Chapter 26 Ligaya
LIGAYA
Standing sideways in front of the full-length mirror, I pull at the dress I wore to church. It’s a simple black shift dress with red flowers embroidered on the hem. The bodice is a little lower than my usual outfits, but I wore a scarf over it while at church.
Without the scarf, I’m getting a kick out of seeing my boobs. Is it me, or did they get fuller? Sideways, my little bump is unnoticeable unless I pull at the fabric. These are the first external signs of the twins growing inside me, and I can’t get enough.
The doorbell rings. I check my watch and am surprised to find it’s nearly two. That must be Tristan. Turning my attention to my hair and makeup in the mirror, I try to tamp down my galloping pulse.
Body: Show him our new boobs!
Brain: Give me three good reasons to open that door.
Uterus: I have two.
Tristan stands on my porch wearing a festive beanie with a pom-pom, his hands shoved in the pockets of a puffy coat that makes him look like a sexy marshmallow. He’s also bouncing slightly on his heels like he’s either nervous or has to pee.
“You’re early. Again.”
“You know what they say. If you’re on time, you’re already late.”
“No one says that.”
He brushes off my reprimand. “Come outside.”
I blink. “Why?”
“I have a surprise. You’ll like it.”
“Tristan, it’s cold—”
He reaches past me to take my coat from the hook. “C’mon. Five minutes, tops.”
I let Tristan drape the coat over my shoulders as I slip my arms in. I wiggle my shoulders into place while looking up at him. His eyes are on my chest for a fraction of a second before he turns around and looks up at the sky. The air is crisp and glittering with frost.
Tristan moves aside, and then I see it.
A black SUV is parked in the spot behind my Honda, the winter sun glinting off its glossy hood. Sitting on top is an enormous blue bow.
“No,” I say, backing up like it might lunge at me. “Nope. No. I told you I’m not taking a new car from you.”
Tristan lifts both hands. “It’s not new!”
“Oh my god, yes it is.” I turn to him and am surprised to find that although his vibe is jovial and his voice is playful, there’s an uncertainty in his expression. A strain registered by him biting into his inside cheek like he’s bracing himself for bad news.
“Tristan, you cannot give me a vehicle for Christmas.” My tone is gentler but no less clear.
“Why not?”
“My car is safe. It does not need to be replaced. If it needs another repair, I promise to go to the dealership to see if I can get a trade-in or something.”
“Think of this as a trade-in right now.”
“Your SUV is too much, Tristan.”
“Are you kidding me? It isn’t too much, Ligaya. Nothing is too much if it means you’re safe and comfortable. Besides, it’s old.”
“Bullshit. When did you buy it?”
“When I moved back to Ohio.”
“That was a few months ago. It is new.”
“That’s debatable. The second it’s off the lot, it isn’t new.”
I cross my arms. “This is not a normal Christmas present.”
“You’re right. It’s better than normal. This thing has heated seats, four-wheel drive, backup camera, more than enough room for two car seats. Your Honda is so rusty you could get a tetanus infection.”
“Did you really accuse my trusted vehicle of inflicting tetanus? Like what you get from stepping on a . . . a nail?”
“A rusty old nail.”
“How dare you! Georgie is the epitome of vintage charm.”
“Toby says it makes a weird sound every time it turns left.”
“So do I!” To demonstrate my silly comment, I turn to the left and make a squeaky sound. It’s a lame attempt to diffuse a situation that threatens to overwhelm me.
He’s gifting me a brand-new SUV? Who does that?
“Ligaya.” He steps closer, brushing hair from my temples in two gentle swipes. “I want to help. Let me help. Please.”
I press my lips together, unsure if it’s the logic or the way he’s looking at me that tips the scale.
Maybe it’s that little bump I’m rubbing right now, reminding me that I need to make decisions based on their needs, not my pride. Perhaps I’m a bit tired of duct-taping the side mirror. And then there’s Tristan, looking hopeful and a bit desperate.
“Fine. But I’m not calling it a gift. It’s a shared asset.”
He grins, shoulders relaxing. “I accept your lawyer-speak.”
He opens the driver’s door like he’s unveiling a throne. “Wanna take it for a spin?”
I arch a brow. “Where do you want to go?”
“Your call.”
I pause. We ate enough last night to qualify for a competitive eating trophy.
“I feel like hiking,” I say. “Let’s head to Sugarcreek MetroPark. I know the perfect trail.”
“Awesome,” he says, face lighting up.
“Let me get out of this dress and into more comfortable clothes first. Come in.”
He follows into the house and kicks off his shoes. When I get my coat off, Tristan looks at me with alarm.
