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. Theymay 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 inempress 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.
