17. Thalassa
THALASSA
I wake to the hush that happens right before dawn.
No chalet-mates snoring, just the throb of my own pulse inside cotton batting.
The boys—my billionaire boys, my sudden, accidental, terrifying safety net—sleep around me in the blanket fort we built last night after sex.
An illusion of safety, but as Colin put it, “The illusion can feel as good as the real thing.”
Tic sits propped against the bed, chin to chest, arms crossed like a medieval guardian. Dean is sprawled on the floor, one hand practically touching my ankle. Colin snores softly from the corner, hoodie pulled over his face.
Their presence should comfort me. Last night it did. But six hours of semi-concussed half-sleep after two hour-long sex sessions let every anxiety slip through the cracks. Now the fort feels like a nest of wires ready to implode.
A baby.
A baby.
Each syllable is a kettledrum in my skull. Four weeks, give or take. Four weeks ago I was a broke virgin whose biggest plan was to pass orgo and maybe Instagram a snow angel. Now? I can’t even list the variables.
Possible fathers plural , an entire family business orbiting me like Jupiter’s storm, my parents celebrating a prosthetic victory states away.
The thought of Dad’s face when I announce, “Surprise! Grandpa!” makes bile climb. I swallow hard, gently extract my foot from Dean’s half-open hand, and inch out of the fort. Tic shifts but doesn’t wake. My shin twinges from bruises, but adrenaline overrides pain.
I dress by phone glow. Jeans, hoodie. I pack hospital papers, two pregnancy tests, and the ginger-tea sachet Dean made, because I’m weirdly sentimental.
Backpack zipped, boots on, phone silenced.
My chalet-mates are asleep, nowhere in sight.
Perfect. The chalet door clicks behind me with a soft magnetic latch. No one stirs.
Outside, the predawn cold slaps me awake like a bucket of iced Red Bull. Stars burn pinholes overhead. Breathing hurts my ribs. I crunch through fresh powder to the rental Jeep, keys where Arabella left them in the visor. The engine sputters alive. Heat fans across the windshield.
Destination letters flash on the GPS: DEN Airport. And I drive.
Headlights carve tunnels through snow mist, and gas-station coffee keeps my hands from shaking off the steering wheel.
Driving in real snow is different than the dustings we get in Atlanta sometimes.
I keep checking the rearview, half expecting Tic’s rental to materialize, headlights roaring judgment. Nothing but a FedEx truck.
What am I doing?
Crackling fear overrides sense. I left without a note—ghosted men who literally hopped on a jet to check on me.
They said no pressure, yet some part of me panicked at the tenderness.
They looked at me like I already mattered more than anything.
I’ve never mattered that much to anyone outside family—and even there, my value was always science prodigy daughter, not the center of the solar system.
How could this work? It can’t. I know that. Even if they don’t.
It’s too fast. Too bright. I’ve known them for what, a month? Kind of? But my heart does this weird cardio whenever they smile. My body knows them intimately. My brain is playing catch-up. I can’t decide life-altering stuff while hormones are ping-ponging like stray electrons.
So I bolted.
The bleep of gas gauge at half makes me flinch. I stopped at the gas station and forgot to get gas. Yeah, I’m a genius.
My head still aches, bruise throbs, and somewhere deeper a tiny cluster of cells is silently splitting. Snow ghosts swirl across asphalt like unfinished sentences.
Thankfully, I make it to the Denver airport at dawn.
It’s a fluorescent fortress full of ski-boot percussion.
I ditch the Jeep, limp through baggage check, and buy a standby seat on the earliest flight to Atlanta.
The credit-card swipe feels like larceny, but that money is mine. I more than earned it, I’d say.
Gate C24 is purgatory. I sit near a defunct charging station, hood up, earbuds in with no music. People around me smell like peppermint gum and travel excitement. I smell like fear sweat, I’m sure of it.
My phone starts going off with texts.
Dean texts: How’s the head?
Tic sends: Breakfast soon?
Colin sends a GIF of the blanket fort with sad face.
I stare, tears pricking. Can’t reply. Not yet.
I board the flight and wedge my currently slender self into the middle seat between a snoring businessman and a teenage girl knitting something neon. She nods politely, and I mouth hi. The plane pushes skyward.
Hours later, touchdown ATL. Humidity hugs my bruises like sandpaper, but it smells like home. A rideshare takes me to campus.
What if they think I’m kidnapped? They have security staff—could track my phone probably. I have it off. I should text: I’m alive . But I can’t.
On campus, winter-dead oaks drip condensation. My heart hammers as I unlock my dorm room door. Really, I should let them know?—
I yelp when I see someone on my bed. It’s Arabella, cross-legged, paint-chip sample in hand like she’s redesigning my life.