“You went to church looking like that?” he says in a tone that mixes awe with something darker.
“Like what?”
“Like fucking temptation, Ligaya.”
“Whatever, perv.” I roll my eyes, but my body warms to his twisted flattery. Broadcasting my arousal, my nipples go on high beam. Tristan notices and does a comical head shake.
“Sorry. That’s stupid of me to say. You can wear whatever you want.” His eyes blaze. “If your plan is to kill me with lust, you’re halfway there.”
“With a dress?”
“With what’s under the dress.”
“Sounds like a you problem.” I don’t back down, because it isn’t in my nature when it comes to Tristan. That’s what we do: challenge each other.
But this isn’t juvenile ball busting anymore.
He talks about lust, yet it’s more than that for me at this point. Tristan’s presence is tempting in ways beyond physical. If things go wrong, I suspect I won’t recover. He might be used to flings, but he is my first. And, with his children growing inside me, probably my last.
I crave his attention, because he has all of mine. This level of attraction could easily backfire. My feelings for him have grown every day that I carry our children.
Before we can continue the conversation that could lead to full-on stripping, I slink into my bedroom to change into hiking clothes. Once I’m dressed, Tristan hands me the keys and we’re out the door.
The SUV smells like polished leather and handles smoothly considering it feels like I’m driving a tank.
“We could get a deal on a bunch of booster seats,” Tristan jokes, referring to my inability to see over the dashboard. He’s smiling wide. The pop-pom over his festive beanie wiggles side to side.
I swat his arm in retaliation, but I’m grinning, too.
We park at Sugarcreek MetroPark, where the trails are quiet the way one would expect on a Christmas afternoon.
“I forgot how pretty it is in the winter,” Tristan says.
The leafless trees stretch upward like lace, their bare branches dusted with last week’s snow. The ground crunches under our boots, the sound rhythmic and satisfying. We’re alone on this Christmas Day, just the sharp wind, cold earth, and each other for company.
Tristan walks beside me, hands shoved into the pockets of his puffer jacket, eyes scanning the path ahead.
“Were you really going to spend the rest of Christmas alone?” he probes.
“There’s an open invitation to head to my parents for dinner, but I think I’d rather hunker down and rest. The best thing about winter break is lying in my bed.”
His step stutters, and I realize what I said. Scrambling to cover my unintended innuendo, I add, “Where I watch Netflix and eat sour cream and ketchup chips.”
“Objectively, that’s the grossest way to watch Netflix.”
“Tristan, are you disparaging my Netflix and chill vibe?”
He shrugs in a wordless yup.
We fall into silence again, but it’s a companionable one, as if we’ve walked this path a thousand times. He kicks a pebble off the trail.
“So when should we tell my parents?”
“That’s up to you,” I answer.
“Would you like to be there? The way we did it with Orlando and Cathy?”
“Sure, if that’s what you want.”
He stops and looks at me. “I would love for you to be there, but you know my parents. They’re cold and annoying and shitty. If you’d rather get your teeth pulled instead of seeing them, I wouldn’t blame you.”
I guffaw at his concern. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Then yes, let’s do it together. Just don’t expect it to go the same way as your family.”
“You mean they aren’t going to knit tiny hockey jerseys for the babies?” I tease.
“Or start a Pinterest board like your mom? No. None of those things will happen.”
He talks nonchalantly and yet I hear a raw edge every time he talks about them. What kind of parents could be that indifferent to their son? Maybe he’s underestimating them. At least, I hope so.
There’s a bench on which Tristan invites me to sit.
Automatically, I slide close, and he wraps an arm over my back.
I lean my cheek on his shoulder and put my hand on his leg, the long and sturdy muscles on his thigh under my palm.
I can feel his breath on my forehead. It would take a fraction of an inch to lift my chin and line up our mouths.
Body: Me like.
Brain: This is a good time to set boundaries. Talk about expectations and express your concerns.
Uterus: Working on overtime here. Babies want a snack.
The park bench overlooks a half-frozen stream, the hush of late winter pressing around us. The trees are skeletal and still, their bare limbs casting long shadows in the low, pale light. A lone jogger passes behind us on the path, his rhythmic steps fading quickly into silence.
Tristan’s arm is draped around my shoulder, keeping me warm. I let myself lean into it for a moment too long before reminding myself why I shouldn’t.
“Tristan.”
“Yeah, sweetheart?” His sultry tone is like pure maple syrup sliding down a stack of pancakes.
My heart stutters. I don’t look at him just yet. Instead, I focus on the worn edge of the bench, the bite of cold against my thighs through my jeans, the soft squish of old leaves under our feet.
“We can’t touch like this,” I say.