Chapter 37 Ligaya
LIGAYA
I’m erasing the whiteboard when the knock comes and the door swings open.
“Oh my god, that’s Tristan Thorne,” someone says with a dramatic gasp.
Tristan steps inside the classroom in a shirt with rolled-up sleeves, jeans, and a baseball cap tugged low.
“Ms. Torres, I was told your classes are done for the day,” he says with mock seriousness.
Tristan is already absurdly good-looking. That flirty tone turns my Honors English kids into gawking mutes who are only pretending to put their things away.
“I’m wrapping up. I thought we would meet there,” I say while gesturing for my students to hurry along. They grab their bags and flit to the door, giggling as they pass Tristan.
I sling my tote over my shoulder and grab my water bottle. He crosses the room to carry my bag for me. When the sound of passing students eases, he leans in and kisses the side of my head. His hand slides down my back.
“I thought I’d drive us. We can pick up your car later.”
“Are you still using the rental?”
“I’m test-driving a Subaru. Best safety rating and all that.”
That’s unsurprising, considering Tristan is all about safety ratings of car seats, cribs, and strollers. He’s a veritable inspector of infant-related merchandise.
On the drive, we pass the same houses, the same tired strip malls, but there’s a hum of anticipation between us. Our second ultrasound. Second trimester. Second time seeing the babies.
“You nervous?” he asks.
“Hmm, not nervous. Guarded excitement.”
“Yeah, me too. You still don’t want to know the sex of the babies?”
I shake my head. “Not yet. I don’t want to have assumptions about them before they come into the world. And with so many things to plan, I want that part to be a surprise.”
His gaze flicks to me, his lips tilted. “That’s a good reason.”
“You can find out confidentially. It’s your choice to make for yourself, Tristan.”
“I’ll wait. But can we at least make a name list? My teammates made me promise to consider hockey-themed ones.”
“I am categorically rejecting anything that rhymes with ‘Zamboni.’”
He’s about to offer a comeback, but I squeak.
Oh shit, I felt something.
It only happened one other time in the shower, the slightest movement. Like a tiny goldfish flipping inside me and then it was gone. This sensation in my belly is more like a glide than a flip.
“Is everything OK?” he asks, concerned. Tristan’s hands are tight around the steering wheel as he eases into a parking spot. As soon as he shuts off the engine, he reaches out to me.
“Ligaya, what’s wrong?”
“I felt something.” I grab his wrist and press his hand low on my abdomen. “There.”
This time, there’s a slight poke at the right side of my belly. Tristan’s eyes are wide as saucers.
“That was the twins? That wasn’t gas?”
“That was not gas.” I laugh. “That was one of our kids doing a backflip.”
He laughs, too, and then we’re both kind of quiet. His hand stays where it is, tenderly caressing.
“I think that’s it,” I say. “We don’t want to be late.”
Inside, a different tech meets us in the room.
She’s kind and quick with instructions, smoothing warm gel over my belly.
Tristan sits near my head, watching the monitor like it’s live coverage of a championship tournament.
We take each other’s hands automatically, his thumb brushing across my knuckles.
The babies flicker into view. Two glowing peanut-shaped silhouettes moving in slow motion. The details aren’t clear, but the shape hints at their spines, their heads, their alien-like profiles.
Then, the technician frowns. She tilts the wand, types something and slides the mouse to manipulate what appears to be a measuring tool on the screen. The mood shifts slightly.
“Is something wrong?” I ask, tightening my grip on Tristan’s hand.
“The doctor will be in shortly,” she says by way of answer.
Tristan and I stare at each other wordlessly. Annie swoops in and takes the spot of the tech. She asks how we’re doing—the usual polite chatter—but our answers are monosyllabic. Neither of us are in the mood for small talk.
“Alright,” she says, turning to the screen. “These little ones are at a beautiful stage. Early anatomy’s formed, and now they’re practicing breathing. You might be feeling more defined movements. Little pops or nudges?”
“More like flips than pops,” I say. “Random and quick, usually, but today it was more like a graze.”
