“We spent most of the time at the club.” Of course they did. “Though the humidity can be dreadful.”
“Sounds fancy,” Ligaya says with a little sparkle in her eye. “I’ve never been to that coast. I love Hawaii, though. Spending Christmas there would be something, wouldn’t it?”
Affection squeezes my chest.
“We should go,” I say. “We could travel during the All-Star break.”
My father huffs humorlessly. “Not like they’ll inviteyouto the All-Stars.”
“I didn’t know you followed predictions on professional hockey, Mr. Thorne,” Ligaya says with a deceptively sweet tone.
“I don’t. But with Tristan’s knee injury, I doubt he should be playing at all. Especially since he’s been in the minor leagues for most of his career.”
“Tristan was part of a Stanley Cup winning team, sir. Many players would give their right leg for that, never mind the knee.”
“Ligaya, it’s fine,” I tell her, because there’s no point trying to make my father understand my profession.
“The Mavericks aren’t going to save their season with a bunch of mid-level, injured players,” he says with a sneer. “They won’t go far in the playoffs.”
“As I recall—and forgive me, it’s been at least ten years—you didn’t think Tristan’s high school team would go far in the playoffs, either. It must be hard to keep track of how often you’re wrong.”
The second the words come out, Ligaya slaps her palm to her mouth like she’s trying to hold it in. She looks at me apologetically, but she has nothing to be sorry for.
I’m the one who should be sorry for putting her in this situation.
“I apologize, Ligaya. I should have warned you that we don’t talk about anything important to me, especially my career. Let’s just get this over with?”
She nods.
I pause and direct my attention to the parental unit.
“We wanted to share our good news.”
Ligaya’s hand slides into mine. I lace our fingers, not caring if it makes my dad twitch. His eyes shift to the gesture like we’ve smeared dirt across the tablecloth.
“We’re expecting,” I say. “Ligaya is pregnant with twins.”
Mother’s attention sharpens then droops, like her Botox glitched. My father doesn’t blink at all.
Ligaya beams, unfazed. “I brought pictures of our first ultrasound.”
She takes them out of her purse and passes them to my mother. It sits on the table while the food gets served. No one even pretends to be hungry.
“They’re due this summer,” Ligaya adds, voice bright with genuine excitement. “There aren’t any twins in my family. Are there any in yours?”
Her positive attitude is undeterred. The woman has nerves of steel. Apart from the snarky comeback at my father, she’s grace personified.
“I can’t think of any.” Mother’s familiar sluggish confusion passes across her face.
“What an unexpected blessing, then,” Ligaya gushes.
I almost kiss her right there.
Instead, I glance down at my plate, my appetite obliterated.
Marta returns quietly with fresh rolls and more butter. Her eyes stray to the ultrasound pictures.
The meal drags. Every bite is tasteless. Every attempt at conversation fizzles. After what feels like an age, the table is cleared, and my father signs the check.
