33. Thalassa
THALASSA
Graduating while pregnant with twins and dating three men should earn me some kind of special sash.
Like, I don’t need another cord or pin or certificate—just a big sparkly sash that says Chaos Queen in rhinestones. Maybe something that glitters aggressively in the sunlight and makes people wonder if I wore it on a dare.
But instead, I have a simple navy gown, a cap that keeps sliding because my hair won’t cooperate, and swollen feet that are absolutely protesting these sandals.
Still, when I hear my name called and walk across that stage to the sound of my entire support system erupting in the stands? I wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.
Arabella shrieks loudest, of course. She’s waving a sign that says, “SHE’S GRADUATING WITH HONORS AND TWINS.
” Becca is next to her, clapping and crying.
My parents are easy to spot—my mom’s got one of those giant sun hats, and my dad’s holding up a tablet, recording everything like it’s the most important footage ever captured.
And then there’s them. Tic. Dean. Colin.
All three of them in suits, all three looking like someone airbrushed them into a magazine spread.
Dean is stoic, but I catch the twitch of pride around his mouth.
Colin’s straight-up beaming, giving me two thumbs up like a dad who just watched his kid win the spelling bee.
Tic…Tic is clapping slowly, but his eyes are locked on mine. Quiet pride. Solid warmth.
I expected the crowd to make me nervous. But I feel calm. Happy. Like maybe I really do belong here.
After the ceremony, the crowds start to thin. There’s the typical post-graduation chaos—people trying to take pictures, programs flying everywhere, someone crying three rows down because they lost their stole.
But when I reach my family, everything else goes quiet. My mom wraps me in the tightest hug my belly will allow. “You did it, baby. You did it.”
My dad kisses my cheek. “We are so, so proud of you.”
“I’m proud of me too,” I say, which feels nice to admit out loud.
Tic is already talking to them, which is surreal. My parents don’t warm up to people. Years of island living, minimal social interaction, and being burned by overpromising funders have made them reserved to a fault.
But here’s Tic, cool as ever, cracking a soft joke about lab coats, and my mom is laughing.
Laughing. My mom .
And my dad? He’s nodding like he just found a new best friend.
We take a few pictures, and then Mom says, “We have something to show you.” She pulls out her phone and opens a video.
It’s a walkthrough. Bright rooms. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Wall-mounted aquariums with native reef systems. A full wet lab. A second dry lab. A conference room. Bedrooms for visiting researchers. Even a new dock.
It takes me a second. Then I recognize the island. It’s our island. Our home. The island I haven’t stepped foot on since the hurricane. Now completely rebuilt and upgraded.
“Wh—what is this?”
My dad grins. “It’s ours again. The foundation that supported our early work offered a major expansion grant. Full staff. Equipment. Long-term contracts.”
My mouth opens. But nothing comes out. My eyes shoot to Tic. And I see it.
The tension in his shoulders. The subtle anticipation in his eyes.
“Oh my god,” I breathe. “Is this the thing you wouldn’t tell me?”
He nods once. “Yes. Please don’t hate me.”
I burst out laughing and cover my mouth with one hand. “Tic.”
“I wanted it to be a surprise,” he says carefully. “I didn’t want you to feel pressured, or like I was buying your family.”
“You kind of did buy the island,” I say.
“I invested in your legacy. I always will.”
I launch myself at him—well, as much as I can with this belly. I wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him full on the mouth.
“You’re insane,” I say, breathless. “And wonderful. And yes, it’s heavy-handed, but I love it. And I love you.”
He exhales like he’s been holding that breath. My dad claps him on the back. My mom hugs me again.
And for the first time in years, I let myself feel the whole thing. The victory.
I’m not just graduating today. I’m starting something.
I wake up the next morning with sore cheeks from smiling too much.
No joke—I think I pulled something in my face from grinning through yesterday’s graduation, all the photos, the family brunch, the three separate toasts from my three overachieving boyfriends, and Arabella’s karaoke rendition of “We Are the Champions” that she demanded we all sing along to, harmonies optional and largely unsuccessful.
Becca did a dramatic interpretive dance as Arabella caterwauled with Colin.
It’s barely 7:30 a.m. when I sneak out of bed.
