“We used condoms,” I blurt defensively. “It was one night, but like multiple times.”
“Oh my god. Just when you think you got him out of your system, huh? He’s such a goddamn pest, that son of a bitch.”
Ami has a habit of mixing jokes with vehemence. She wants to lighten the mood as well as punch Tristan. My sister knows how hurt I was after he ghosted me. And yet, she doesn’t sayI told you so. She merely asks the million-dollar question.
“Do you want to tell him?”
“I don’t want to tell him till I’m sure.”
Ami tilts her head toward the tests on the counter.
“I should go to the doctor,” I state.
“Right,” she agrees cautiously.
“I mean, what if—”
“What if the ninety-nine percent accurate reading of three tests is faulty. Yes, definitely see a doctor.”
Her sarcasm stings. She reaches over to hug me, softening the blow of her point.
“Maybe I’m releasing certain hormones because I’m late. That’s a thing.” I continue my narrative of deniability.
“If you say so.”
I clean up the mess and disinfect the counter and scrub my hands. The entire time, my sister watches.
“I will respect whatever you decide for the pregnancy, Ligaya. And I swear to god, so will Tristan.”
Her voice is low, confident, and a little scary. I’m reminded that my sister is the equivalent of ten protective older brothers, plus she’s trained for combat.
“I know you’ve got my back, but will Mom and Dad respect my choice? I’m not ready for any of this,Ate.”
“This is your body. Whatever you decide for yourself is what’s right. This isn’t about being ready. This is about trusting yourself. There are options.”
“I know.”
“Good. There’s time to consider options, right?”
“Yes, I think so.”
“In that case, there’s no reason to decide anything tonight.”
“If it turns out I’m pregnant, I will tell Tristan.”
What I don’t say is I don’t knowhow.
How to tell him. How he’ll react. How I’ll feel if he ghosts me all over again.
CHAPTER 19
TRISTAN
The table is set like a magazine spread. White linens, polished silver, individual butter dishes arranged like props. Even the sugar cubes sit in perfect geometric order. Everything, including the Christmas decorations tastefully draped around the room, is flawlessly impressive and completely artificial. Gleaming ornaments hang from sculptural branches sprayed white. Heaven forbid there’s a hint of green or red. It’s the kind of decor meant to impress, not delight. Centerstone Country Club is where holiday cheer goes to die and get embalmed in glitter.
The service is impeccable and yet depressing in the way of fake smiles and fleeting eye contact. I make a note to leave a fat tip on my way out. If I have to endure this, the waitstaff shouldn’t have to suffer, too.
I fold my napkin over my lap. Not because I care about etiquette, but because I need something to do with my hands. The silence at our table is louder than the fork clicks and muted chewing.
