Chapter 31 Tristan
TRISTAN
She steps out, a fantasy in a forest-green dress. The fabric hugs her in a way that hints at the curve of her bump, the long sleeves studded with tiny pearls, and boots that go all the way up her knees.
My baby mama is a knockout.
“Hi.” She brushes a strand of hair away from her temple. Twice.
“You’re . . . wow.”
She laughs, cheeks warming. “That’s not a full sentence.”
“I’m speechless,” I admit, stepping closer, pulling her hand into mine. “You look incredible.”
“It’s just a dress.”
“It’s a dress worth canceling brunch for.” I pull her closer and relish the feel of her body. “You look and feel amazing. I want to keep you to myself right now. Hide you away where no one can bother us.”
She raises her brow. “You haven’t seen me in two weeks, and the first thing you do is threaten to kidnap me?”
“Technically,” I murmur into her skin while dropping tender kisses along her jawline and down her neck. “It’s seduction, not kidnapping. If you’re into it.”
Her laugh catches against my mouth. We kiss. Soft at first, then rougher. Two weeks away has left us both starving. Her hands slide up into my hair, mine settle at her waist, and suddenly I don’t give a damn about country clubs or brunch or my parents waiting.
Relishing the moment goes beyond the constant physical need to touch and kiss and make love to Ligaya. I’ve missed her in so many other ways.
Her teasing laughter and sharp intelligence are as sexy to me as her lush body. And knowing how much care and love she’s already giving our children—that’s the kicker. Ligaya has always been a formidable woman, but she’s now turning out to be the only woman.
“We’re late,” she says.
“We could be later.”
“Tristan,” she warns, biting her lip.
“Fine. Let’s get this over with so I can kidnap you after.”
Her laugh tinkles in the air. I’m already counting the minutes until we finish this obligatory meeting. I’ve waited long enough to tell my parents about the most important news of my life, and yet I’d happily delay.
It’s the fact that Ligaya is the woman who carries my children that motivates me to tell my parents. Now that I’m back, I can’t imagine being with anyone else, and I don’t want children unless they’re with her. That’s the truth my parents have to hear.
The drive to the country club is too short. We hold hands across the console. She hums along to the music, totally unaware that we’re about to enter potentially hostile brunch territory.
The valet takes my keys without making eye contact.
That’s how they’re expected to be in places like this.
Old-money exclusivity demands a practiced reverence I’ve always hated.
Ligaya is neither impressed nor intimidated by the surroundings.
She displays an observant curiosity that I’m drawn to.
It’s like seeing things for the first time through her eyes, no resentment or judgment.
My parents, on the other hand, could hover between being resentful and judgmental all day long.
My father stands only because protocol demands it. Navy blazer, pressed slacks, and an expression of moderate disgust he probably thinks passes for indifference. My mother is wrapped in pastel silk.
“Tristan.” He shakes my hand. He doesn’t look at Ligaya until he absolutely has to.
“Mom, Dad,” I say, voice tight. “Do you remember Ligaya? We went to high school together.”
“You did warn us you’d bring a friend.” His voice is the farthest thing from welcoming.
“She’s more than a friend,” I say defensively.
“Yes, Cathy’s daughter. How are you?” My mother rises and kisses the air near Ligaya’s cheek like we’re French and this isn’t Ohio.
Ligaya greets them with a natural friendliness they don’t deserve. Her posture is proud, her smile gentle but not meek.
We sit. The server comes over, menus in hand, and freezes.
“Hi,” Ligaya says before the woman can even pretend not to recognize her. “Marta?”
Marta glances around like she might get fired for speaking.
“Ligaya,” she says, almost under her breath. “Oh my goodness. You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.” Ligaya grins. “How’s your shoulder? My mom said you hurt it.”
Marta’s eyes soften, even as she glances at my dad, who’s already bristling.
“Better now. Thank you. I’ll be back to take your orders in a few minutes. Would you like another mimosa, Mrs. Thorne?”
Mother nods and points to Ligaya, indicating she should be brought one as well.
