Chapter 41 Ligaya
LIGAYA
The Ritz pool cabana is a cocoon from the vagaries of everyday drudgery.
A podium of luxury so surreal, so different from my everyday life, I might as well be on a spaceship.
Padding so plush, my ass sinks three inches, shade protecting me from the Texas sun, and a chilled glass sweating on the side table.
Sparkling water with a splash of pineapple juice is my new favorite non-alcoholic refreshment.
The bubbles tickle my nose when I sip, and the baby book propped against my belly makes me laugh at how understated it reads: At twenty-five weeks, your baby may respond to touch and sound.
The calm tone of the book is a parody of the chaos within. They may respond? Do karate chops and high kicks count, because every time I rest my hand down, one of these twins practices martial arts.
I snap a picture of my hand on the bump and send it to Tristan.
After lounging some more and finishing the chapter, I’m surprised to find Tristan hasn’t texted me back. Which probably means he’s mid-workout, bench-pressing the weight of a cow.
Meanwhile, Ami is slicing through the pool like a torpedo, all muscle and precision.
Typical military discipline, while I recline in empress mode.
For the past six days, we’ve been spoiled rotten.
Pedicures, manicures, foot rubs. She even convinced me to endure a light bikini wax so I could rock this maternity bathing suit.
All while we work on the baby shower registry, tapping the computer screen to choose wipe warmers and swaddling blankets like I’m wielding a magic wand.
The onslaught of babies’ needs can be overwhelming, yet all the purchases in the world don’t compare to feeling prepared and eager to meet our children, to start a life in which Tristan and I raise a family.
Nothing will be the same. This vacation has been one long pause button.
A stretch of time to breathe before everything changes.
I’m grateful for cushioned cabanas, ridiculous pampering, my sister’s bossy love, and most of all, Tristan.
Ami finally climbs out of the pool and plops down on the cushion beside me.
“We should head upstairs soon. We have that fancy dinner tonight.”
I let out a groan that’s part whale song, part toddler whine.
“Let’s call in for pizza in the suite. I love that bed!”
Her smile is way too smug. “It’s our last night. And you bought that gorgeous dress for a reason.”
I tip my head back dramatically. “The dress is for the pregnancy photo shoot that Toby booked for me and Tristan. I wanted something pretty to wear when I’m round and glowing. Not for, like, an overpriced soufflé.”
She flicks a droplet of pool water at me. “Double purpose. You’re wearing it tonight.”
The twins use my ribs as their trampoline, and I’d like to think that’s their way of communicating their approval of Ami’s plan.
Already taking their aunt’s side, I see.
“Fine. I’ll wear the dress, with flip-flops.”
She smirks. “Better to show off your pedicure.”
“The one I can’t see because my stomach is sticking out too much.”
“Precisely. Let’s go.”
We head upstairs and take our time getting ready. The hotel bath soap and lotion are so luxurious, I make a note of the brand. After a full hair blow out and two coats of mascara, I slip the halter strap over my neck and smooth the silky pink fabric down my hips.
The dress clings in a way that would have mortified me a year ago, but now?
Twenty-five weeks pregnant, and my body consists of large, lush curves.
My bump is round and proud. My hair is loose and glossy, and I’ve actually managed to line my eyes without poking myself.
I angle my phone in the mirror, tilt my chin, and snap a picture for Tristan.
Before I lose my nerve, I text him with the caption: thinking of you tonight.
No bubbles. No response to the earlier picture, either.
Throughout our entire history of texts, I don’t think I’ve sent him a single picture without him replying almost immediately.
Maybe I shouldn’t be such a worrywart, but the truth is I’m not the only one “carrying” these babies.
Tristan, too, has a lot on his shoulders.
His training, the playoffs creeping closer, the pressure of earning a permanent spot in Columbus.
And although he doesn’t say it out loud, his parents’ silence since we told them about the twins likely affects him.
That particular heartbreak looms over everything, heavy as stone.
I wonder if it’s crushing him more than he lets on.
I push the thought away for now. When I get home, we’ll figure things out together. I’m eager to lighten his load the way he’s always alleviating mine.
“Let’s go, glam queen,” Ami calls from the suite’s living room, where she’s slipping into her own flip-flops. Solidarity, always.
We glide through the Ritz lobby, her in sleek black, me a round splash of pink. I ignore the curious stares that follow a pregnant woman in a slinky dress. The valet helps us into the waiting cab and off we go.
The city lights smear across the window as we drive.
When the car finally stops, relief washes through me.
Ami insisted on a fancy place for our final dinner, but I didn’t want a stiff, white-tablecloth situation.
She listened because this lovely place is exactly the kind of fancy I had in mind.
It’s an intimate Italian restaurant with warm amber lighting, trailing ivy on the walls, and the faint sound of jazz floating above the clink of silverware.
As cozy as it is elegant. It smells like garlic, tomatoes, and heaven.
I’m swept back to that dinner with Tristan when we had two-for-one lasagna.
It was our first real conversation as adults.
My heart twists, longing sharp. This last week has been amazing, but I can’t wait to get back to him.
We’re shown to a gorgeous table tucked in a semiprivate corner. The candles flicker, catching the sparkle of crystal. Ami settles across from me.
