21. Thalassa
THALASSA
The OB waiting room smells like those pink antibacterial wipes that live in gym dispensers and a faint whiff of stale jelly beans from the kids’ play corner. I’m vibrating in a polyblend chair, drumming my fingers on my refillable water bottle because my fingers need a sacrificial object.
Every few seconds I glance at the flat-screen scrolling pregnancy trivia: Did you know your baby’s heart begins to beat at six weeks? Cool, thanks slideshow, love the casual reminder that something in my uterus is possibly beating right now or possibly…not.
Arabella sits beside me wearing a neon-yellow cardigan that screams optimism. She jiggles her foot like she’s revving an invisible engine. “You sure you don’t want me back there?” she asks for, I think, the sixth time.
“I’m sure,” I repeat, and then I do the thing I’ve been debating since breakfast. I yank out my phone and text Dean to let him know about the OBGYN visit. He vows to be here soon.
I swallow—my throat dry despite drinking the entire Nalgene. They’re coming. No turning back now.
Arabella sees my expression flip from jittery to deer-in-headlights. She squeezes my knee. “You texted the Triforce?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. I’ll tell them where the best parking is.” She fires off a logistical group text like a field commander, then leans close. “You got this. Worst case, we break into the supply closet and steal unlimited ginger chews.”
I snort-laugh loud enough that other patients glance over.
Twelve minutes later, the door from the corridor opens, and in breeze three six-foot-plus men doing their best impression of “casual.” It doesn’t really work.
Even dressed down—Tic in a dark Henley, Dean in a button-down sans tie, Colin wearing a sweatshirt that advertises a vintage arcade—they radiate notice me.
The receptionist’s eyes track them like they might sign autographs.
They spot me, file straight over, pausing a respectful foot shy of personal-space invasion.
Tic’s voice is mellow. “Thank you for inviting us.” Dean hands me a paper cup with a lid.
“Lemon-ginger tea. Caffeine-free.” Colin offers a pack of sour gummy worms—my guilty pleasure accidentally revealed over Thanksgiving—and a shy grin.
Arabella gives them a look equal parts hurt-my-friend-and-die and reluctantly impressed . They handle it gracefully, each nodding gentlemanly.
The nurse calls my name. My stomach does a backflip. Tic’s gaze flicks for permission, and I nod. “All of you.” Nurse raises eyebrows but shrugs—apparently, a rich person’s entourage is a Tuesday thing here.
The exam room is all pastel walls, pudgy elephant decals, and low light like a planetarium.
I change into a paper gown and perch on the table.
The gel is warm, thankfully. A tech with lavender scrubs and a calm radio host voice explains the steps.
The guys cluster near my head, chairs pulled tight.
The probe touches my skin. My breath hitches.
The screen glows with grayscale snowdrift, then shapes.
“Here we go, mama. You’re six weeks along, according to the file?—”
“That’s right.”
“We should see something good.” Thump. Thump. The speaker volume is low, but the sound is seismic. Dean squeezes my hand like a Morse-code prayer. The tech says, “There’s your little bean. Heartbeat looks strong. 160 beats per minute.”
A flood of relief, so sudden, I laugh-cry. I clamp my free hand over my eyes. Two weeks of Colorado keggers didn’t nuke anything. I almost sag off the table.
The tech moves probe. “Looks like there’s something else…”
Fear peaks. “I hurt the baby, didn’t I? I didn’t know I was pregnant, and I was partying, and?—”
“No, no. Nothing like that.” The snowflake swirl resolves into a second blob. “Say hello to baby number two.”
The room stops breathing. Two? My throat goes dry. “Did you say two?”
She flicks the measurement cursor. “You’re having twins. Symmetric growth, both look good. Congratulations.”
I stare at the screen, brain buffering. Twins. Like a BOGO baby sale. Dean inhales sharp. Tic’s eyes glaze. Colin whispers, “woah” like Keanu Reeves.
My body chills, then heats. I start giggling—might be hysteria, might be wonder. A dash of horror in there too. Twins means double diapers, double tuition, double everything.
The tech prints the image strip and hands it over. “The doctor will review, but prelim looks healthy.”
The paper feels fragile somehow. Little peanut silhouettes snuggled side by side.
The doctor confirms everything the tech told us. So far, so good. Mother and baby—babies—all set. I’m young and healthy, so she doesn’t expect much in the way of complications, but we’ll keep up with visits to make sure.
It all happens so fast, and I’m still stuck on the fact that there’s two.
We exit the exam corridor into reception. Arabella sees our expressions—tears glistening on my cheeks, the brothers stunned, but grinning. I mouth to her, “Twins.”
She actually jumps, squeal muffled behind her hands as she hugs me ruthlessly. The receptionist hands me a future appointment card. I slide the ultrasound print into my hoodie pocket like top-secret coordinates.
The guys shepherd me outside where the midwinter sun feels extra high-def. Tic’s voice is gentler than library carpets. “Want to chat a while?” He nods toward a discreet black SUV idling.
Arabella’s eyebrow arcs. “Text me everything.” She whispers, “Twice the cheeks to squish,” in my ear and makes me snort. She waves them off with mock sternness. “Return my roommate fed and hydrated enough for three.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Tic says with equally mock seriousness.
The Copeland mansion rises on the north side like a boutique resort crashed into an art museum.
Ivy-clad walls, giant glass panes, terraces layered down a gentle slope.