Ligaya shakes her head. “I’m fine with water. Thanks.”
When she leaves, Ligaya offers some background. “Marta lives alone a few houses from ours. Mom goes over to check on her once in a while and she had Dad shovel the driveway during that last snowstorm.”
“Because of her shoulder?” I ask.
Ligaya nods and the conversation lulls. There’s the delicate clink of cutlery against porcelain, the smooth murmur of genteel conversation at other tables echoing off stone columns, but our table conversation is awkwardly curt.
My father rudely checks something on his phone. My mother asks about the food which is the usual bland fare. She keeps adjusting the corner of her napkin, folding and refolding it.
Ligaya sits with a grace that doesn’t come from etiquette classes. Her assuredness is innate. The green dress makes her glow, her belly just beginning to round beneath the fabric, a quiet declaration of the future we’re building.
“I’ve never been to the country club. It’s gorgeous,” she says brightly, breaking the silence. “I heard you returned from Florida. What’s it like to spend Christmas somewhere warm?”
Mother looks up like she’s been pulled from a dream. Or a mimosa trance. “Do you not travel, dear?”
My fingers curl slightly under the table. Ligaya doesn’t flinch. Her voice stays steady. If she noticed the snobbishness behind the question, Ligaya doesn’t give it any mind.
“Not in December. We usually stay close to home for the holidays. Family, food, the usual.” Her gaze flicks to my father. “Did you enjoy yourselves in Florida?”
“It was fine,” he says with zero elaboration.
Marta returns with a mimosa and a tiny teapot for Ligaya, along with her choice of teas.
“In case you change your mind.”
“Thank you,” Ligaya says warmly.
We order. Afterward, it’s mother who attempts to continue the conversation.
“We spent most of the time at the club.” Of course they did. “Though the humidity can be dreadful.”
“Sounds fancy,” Ligaya says with a little sparkle in her eye. “I’ve never been to that coast. I love Hawaii, though. Spending Christmas there would be something, wouldn’t it?”
Affection squeezes my chest.
“We should go,” I say. “We could travel during the All-Star break.”
My father huffs humorlessly. “Not like they’ll invite you to the All-Stars.”
“I didn’t know you followed predictions on professional hockey, Mr. Thorne,” Ligaya says with a deceptively sweet tone.
“I don’t. But with Tristan’s knee injury, I doubt he should be playing at all. Especially since he’s been in the minor leagues for most of his career.”
“Tristan was part of a Stanley Cup winning team, sir. Many players would give their right leg for that, never mind the knee.”
“Ligaya, it’s fine,” I tell her, because there’s no point trying to make my father understand my profession.
“The Mavericks aren’t going to save their season with a bunch of mid-level, injured players,” he says with a sneer. “They won’t go far in the playoffs.”
“As I recall—and forgive me, it’s been at least ten years—you didn’t think Tristan’s high school team would go far in the playoffs, either. It must be hard to keep track of how often you’re wrong.”
The second the words come out, Ligaya slaps her palm to her mouth like she’s trying to hold it in. She looks at me apologetically, but she has nothing to be sorry for.
I’m the one who should be sorry for putting her in this situation.
“I apologize, Ligaya. I should have warned you that we don’t talk about anything important to me, especially my career. Let’s just get this over with?”
She nods.
I pause and direct my attention to the parental unit.
“We wanted to share our good news.”
Ligaya’s hand slides into mine. I lace our fingers, not caring if it makes my dad twitch. His eyes shift to the gesture like we’ve smeared dirt across the tablecloth.
“We’re expecting,” I say. “Ligaya is pregnant with twins.”
Mother’s attention sharpens then droops, like her Botox glitched. My father doesn’t blink at all.
Ligaya beams, unfazed. “I brought pictures of our first ultrasound.”
She takes them out of her purse and passes them to my mother. It sits on the table while the food gets served. No one even pretends to be hungry.
“They’re due this summer,” Ligaya adds, voice bright with genuine excitement. “There aren’t any twins in my family. Are there any in yours?”
