to keep my promise?
“I know you did. I’m sorry for doubting your word,” she says with lowered eyes. This might be the first time I have ever seen Ligaya truly contrite.
“Careful, Terror. I’m starting to like hearing you apologize for all the wrongs I’ve suffered.”
She grins. “Don’t get used to it, Turd.”
Hearing our old nicknames with this tone of affection is doing something to me. Taking me back and moving me forward. Making me want more than she’s willing to give.
In the room, I thought we might kiss. But the alarm on her face as she scurried out of the room was a direct hit. And a very clear message. That’s not happening. No chance of a kiss, no matter how much I’m dying for one. What I thought was desire was merely a full bladder.
“Are you willing to tell them now?” I prompt.
“No.”
“What the hell, Ligaya?”
This time, I don’t bother hiding my irritation.
Is she ashamed of me or something? Does she think I’ll be a shitty dad like my father is? She’d be dead wrong. There isn’t anything in the world I’m more determined to be than not my father.
“We’re going to tell them,” she says reassuringly. “What are you doing for Christmas Eve?”
It takes me a second to recover from the whiplash. “Nothing.”
“You don’t have any Christmas plans?”
“Lance Jefferson’s invited anyone from the team who isn’t heading out of town for a Christmas dinner. But I’ve got no plans for Christmas Eve.”
That’s only the half-truth. Lance did invite me out of courtesy, but I had already refused the invitation.
“Noche Buena is big deal in our family. That’s staying up all of Christmas Eve eating and drinking. Or in my case, just eating. We can tell them at that time, if you’re up for it.”
“You know I am.”
“Pick me up at six?”
“What should I bring? I mean as a gift and stuff. I don’t want to show up empty-handed.”
She looks up at me tenderly. “We’re bringing the ultrasound pictures. They won’t want anything more than that.”
***
On Christmas Eve, I knock on Ligaya’s door. It swings open, and I’m hit by the scent of fried sugar in the air. Her home smells like a bakery.
“You’re early,” she says although she’s clearly ready to go.
“Gave myself plenty of time in case I got stuck in holiday traffic again. You look amazing.”
Ligaya is drop-dead gorgeous. She looks more rested than she did when we first talked about the pregnancy.
She’s wearing a simple burgundy sweater that clings in all the right places and black pants that follow the roundness of her ass.
Her hair is casually wavy, and her makeup is subtle.
Except for her lipstick, which is the same hue as her sweater.
It makes me want to do unspeakable things to her mouth.
Things I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about on our way to a family gathering as the platonic co-parent of our children.
She hands me two foil-covered trays. “You’re in charge of these. One is ube halaya. Careful, it’s delicate. The other is turon.”
I peek under the foil. “What’s turon?”
“Fried banana spring rolls. Protect them with your life.”
“Yes, chef.”
She makes a snort that should not be so damn cute.
“My parents will be disappointed if you squish those.”
“What if I drop this purple jelly thing?”
“You’ll be haunted by the ghost of Christmas ube forever.”
I lead her to my SUV and lift my chin toward her car when we pass it.
“How old is that thing?”
“Georgie? He is not old. I got a new transmission recently.”
“You named your car?”
“Who doesn’t?”
I let that one go, arranging the dessert trays in the back seat and carefully belting them like they’re babies. I’m struck by a thought.
“You OK?” she asks from the front passenger seat.
“This time next year, we’re buckling two little babies in the back seat. I’m wrapping my mind around that.”
“Shit, you’re right.” Her voice tightens. Ligaya closes her eyes and takes deep breaths that lift her chest in a steady, mesmerizing rhythm.
“Anyway, what’s the plan tonight?” I look away from her body and fiddle with the heat in the car, making sure she’s comfortable. “Do we tell them right away or wait after we’ve had the turon?”
“My parents are hosting Noche Buena tonight for a few Filipino families in the area,” she says. “We’re early, so we can tell them right away.”
“They’re expecting me, though, right?”
