Page 74 of Top Scorer
My father stands only because protocol demands it. Navy blazer, pressed slacks, and an expression of moderate disgust he probably thinks passes for indifference. My mother is wrapped in pastel silk.
“Tristan.” He shakes my hand. He doesn’t look at Ligaya until he absolutely has to.
“Mom, Dad,” I say, voice tight. “Do you remember Ligaya? We went to high school together.”
“You did warn us you’d bring a friend.” His voice is the farthest thing from welcoming.
“She’s more than a friend,” I say defensively.
“Yes, Cathy’s daughter. How are you?” My mother rises and kisses the air near Ligaya’s cheek like we’re French and this isn’t Ohio.
Ligaya greets them with a natural friendliness they don’t deserve. Her posture is proud, her smile gentle but not meek.
We sit. The server comes over, menus in hand, and freezes.
“Hi,” Ligaya says before the woman can even pretend not to recognize her. “Marta?”
Marta glances around like she might get fired for speaking.
“Ligaya,” she says, almost under her breath. “Oh my goodness. You look beautiful.”
“Thank you.” Ligaya grins. “How’s your shoulder? My mom said you hurt it.”
Marta’s eyes soften, even as she glances at my dad, who’s already bristling.
“Better now. Thank you. I’ll be back to take your orders in a few minutes. Would you like another mimosa, Mrs. Thorne?”
Mother nods and points to Ligaya, indicating she should be brought one as well.
Ligaya shakes her head. “I’m fine with water. Thanks.”
When she leaves, Ligaya offers some background. “Marta lives alone a few houses from ours. Mom goes over to check on her once in a while and she had Dad shovel the driveway during that last snowstorm.”
“Because of her shoulder?” I ask.
Ligaya nods and the conversation lulls. There’s the delicate clink of cutlery against porcelain, the smooth murmur of genteel conversation at other tables echoing off stone columns, but our table conversation is awkwardly curt.
My father rudely checks something on his phone. My mother asks about the food which is the usual bland fare. She keeps adjusting the corner of her napkin, folding and refolding it.
Ligaya sits with a grace that doesn’t come from etiquette classes. Her assuredness is innate. The green dress makes her glow, her belly just beginning to round beneath the fabric, a quiet declaration of the future we’re building.
“I’ve never been to the country club. It’s gorgeous,” she says brightly, breaking the silence. “I heard you returned from Florida. What’s it like to spend Christmas somewhere warm?”
Mother looks up like she’s been pulled from a dream. Or a mimosa trance. “Do you not travel, dear?”
My fingers curl slightly under the table. Ligaya doesn’t flinch. Her voice stays steady. If she noticed the snobbishness behind the question, Ligaya doesn’t give it any mind.
“Not in December. We usually stay close to home for the holidays. Family, food, the usual.” Her gaze flicks to my father. “Did you enjoy yourselves in Florida?”
“It was fine,” he says with zero elaboration.
Marta returns with a mimosa and a tiny teapot for Ligaya, along with her choice of teas.
“In case you change your mind.”
“Thank you,” Ligaya says warmly.
We order. Afterward, it’s mother who attempts to continue the conversation.