Her positive attitude is undeterred. The woman has nerves of steel. Apart from the snarky comeback at my father, she’s grace personified.
“I can’t think of any.” Mother’s familiar sluggish confusion passes across her face.
“What an unexpected blessing, then,” Ligaya gushes.
I almost kiss her right there.
Instead, I glance down at my plate, my appetite obliterated.
Marta returns quietly with fresh rolls and more butter. Her eyes stray to the ultrasound pictures.
The meal drags. Every bite is tasteless. Every attempt at conversation fizzles. After what feels like an age, the table is cleared, and my father signs the check.
My chest expands with the sheer relief of standing up. I reach for Ligaya’s coat, helping her with it. We do the usual formalities of saying goodbye. Standing together. Shaking hands.
However, when mother air kisses Ligaya, she fumbles a little and nearly crashes on the table.
“Are you OK, Mrs. Thorne?”
“I stood up too suddenly. Dizzy spell, you know how it is.”
Actually, I don’t. “Do you get dizzy spells often, Mom?”
“No, no, don’t worry about me. I’ll just freshen up.”
“Great idea. I’ll freshen up, too, before we drive home.”
Ligaya, intuitive as always, is making an excuse to go with my mother and make sure she doesn’t fall on her face. My eyes are glued to them, so I’m taken by surprise when Dad grabs my elbow.
“I need a minute alone with you.”
We stroll out of the dining area and through the main hallway, down a corridor lined with oil paintings of rich dead people. We’re on the other end of the country club. The side patio is empty this time of year, which is why my father chose it as the place to fully display his true, ugly colors.
“Are you even serious with this girl?”
I glare at him incredulously. “She’s not a girl, she’s a woman. She’s brilliant and kind and beautiful. Most importantly, she is going to be the mother of my children.”
“This is quite the turn of fortune for people like her,” he scoffs.
My fist clenches and my stomach tightens. My father has been all kinds of asshole to me, but I’m used to it. Most of the time, I can barely hear him. I just block out the endless insults he hurls my way.
When the derision is directed at Ligaya, however, his words are unacceptable. I’m so preoccupied with controlling my anger, he interprets my silence as an opportunity to keep yapping.
“She’s set for life if you got her pregnant. Are you sure they’re yours.”
“You are disgusting,” I practically spit at him. I can’t begin to wrap my mind around his way of thinking.
“C’mon, Tristan. Do you think she’d be with you if you had nothing?”
“Ligaya has never asked me for anything. You think everyone wants your money because you can’t imagine being wanted without it. That’s not her. We’ve never even talked about money.”
“You will, wait and see.”
“The only thing I see when I look at her is a woman with more integrity in one finger than you will ever have,” I state with conviction.
In a world with so few certainties, I have no doubt she will never let me or our children down. Ligaya’s ability to make me feel seen is a gift I won’t take for granted. When she directs that honest attention and sincere care to the children, I can’t imagine a better future for them. Or for me.
Why did it take this awful conversation to truly understand how lucky I am to be the father of her children? I want to be the man they deserve.
“Are you telling me you haven’t taken care of her since the pregnancy?” My shitty father continues to berate me. “Pampered her? Maybe bought her a car.”
“Shut up, Dad. You’re such a fucking asshole.”
“What will people say? That you got trapped by some—”
“Careful,” I growl and grab his shirt, my other hand fisted and ready to punch. I’ve never felt anger like this. “Be very careful what comes out of your mouth when you talk about my woman. If you’ve got nothing to say that is worthy of Ligaya Torres, then you shut the fuck up.”
I push him off and stomp away.
Standing by the open patio door is Ligaya. Her expression is stoic, but her body is shaking. She must have heard every word.
God, what was I thinking? That I could protect her from my father’s spitefulness? It was a glaring miscalculation to drag her into this part of my life.
In some corner of my heart, I might have hoped we could experience even a sliver of the happiness her parents expressed. I’m a fool. My need to have Ligaya by my side was more important than my obligation to protect her from my family.
I failed the only person who matters.