“They think I’m bringing a friend. Which you kind of are, technically.”
“You’re carrying our twins, sweetheart. I feel like we’ve moved past the friend tier. And what exactly is Noche Buena?”
“It’s our Christmas Eve feast. Food, drinks, music, more food. If you see a circle-shaped food, don’t question it. That’s for good luck. Grapes, oranges, fish balls. Anything round and vaguely edible.”
“Did you say fish balls?”
“In soup. Like I said, don’t question it.”
“Balls are festive. Got it.”
She chuckles. “If you say that in front of my mom, I swear to God—”
“I won’t.” I grin. “Scout’s honor.”
“You were never a scout. You were chaos in high school.”
“And yet your mom always liked me.”
“She’s nice to everyone. Don’t read into it.” Although her words are dismissive, Ligaya’s fondness is genuine.
Cathy really is nice to everyone. Especially to Olive.
I’ve been doing that a lot.
Thinking of my sister and wondering how she would have reacted to the situation. Olive—with her stuffed toys and love of everything purple—would have screamed in excitement at the thought of baby twins. Sorrow wedges sharply in my lungs, making it hard to breathe.
“I’m kidding, Tristan. She likes you more than most hockey players. Promise.” Ligaya sounds concerned. I seem to have zero poker face around her. I might as well express the other thing that’s eating me up.
“Tell me honestly. Are your parents going to be pissed that we’re not married but having children?”
Ligaya shrugs. “They were raised in the Philippines, so it’ll be an adjustment. But I am who I am. They have no misconceptions about how I live my life. This was my choice, and they supported me as a single mom. Having you in the picture will be a net positive.”
“Net positive? What flattery you offer, Ligaya Torres.”
“More where that came from, don’t you worry.”
When we pull up the driveway, her parents are outside fixing the Christmas lights.
“Ay, Ligaya!” her mom says, and then her eyes land on me. “Tristan?”
She blinks like she saw a ghost.
“Merry Christmas,” I say, holding up the turon. “I come bearing rolled foods and bottles of wine.”
Cathy’s eyes flicker for a moment, something like pity crossing her face before she wipes away the emotion. It’s replaced by a cheerful, welcoming hug.
“Good, we don’t have to get the ladder,” Orlando says, shaking my hand. “Hook this up higher, will you? It fell during the windstorm last night.”
I leave the women to hold the foil containers. Ligaya’s father walks me through instructions as I rehang lights and hook up a large star in front of the window.
“The Mavericks will go all the way to the Stanley Cup this year,” Orlando says when we finally enter the house where there are Christmas lights everywhere, tinsel in doorways, poinsettias on every flat surface, and the smell of something roasting.
A total of three Christmas trees are dispersed in the front foyer, dining room, and living room.
“We have news to share,” Ligaya says while leading us all to the kitchen table which is laden with drinks. “Before the rest of the guests get here.”
Her parents sit across from us expectantly. It occurs to me that Ligaya timed the revelation right before her family hosts a house full of people, leaving them little time to interrogate us about details we have yet to figure out.
She’s a genius.
“I’m pregnant,” she says.
Her mom leans back, mildly confused. “Yes, you told us. It also explains why you cried at the caroling party when Uncle Ray sang ‘Silent Night.’ And all the bibingka you’ve been eating—”
“OK, yes,” Ligaya interrupts. “Anyway, we thought you should know, Tristan’s the father.”
A beat of silence is followed by an explosion of sounds in a mix of Tagalog and English. Her mom gasps before talking a mile a minute. Her dad lets out a loud “HOY!” and points at me, grinning widely. Her mom jumps up and claps, continuing her excited speech.
I catch the last part: “Oh my goodness, Tristan! You and Ligaya are together? Oh my goodness, that’s incredible!”
“Not exactly,” Ligaya corrects her quickly.
Her dad’s already pouring me a beer.
“He’s a good man. He has a job. He plays hockey!”
