Cathy really is nice to everyone. Especially to Olive.
I’ve been doing that a lot.
Thinking of my sister and wondering how she would have reacted to the situation. Olive—with her stuffed toys and love of everything purple—would have screamed in excitement at the thought of baby twins. Sorrow wedges sharply in my lungs, making it hard to breathe.
“I’m kidding, Tristan. She likes you more than most hockey players. Promise.” Ligaya sounds concerned. I seem to have zero poker face around her. I might as well express the other thing that’s eating me up.
“Tell me honestly. Are your parents going to be pissed that we’re not married but having children?”
Ligaya shrugs. “They were raised in the Philippines, so it’ll be an adjustment. But I am who I am. They have no misconceptions about how I live my life. This was my choice, and they supported me as a single mom. Having you in the picture will be a net positive.”
“Net positive? What flattery you offer, Ligaya Torres.”
“More where that came from, don’t you worry.”
When we pull up the driveway,her parents are outside fixing the Christmas lights.
“Ay, Ligaya!” her mom says, and then her eyes land on me. “Tristan?”
She blinks like she saw a ghost.
“Merry Christmas,” I say, holding up theturon. “I come bearing rolled foods and bottles of wine.”
Cathy’s eyes flicker for a moment, something like pity crossing her face before she wipes away the emotion. It’s replaced by a cheerful, welcoming hug.
“Good, we don’t have to get the ladder,” Orlando says, shaking my hand. “Hook this up higher, will you? It fell during the windstorm last night.”
I leave the women to hold the foil containers. Ligaya’s father walks me through instructions as I rehang lights and hook up a large star in front of the window.
“The Mavericks will go all the way to the Stanley Cup this year,” Orlando says when we finally enter the house where there are Christmas lights everywhere, tinsel in doorways, poinsettias on every flat surface, and the smell of something roasting. A total of three Christmas trees are dispersed in the front foyer, dining room, and living room.
“We have news to share,” Ligaya says while leading us all to the kitchen table which is laden with drinks. “Before the rest of the guests get here.”
Her parents sit across from us expectantly. It occurs to me that Ligaya timed the revelation right before her family hosts a house full of people, leaving them little time to interrogate us about details we have yet to figure out.
She’s a genius.
“I’m pregnant,” she says.
Her mom leans back, mildly confused. “Yes, you told us. It also explains why you cried at the caroling party when Uncle Ray sang ‘Silent Night.’ And all thebibingkayou’ve been eating—”
“OK, yes,” Ligaya interrupts. “Anyway, we thought you should know, Tristan’s the father.”
A beat of silence is followed by an explosion of sounds in a mix of Tagalog and English. Her mom gasps before talking a mile a minute. Her dad lets out a loud“HOY!”and points at me, grinning widely. Her mom jumps up and claps, continuing her excited speech.
I catch the last part: “Oh my goodness, Tristan! You and Ligaya are together? Oh my goodness, that’s incredible!”
“Not exactly,” Ligaya corrects her quickly.
Her dad’s already pouring me a beer.
“He’s a good man. He has a job. He plays hockey!”
“That’s not necessarily a parenting qualification,” Ligaya grumbles, though she’s also smiling.
“Thank you.” I take the beer Orlando offers me. “Thank you for taking the news so well.”
“We’re not togethertogether,” Ligaya clarifies insistently.