Tristan squeezes my hand, grinning at the screen and then at me. “It was amazing to feel it under my hand. I can’t imagine what it’s like from inside.”
The wand slides across my belly, and the black-and-white fuzz blooms into shape. Two round heads, stacked like tiny moons in orbit. One of them jerks an arm, the movement sharper than before, and I swear I feel it inside me a second later.
“This one’s more active today,” Annie says, tracing the outline with her cursor. “And over here, see this? Baby’s practicing those breathing motions. Chest expanding and contracting. That’s a great sign.”
I focus on the smaller one, curled in tight. “Is it OK that one of them is so much smaller than the other?” The words stick in my throat.
She speaks reassuringly. “That’s not unusual for fraternal twins. We’ll keep a close eye with regular scans, but right now, both heartbeats are strong, fluid levels are normal, and movement’s exactly what we want to see. No cause for worry.”
Relief prickles behind my eyes. Tristan kisses my temple.
Annie glances at us. “Do you still want to wait to know the sexes?”
“Yes,” Tristan answers instantly for both of us.
She smiles, swiveling the monitor slightly away. “Then I’ll keep that part a surprise. Next time, they’ll be bigger, and you might even see a foot or hand stretch across the screen.”
As she wipes the gel from my stomach, I press Tristan’s hand to the spot where I just felt a solid thump. His eyes widen when another kick lands right under his palm.
“That’s not a flip,” he murmurs. “That’s a jab.”
I chuckle.
“When should we come back?” I ask Annie.
“End of March should be fine. How are you doing otherwise? Any more sickness? Fatigue?”
“I feel pretty good,” I answer honestly. “This second trimester has gone smoother than I expected.”
“You’re still teaching full days,” Tristan mutters. “That might not be as easy moving forward.”
“Lots of pregnant women work. I don’t stay on my feet more than I have to. And I hydrate, even if it means a bathroom break every half hour.”
“There’s really nothing to worry about if you’re feeling good,” the doctor states. “No contractions or discomfort?”
“Nope. I’m good. Also, I’m traveling in early March for spring break. That’s OK, right?”
“Early March is at about twenty-four weeks. That shouldn’t be a problem. Stay put after thirty weeks, though. Till then, continue to eat healthy and hydrate. Grab that vacation while you can.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
She leaves us in the room to gather ourselves. That’s when I notice two trenches between his brows.
“The doctor said the babies are fine. The little one will catch up, don’t worry,” I comfort him.
He runs a hand roughly over his head. “You shouldn’t be carrying your own bags. Or running rehearsals on your feet all night after teaching all day.”
“Shit, that reminds me. We should leave now if we want to grab a meal before the kids get there.”
He bites his lower lip to stop himself from objecting. Good choice, since I’ve got no time to quibble over my job at the moment. On the way out, we sync our calendars for the next ultrasound.
After swinging by Chopped, I eat my salad as he drives us back to the school.
“You should have an assistant,” he declares.
“The school can’t afford one.”
“Bullshit.” It’s a harsh word, but he sounds determined, not pissed.
We make it to the high school auditorium on time and, to my surprise, Tristan sticks around. My baby daddy is a handsome bouncer on stage left, bringing me water every twenty minutes. The kids love this turn of events, hamming up all their roles to impress Tristan.
I feel him watching me.
My feminist sensibilities want to rail at his overprotective attitude. Yet a stronger impulse prevails. Something like peace at having Tristan close. Knowing I can count on him to be present fills my heart.
Tristan’s words of encouragement and the way he fetches a more comfortable chair, his squeeze on my shoulder and gentle graze on my lower back .
. . all these gestures melt my resolve to focus on the twins.
I can’t help projecting a future in which our relationship is more than a convenient and logical outcome of the surprise pregnancy.
As much as I admire Tristan the father-to-be, it’s Tristan Thorne the man who astounds me with his passion, his commitment, his presence.
The way he looks at me makes me feel alive.
The way he supports me makes me feel powerful.
The way we are together feels right.