“That’s not necessarily a parenting qualification,” Ligaya grumbles, though she’s also smiling.
“Thank you.” I take the beer Orlando offers me. “Thank you for taking the news so well.”
“We’re not together together,” Ligaya clarifies insistently.
“But you’re having a baby,” her mother states with her hands up, gesturing to Ligaya’s stomach.
“We are co-parenting,” Ligaya says.
“And we’re having twins,” I blurt, her parents’ elation prompting me to share more good news.
The squealing that follows could shatter glass. Her mom hugs her. Her dad hugs me. Her mom hugs me. Then her dad takes a selfie with us. They send it to her sister, Amihan, who is stuck in Texas.
In a flash, we’re on a video call and everyone is talking at once.
I nod and smile and let the warmth of the Torres family wash over me.
They are so affectionate and easy with each other.
I’m already dreading my parents’ reaction, which will have none of the natural warmth that emanates from Orlando and Cathy.
Not sure exactly what my parents will say, but I doubt clapping and squealing will ensue.
Not sure they’re capable of clapping and squealing.
I lock eyes with Ligaya. While my mind wandered, she had been watching me. Before I know it, our hands are entwined. She squeezes and so do I.
“You ready for this, Tristan?” Ami asks from the blurry screen. Although the picture is badly pixelated, her warning tone is loud and clear.
It would be easy to be insulted by Ami’s condescension, but honestly, I kind of admire how much she looks out for her younger sister.
She’s fierce and protective and only ever has Ligaya’s well-being in mind.
I concede to her authority not because of intimidation, but because of awe.
She’s able to look out for her sister in a way that I wanted to look out for Olive. I never had the chance.
“Yes. I am more than ready to take care of Ligaya and the twins.”
“How will this work with playing hockey? Are you moving to Centerstone so you can help with the kids? Will your hockey schedule even work with—”
“Ate, enough,” Ligaya interrupts. “We’ll figure it out. Lots of hockey players have kids. It won’t be a problem.”
“I’ll move closer if that’s what Ligaya needs. I’ll do anything,” I state honestly.
“How about during the pregnancy? You’ll get her those ridiculous chips she’s obsessed with? Rub her stinky feet? Set up a nursery? Say sorry when you’re wrong?”
Ligaya is shaking her head and glaring at the screen. She’s about to complain about her sister’s line of questioning. I jump in.
“Yes to all of those things, and I’ll try to get her to eat vegetables to balance out those disgusting chips.”
“My feet do not stink!” Ligaya exclaims.
Ami rolls her eyes, and I simply squeeze my baby mama’s hand.
“What if I’m not wrong? Do I still need to apologize?” I ask playfully.
Ligaya’s father chuckles.
“Son, that’s when you really need to apologize.”
“Yes, sir,” I address him, and we clink our drinks.
Cathy pats my cheek. “You’re family now.”
I’m speechless. You’re family now. I don’t know what exactly I expected tonight, but this kind of joy, this level of acceptance . . . I never dared to hope her parents would be so supportive.
“Help Ligaya set up the mahjong set,” Cathy says, shooing us away. “We have to go, Amihan, the guests are arriving soon.”
“What’s the mahjong set?” I inquire. “Is it hard to set up?”
“Didn’t I mention?” Ligaya states mischievously. “We eat, drink, sing, dance, and gamble. I hope you brought cash. I’m fleecing you tonight.”
She walks out of the room, and I follow without hesitation. The last few minutes had been a bit overwhelming in the best way.
Her family is welcoming and kind to me. Ligaya looks so relieved, she’s glowing.
I’m damn ecstatic because I get to eat, drink, and .
. . did she say gamble? Anyway, I get to do all of that with the one woman I can’t stop thinking about.
And if that wasn’t enough Christmas miracles, there are two babies growing inside her.
That’s when it hits me: it’s her. No matter how or when we told the world, and whether or not I was accepted in the family, it is Ligaya’s willingness to share this future with me that is the best miracle of all.