The driveway curves past a koi pond the size of a campus fountain.
Beyond, shimmering turquoise ribbons connect lagoon-style pools.
A lazy river circumnavigates landscaped islands with palms and flame-colored maples.
Pools. My chest tightens. Dean sees me freeze. He angles his body to block my view, murmuring, “We can use the front entrance, skip the pool deck.” Tic throws a subtle hand signal to the driver, and the SUV swings to a different portico facing the sculpture garden, breezing past water features.
I can breathe again.
Inside, the foyer smells of citrus polish and something warm—baking bread? Colin’s proud grin confirms, “The kitchen staff prepped fresh focaccia. I thought you might be hungry,” like it’s a normal welcome mat.
He leads a quick tour. The library with a sliding ladder, a game room with vintage Pac-Man, an art studio with a skylight. There’s more, but I can take in only so much right now.
Twins .
Eventually, he opens double doors to a guest suite bigger than my parents’ whole cottage. King bed, pale-blue duvet, view of Japanese maples.
Tic stops at the threshold. “You can stay here as long as you like. We thought having a place to decompress might help, and eventually, we can have a chat about…things.”
I touch his arm, anchoring his dark eyes to mine. “Thank you.”
Dean clears his throat. “We’ll let you settle. Dinner when you’re ready?”
“Actually,” I say, voice small but decided, “could we…maybe hang now? I’ve missed you guys.”
Colin closes the door behind himself, shutting the four of us inside. Dean approaches, hesitant. But I step forward, bridging. His hand cups my cheek gently. His eyes fall onto my bruise.
“It doesn’t hurt anymore.”
“Good.” He brushes his lips to the bruise, then to my mouth. The kiss is slow and painfully soft. Electricity hums in my skin, but not frantic. More like a melodic current.
Colin appears behind me, his arms sliding around my waist. Tic is at my side, his fingers combing my braid free. The three-point circle encloses, slower than the fort night. And then, they converge.
Lips on my neck, hands on my hips, a tongue sliding up my earlobe. There’s so much that should be said, but mouths have so many better uses.
Tic unwraps my sports bra with surgical precision. Dean kisses my clavicle. Colin kneels to tug my leggings, pressing a reverent kiss to the shin bruise, faded brown and yellow now.
The bed welcomes our cluster. Their touches coordinate intuitively, like musicians who rehearsed a song. Guess I’m a musician now too. Their hands go everywhere, but patiently this time. No rope, no safeword negotiation.
Just skin, warmth, and whispered check-ins:
“Good?”
“Yes.”
Tic kisses along my inner thigh, reverence in every motion until he reaches my pussy, and there, he loses his self-control. I pull Colin onto me for him to straddle my chest and feed me his cock. I want to taste them. All of them. Dean watches, stroking himself to the sight of me enjoying them.
But we switch things up, and soon Tic is inside me, long languid strokes as he stares into my eyes.
Dean plays with my tits, heightening my pleasure and amusing himself.
When Tic rolls over, he takes me with him, putting me on top.
Colin, ever the one who likes to come up from behind, cups my tits while he leans over my back.
Dean reaches out for my clit while I ride Tic, and the first orgasm sends my head tossing into Colin’s collarbone.
Oops.
But we giggle our way through it, and try something new.
I end up on top of Dean, facing outward.
The angle is different, challenging. It hits all new spots inside.
Tic stands on the bed, one hand on the ceiling, the other on the back of my head as I take him into my mouth.
He’s all I can see, a ripple of muscles that lead to his handsome face.
We explore each other, not like conquest but mapmaking. When climax hits again it’s layered. Mine first, then Tic losing himself in my lips. Dean follows, and Colin comes last with a soft groan hushed against my shoulder after he took me on my hands and knees. None of it rushed, all of it savored.
After, they arrange themselves as living pillows. I lie atop Dean’s chest, Tic strokes my hair, and Colin’s legs tangle mine. Breath synchronizes.
The ceiling has tiny recessed star lights. Someone dims them to the night sky. I whisper into the dark. “Twins.” As if speaking makes it real again.
Tic replies, voice velvet, “A miracle times two.”
Fear tinges. “Two miracles that need money, stability, and probably therapy.”
Dean’s heart thumps under my ear. “Whatever path, we’re resources on tap.”
I bite my lip. “I still haven’t decided.” The admission hurts, but honesty is required.
Fingers tilt my chin. Colin’s gaze is earnest. “That decision doesn’t change how we feel. Doesn’t change this.” His hand slides to connect with my belly. “We’re here. We’re not going anywhere.”
For the first time, the future forks feel less like cliffs, more like branching rivers. Some are rapids, some are calm, but boats and paddles are ready. We can do this.
My stomach growls, and Dean kisses my forehead. “Food?”
“Focaccia smells and sounds amazing, if that’s still available.”
Colin chuckles. “Better be. I requested it for you.”
They dress and exit to orchestrate a feast, leaving me in a giant bed smelling of sex, lavender linen, and hope. I clutch the ultrasound print from my hoodie pocket and hold it to the soft star ceiling. The two bean shapes blur as my tears slip out.
Whatever comes next, I’m not alone.
I let my eyes close, ultrasound resting on my chest. Outside the window, maple leaves flutter crimson. The world spins, irrespective of the huge choice I have to make.
But not today. Today is heartbeat day, twin surprise day, ginger-tea day, second-chance day. And that’s enough.