Her eyes snap up—mascara smudged, fury on simmer. She crosses her arms. “Thought you’d ghost me too?”
Shame floods. “Arabella?—”
She holds up her palm. “First, yes, I beat your stealth Uber. Geo-tag was child’s play.
Second, I haven’t slept since you Houdinied at four this morning.
I slept on the couch, if you can call it sleeping, but I thought you needed private time with your billionaires since the four of you barely left the room yesterday.
Third, I brought backup snacks.” She jerks her chin at the bedside crate stocked with Saltines, ginger chews, prenatal vitamins, and a plush koala.
The plush breaks my last defense. I drop my backpack, collapse against the door, and cry. Not neat movie tears—full-body ugly sobs that wobble the dorm door on its hinges. Arabella’s expression softens to there we go.
She pats the space beside her. I sink down, bury my face in her hoodie. Snot exchanges happen. After shock waves subside, she hands me a tissue mountain.
“Talk,” she says.
I tell her everything, including their texts that make me feel like shit. Cared-for, but still shit.
She sighs. “I’d’ve driven too but, babe, text the rescue squad next time. They’re probably hacking the TSA to find you.”
My phone vibrates—eleven missed calls now. I switch it to airplane mode again.
Arabella leans back. “So. Options time?”
My heart stutters. I rub my temple. “Everything’s a tangle. Grad apps, next semester, Dad’s new arm, three maybe-dads. Baby. I don’t know which string to pull first.”
She nods, retrieving the laptop from her tote. “We pull one you can control. Money. You think you can’t finish school with a baby. That’s false. There are single-parent scholarships, childcare grants, even postpartum dorm units.”
I frown. “Postpartum dorm units? That’s…unexpected.”
“Peach State launched a pilot last year.” She types fast, screen glow painting her determined features. “Also, national funds—Heather Lee Foundation, Raise the Future Fellowship. Eligibility doesn’t vanish in senior year.”
I scoot closer, scanning the scholarship list. Requirements: maintain 3.0 GPA (check), letter of recommendation, proof of pregnancy, essay on resilience. Essay I can handle—I spent my childhood writing scientific diaries. Easy enough.
Hope prickles—tentative, like seedlings after a storm. I glance at Arabella. “Even if I could afford tuition, daycare costs?—”
“Campus co-op daycare is half price for student parents. And I babysit for free.” She lifts her hand, nails glittering. “Don’t argue.”
Emotion surges again, less freight train, more warm tide. “Why are you so good to me?”
She shrugs. “You’re my ride-or-die. Plus, I need godmother credentials for LinkedIn.”
I laugh through a sniffle and whisper, “I could still chase a master’s.”
She nods. “With a tiny lab assistant in tow.”
Hope, fragile and tiny, blooms. But then guilt creeps in—the guys. I fled. They deserve a voice too. But no decision-making power over my body. “I’m not sure what to do about the guys.”
Arabella switches gears. “They weirdly care, you know. None of my sugar daddies ever flew cross-continent for a pregnancy scare. Not that I’ve had one, but you know what I mean. They like you.”
“I know.” I swallow. “That’s what scares me the most. It feels…real.”
She rests her head on my shoulder. “Real isn’t the enemy, babe. How do you feel about them?”
My heart swells at the thought. But, “It’s just hormones, I think.”
“You said you had a good weekend with them before the hormones. Would it be so bad to maybe date your baby’s daddies?”
I snort at the crassness, but also, I consider texting them. Maybe later tonight after a nap. “I need sleep. It’s been a long day.”
“On it.” Arabella tucks me under my comforter, sets the plushie to guard my bruised shin. She dims the desk lamp, opens the window for a midday breeze, and hums an off-key lullaby. My eyes shutter.
Half-asleep, I mumble, “You think I’ll be a good mom?”
Arabella snorts. “Better than any I know.”
It’s the last thing I hear before sleep claims me. I wake at dusk. The dorm glows amber. Arabella sits desk-side reading an obstetric best-practice blog. My phone blinks with new messages.
“Wakey wakey. Time to call?” she asks.
“Maybe next lifetime. I need to think.”
“You got it. How about dinner?”
“Yes, please.”
I hit a shower, and Arabella returns with takeout Thai. Over noodles, we draft a timeline. Doctor appointment Monday, scholarship essays over the last of holiday break, conversation with parents after that, maybe call the guys eventually.
Baby decision? Not today.
Arabella toasts a spring roll. “To reroutes.”
I clink the water bottle. “To changes.”
Outside the window, campus lights flicker on. I’m still scared. But now fear stands beside possibility, and possibility holds the promise of little hands in lab coat pockets.
One step at a time, I tell the flutter in my belly—whether baby or butterflies—I’ve got work to do.