“Hey, let me take a picture of you to send to Tristan.”
“You’ve been documenting me like a zoo animal all week.”
“For the album,” she says with a grin. “For him. For the babies. For Mom and Dad. Stop whining and smile.”
I force a polite smile. She lowers the phone. “A better one! Show some teeth. Lean forward a little. That cleavage shouldn’t go to waste.”
I smile through my heated cheeks. Click.
“You’re going to love this one,” she says. “Want to see it?”
I nod. She flips the screen toward me.
I don’t understand what I’m seeing. My brain hiccups, stutters, stalls. My mouth opens but nothing comes out.
In the photo, behind me, is Tristan.
How is that possible?
Did she photoshop it? What is happening right now?
How can Tristan stand behind me, wearing a dark suit and a heart-stopping smile, when he’s in Columbus?
“Ligaya.” Low and raspy, it’s the voice I wake up craving to hear every morning.
My body rockets out of the chair so fast, its legs scrape across the floor with a screech.
“Whoa—” Tristan surges forward, his face lit with concern, hands out like he’s afraid I’ll topple stomachfirst.
“Tristan?” My voice cracks.
Tears prickle instantly, hot and unimpeded. I clutch his arm, then his face, needing to feel him, make sure he’s real.
“I’m here.”
“You flew in for dinner?” I ask inanely, still trying to catch up to reality.
“I flew in for dinner and to stay the night. I didn’t want you to fly back alone.”
“What? Did you and Ami . . .” By the time I whirl around to glare at my sister for orchestrating this surprise, Ami’s already halfway to the door, blowing us a flying kiss. She mouths have fun and vanishes.
I shake my head, torn between giggles and tears. Tristan guides me back to my chair and sits across from me. Our hands entwine over the table.
“You look incredible, Ligaya.” He shakes his head like words won’t cut it.
My cheeks heat. “I was worried when you didn’t text me back all day.”
“I wasn’t sure I could maintain the surprise if we talked on the phone. I missed you too much.”
My sniffle barely camouflages the oncoming tears. “You’re lucky I’m not ugly-crying in the middle of this restaurant.”
“Even if you did shed tears of joy at seeing me,” he says with a glint it his eyes, “they could never be ugly.”
Sitting across from Tristan’s panty-melting smile has me grabbing the menu and fanning myself.
“Perhaps we should order dinner before you stare at me like I’m dessert,” he says playfully.
“Good plan,” I agree with an infatuated sigh, feeling other customers’ eyes on us.
We order our food.
“Tell me everything. What does six days of leisure look like?” The candle’s golden glow bounces off his cheekbones. He’s got an end-of-the-day shadow on his jaw that I’m tempted to caress with my hand.
But first, dinner conversation like normal adults.
“We started the online registry, as you know. I made sure to look for the brands you researched. They’re great.”
He nods before tilting his head inquisitively. “Hopefully you indulged in some retail therapy for yourself.”
I lean back and flip my hair over my shoulders. “This dress is my big splurge. Do you like it?”
His Adam’s apple bobs unsteadily while his eyes go half-mast, gaze roaming over my face and chest. He licks his lips and whispers lowly, “You know I love it. You know exactly how badly I want you over my lap right now so I can touch every inch of this gorgeous dress. And kiss everything under it.”
I nearly choke on my drool because that was hot.
“Need a drink, sweetheart?” he asks like he isn’t the reason I’m damn thirsty.
Sipping water and grabbing some composure, I redirect the conversation to less sexy topics.
“It was amazing to relax with Ami. Spa time and shopping trips aren’t usually in our budget, so it was fun seeing my sister get spoiled, too. Thank you for that.”
“You both deserve to enjoy your time together. Although ‘a teacher and a soldier enter a spa’ does sound like the start of a good story.”
“It wasn’t all laying around. She worked out every day. I doubt even you could beat her in a swimming race.”
“Sweetheart, I’ve got playoff conditioning, have some faith.”
That one word, playoff, has him glowing. I watch excitement spark across his face like fire.
“Congratulations, by the way. The Mavericks ended the season on top of the league. That means home ice advantage throughout the playoffs, right?”
I’m very proud of the opportunity to sound hockey smart. Thank you, Google.
“We’re peaking at the right time,” Tristan confirms enthusiastically. “Every minute on the ice feels electric, even during practice. The city hasn’t shut up about it, either, with all the postseason projections.”
I reach across the table, brushing his wrist, warmth blooming in my chest.
“I’m extra glad you carved out time to be with me during a crucial time of the season.”
His thumb strokes over my fingers. “There’s nothing more important than you.”
The waiter sets down my bubbling lasagna and Tristan’s veal marsala, the steam rising between us. I take one bite before realizing I’m too distracted by his gaze. I barely taste anything. If his hooded stare at my lips is any indication, he’s just as impatient as I am.
“Tristan, do you think they’ll pack the food for us to bring to the hotel room?”
“Good plan. If we stay here much longer, I’m going to scandalize the entire restaurant by hauling you over my lap, after all.”
He signals the waiter with a flick of his hand, arranges for the food to be wrapped, and drops his card for the bill.
We’re out the door in five minutes.