Page 43 of Top Scorer
It’s her home. Meanwhile, I’m the one-night stand who is only here because I got her pregnant.
When Ligaya admitted that she had been thinking about the pregnancy for weeks, it landed like a sucker punch. What stings is that she assumed I wouldn’t want to know what she’s going through. Did she think I would try to influence her one way or another? Does she think I’m an asshole who doesn’t respect a woman’s right to choose what’s right for herself? I respect her decision, whatever it is.
“Now what? What do we do?” I ask.
She stands up instead of answering and I suffer a moment of uncertainty that she’s going to kick me out. Instead, she serves us water in the kitchen.
“I secured an ultrasound on the twenty-second.”
“Can I be there?”
“If you’re in town,” she says before nearly drowning in her rush to gobble water.
I leap to pat her back and keep rubbing it even after she’s stopped coughing. Her herbal aroma draws me closer, the gentle hills of her shoulder blades delicate under my palm. I want to pull her close and bury my face in her hair, but she steps away.
“I’d like to be there,” I say, shoving my hands in my pockets. “What time do you have it scheduled? The twenty-second is our last morning practice before the Christmas break.”
“The ultrasound is scheduled for three in the afternoon.”
“Good. I’ll be there, Ligaya.”
She nods. Her eyes flicker with uncertainty like she can’t decide if she wants me to go back to the couch or to push me out the door. I don’t like either option.
“Do you want to get out of here for a bit?” I ask. “Some air? Walk outside maybe? Are you well enough to walk?”
“I’m pregnant, not made of glass,” she deadpans. “I was actually going to run to the store. I’ve been craving cantaloupes.”
“Let’s do it. I’ll drive.”
She seems about to object but instead shuffles to the door. Helping her into her coat feels weirdly intimate.
We don’t talk much on the way there. The silence gives me plenty of time to think about that loaded conversation.
An hour ago, I thought Ligaya Torres was done with me for good. Now, she’s a woman carrying our baby. I can’t shake the feeling that if she hadn’t gotten pregnant, I might never have heard from her again.
That doesn’t sit well.
The parking lot at the Meijer grocery store is a chaotic sprawl of brake lights and half-abandoned carts reminding me this is the height of the holiday season. We take a slow, looping drive past a dozen rows before we find a spot wedged between a rusting minivan decorated with a “Baby On Board” sign and a shiny SUV overflowing with shopping bags.
The air is icy sharp, our breaths creating white puffs. People shuffle past, carts overloaded. There’s a child wailing somewhere near the cart corral and the thud of a car door slamming cuts off the sound.
I have the stupidest thought, which iswhere did all these kids come from?I’ve never noticed how many kidsexist. And all of these people at some point found out they were going to be parents. It’s surreal to count myself as one of them.
Inside, Meijer hums with overbright fluorescents and the constant warble of pop renditions of holiday music. The store smells of cinnamon pastries they stack near the registers this time of year. A plastic animatronic Santa moves with stiff cheer beside a table full of peppermint bark tins and deeply discounted advent calendars. Shoppers are bundled with heavy puffer jackets, snow boots crusted with slush, scarves hastily knotted. Except for the teenager in pajama pants and flip-flops, because of course.
Ligaya beelines for the melons. She knocks and places her ear by a cantaloupe as if she’s checking if someone is home. The chosen one is put in our cart.
“What else are you craving?” I ask.
“You don’t want to know.”
“I asked, didn’t I?”
“Fancy pickles. And that canned whipped cream you spray directly into your mouth. And maybe cold mashed potatoes with too much salt. Many culinary experiments await.”
Ligaya’s determination is hypnotic as she paces the refrigerated deli section like a detective at a crime scene, muttering “No, not the right kind of pickles” under her breath. When she finds the correct brand, she lifts it in the air like a trophy before putting it in the cart.
Off she goes again.
