Chapter 24 Ligaya
LIGAYA
I asked my parents to keep the pregnancy on the down-low for a few more weeks. My titas do not need further reasons to gush over Tristan.
Instead of beating him in mahjong, I end up sitting beside Tristan to tutor him through the game. We play as a team and get our asses kicked. The one time he won, I could tell Tita Cecilia put the eight sticks out on purpose. Still, Tristan yelled “mahjong” like he won the lottery.
The music comes from either the piano or the Spotify playlist with a mix of Filipino holiday classics.
There’s a constant flow of food and conversation.
Tristan gets pulled into a diatribe about surgeries.
He has the good sense to agree when Tito Roy compared his pickleball injury to one suffered by a professional hockey player.
“I’m stuffed,” Tristan groans, sitting back on his chair and patting his belly. Everyone was scooping their potluck offerings for him to try. By his fourth plate, I had to put a stop to the feeding frenzy.
I tidy up the table. Tristan follows me to the kitchen. For the first time in hours, we’re alone. The last time we were in exactly this position—in a kitchen with the detritus of a party strewn all over the counter—he kissed me like the world was ending.
But that was before we got the sex out of our system.
Body: Wanting to have sex with Tristan is not out of your system. It’s in your blood and coming out of your pores.
Brain: First of all, that’s objectively impossible. More to the point, there’s no room for the complication of a sexual relationship when we have to spend the next few decades raising socially responsible and emotionally mature twins.
Uterus: WHY DID NO ONE ASK ME?!
“My favorite was the turon you made,” Tristan says, jolting me out of my wacky internal debate.
I’ve always had a sassy inner voice that I’ve had to keep from the world for the sake of propriety, but this full-on scripted internal drama is another level. Mind, body, and uterus have turned into bickering characters in the comedy that is my life.
“You had a ton of the fish ball soup.”
“Balls are festive, Ligaya. I didn’t make the rules.”
That makes me laugh. He’s always made me laugh, I realize, even when he drove me crazy.
“Can I ask you something?” he asks.
“Yes, you can bring home leftovers. You don’t need to stuff your face in one sitting.”
“That’s not what I was going to ask, but good to know. I’m definitely bringing some of this home.”
“What do you want to know?”
He pulls me to the large pantry and closes the door. The space is suited to my parent’s Costco addiction, but still too small for both of us. Our chests are almost touching when we face each other. I’m so distracted by his scent and the pounding of my heart, his words are drowned out.
“I’m sorry, can you repeat what you said?” I ask.
“I’m buying you a car. Taking care of you starts with ensuring your safety.”
I cackle in disbelief. “Haha. For a second there, I thought you said you’re buying me a car.”
“Actually, an SUV. Like mine.”
“What? That’s ridiculous.”
“You can’t be in that little Honda during the winter, Ligaya. The tires are old, and you’ve already had serious repairs. What if it broke down on the highway? Also, one baby seat will barely fit back there, so it would be impossible with two.”
“I have the money to buy myself a new vehicle if the kids need it. I’m not helpless, you know.”
“Accepting help is not the same as being helpless.”
“Listen to me, Tristan. You will not buy me a new car or SUV or whatever. If two baby seats don’t fit in the back, then I’ll visit a dealership to figure out my options. I don’t mind your opinion when the time comes, but I’m not taking your charity.”
He shakes his head and lowers his arms. “You won’t take a new car from me?”
“I swear, Tristan, I won’t take a new car from you. Now drop it.”
“Fine,” he agrees with surprising ease.
We exit the pantry and find Tita Cecilia’s daughters in the kitchen, tittering and pretending they didn’t see us.
The rest of the evening passes pleasantly enough. I’m staying over tonight to help my parents wrap up the party. Tristan refuses to leave till the last of the guests are gone and all the trash is put outside. It’s nearly three in the morning when I walk him back to his SUV.
“Thanks for inviting me to my first Noche Buena,” he says.
“You’re welcome.”
“What are you doing tomorrow?”
“Going to church in the morning. We’re not much for presents on Christmas. We’d rather save money and get an Airbnb during summer vacation instead. I’m off teaching. Amihan will request some leave.”
“That reminds me, I have something for you.”
“Not a new car, I hope!” I exclaim jokingly.
“Not a new car. Can I bring it by tomorrow?”
“Don’t you have a dinner thing?”
“I’ll come by around one or two. Is that OK?” he asks.
I nod, suddenly aware of how close we are. My heart is beating as if I ran a marathon instead of strolling twenty steps from the front door to the driveway.
“Sure.” I try to sound breezy. “My present for you is the extra turon I put aside.” I point to the oversized grocery bag stocked with party food.
Tristan smiles, but his eyes remain solemn. After a beat, he steps closer. I catch a whiff of that delicious mojito scent I’ve come to associate with him. I nearly lean in and press my face to his neck like an actual lunatic.
“Ligaya,” he says quietly, “your gift for me is right here.”
His hand comes to rest on my belly. The touch is light and reverent, yet it sends a thrum of sensation through me, low and molten and entirely inappropriate for such a simple touch.
Yet it might be the most erotic experience of my life to have the father of my children hold me this way.
His palm is warm through my sweater, radiating into my skin.
My body sways forward on instinct. Balance is a foreign concept. To steady me, Tristan’s other hand slides around to the small of my back. I shouldn’t want to be held up like this. I shouldn’t lean in. But I do. God help me, I do.
His body is a solid wall of muscle. Tentatively, my fingers find the valley between his hard pectorals.
Tristan’s inhale is a sharp hiss when my thumb strums a button on his shirt.
His jaw tics, and I quell the need to kiss it.
Soothe it. Tristan’s fingers squeeze to hint at how much he’s restraining himself.
Heavy breathing fogs the cold air between us.
“You’re carrying our children, Ligaya,” he rasps by my ear, lips grazing slightly. “There isn’t a more amazing gift than knowing you’ll be their mother.”
My knees nearly buckle. My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. My body is humming with want, with affection, with some terrifying ache I don’t have language for.
I could kiss him right now. I want to kiss him right now.
But if I do, I’m not sure I’ll ever want to stop.
Instead, I tilt my head away to break the moment.
“Tristan,” I whisper, “you should go.”
He doesn’t move for a second. Tristan lowers his chin to search my eyes. While his gaze conveys longing, mine is more complicated.
I want him. Of course I do. But I also know what it’s like to be left behind.
When he eventually moves away or moves on, we can make appropriate arrangements if we keep our focus on the kids.
It won’t be easy, but it will be simpler if this mind-numbing lust is out of the equation.
We both want what’s best for the babies.
He’ll protect and love our children, I’m sure of it, even if we have to adjust to the demands of his career.
But I can’t expect him to protect and love me. The most dangerous aspect of this whole situation is my physical attraction and growing feelings for Tristan.
How will I co-parent if I turn into a goddamn emotional mess? And I have no doubt that Tristan Thorne the freaking Third, more than any man, has the ability to turn me into a complete, utter, hopeless mess.
I swallow with difficulty but hold my ground. When Tristan pulls back, his hands linger for one last moment before dropping to his sides.
“I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon. Will you be here or at your place?” he asks.
“We’re going to church and then they’ll drop me off at home.”
“I’ll see you at the townhouse, then.”
Tristan doesn’t give me a chance to disagree. He simply drives away, the imprint of his hands remaining on my body.
A phantom tingle in my belly reminds me of what is at stake.
The children we’ll be raising together deserve stable, caring co-parents.
I’m determined to be that for them, even if it means denying my body and suppressing my feelings.
The fact that I’m protecting myself from a broken heart is a bonus.