The mansion is quiet. The kind of still that only exists when everyone’s asleep and the air hasn’t figured out whether it wants to be warm yet.
I pad down the hallway in my softest leggings and an oversized T-shirt that used to be Colin’s—he gave it to me after a bad dream once, and I’ve never given it back. He’s never asked for it back either.
The pool glistens in the morning sun, the surface like glass.
My therapist is already there, seated at the edge in a navy-blue polo and crisp joggers, sipping a coffee and scrolling through her notes on a tablet.
Her name is Mina, and she’s exactly the kind of woman you want leading your trauma rehab.
Calm, kind, no-nonsense, and always dressed like she coaches at the Olympics. Because she did, three years ago.
The guys said they’d find me the best. They did.
“You’re early,” she says without looking up.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Big day yesterday.”
“You saw the livestream?”
“I saw the photos. You looked proud.”
“I was. I am.”
I sit down beside her, cross-legged, just out of reach of the water. The pool sparkles like it’s daring me to touch it.
“You don’t have to go in,” she says. “We’re just going to talk today. Get comfortable.”
I nod. But I already know I’m going in.
I’ve made my peace with the nursery. Kind of. I walk past it every day now. Sometimes I stop at the threshold and look inside. My heartbeat spikes. My throat tightens. But I don’t turn away.
One step at a time. That’s what Colin said. And today, I want to take one more.
I peel off my socks and roll my leggings up to my knees. The tile is cool beneath my feet as I stand and walk slowly to the edge.
Fear is a chemical reaction. Chemistry can be changed. I can change.
The mantra Mina and I worked on when we started working together. She spotted that science is my go-to for everything, so we designed my mantra around that. It’s a good reminder that my trauma is not me. It’s something I experience. That’s all it is. And I can stop experiencing it with practice.
The first dip of my toe into the water is jarring—not because of the temperature, but because of the memories. But I breathe.
Fear is a chemical reaction. Chemistry can be changed. I can change.
Mina’s voice is low and even behind me. “What do you feel?”
“Like I’m floating and sinking even though I’m still standing.”
“Good. Stay there. What else?”
“Like I’m…with them.”
“The babies?”
I nod. My hand slides over the gentle curve of my belly. “I used to love this,” I whisper. “Being in the water. Swimming was everything. Now it feels like I forgot how to breathe.”
Mina doesn’t rush me. She doesn’t coach or prod. She just waits.
I step in up to my knees. It’s hard. I’m shaking. The ripples spread out. But it’s not unbearable. And then, slowly, I walk forward until the water reaches my hips.
My breath catches.
Mina notices. “Breathe. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”
I do. It takes a few tries to make it steady. But then…then it flows. I close my eyes and press a hand to my belly. “Hey, you two,” I murmur. “Did you know your mom used to be a mermaid?”
My voice cracks a little. I don’t care.
“I’m going to show you the ocean one day. When I can. When it doesn’t hurt.”
The water moves gently around me. And I swear, for a moment, I feel something inside me ease. Not vanish. But shift. Like the tide pulling away from the shore.
Just a little. Just enough.
When I finally step out of the pool, my legs are trembling—not from the physical effort, but from the emotional release of it all.
Mina hands me a towel and doesn’t say anything, which I love her for. There’s no applause, no “I told you so.” Just warmth. Respect.
“You did something big today,” she says as I wrap myself up and sit on the nearest lounger.
I nod. “It felt…good. Hard. But good.”
“That’s how healing starts.”
“Not with fireworks and huge leaps?”
Half a smile. “Nope. With wet ankles and painful courage.”
I laugh. It sounds like a real one. The kind that belongs in a version of my life where trauma isn’t controlling me anymore. I know this won’t be the last time the water scares me. But it’s the first time in years that I let it touch me—and didn’t run.
That counts. That counts for everything.
Back inside the house, the scent of fresh cinnamon rolls is already curling down the hall, thanks to Mrs. Culpepper. That woman is a saint. Even Mom likes her—they met last night, since my folks stayed over. Mom said, “She’s ruthless and efficient. Learn from her.”
I promised I would.
Colin’s blasting something that sounds like classic funk from the kitchen speakers.
Arabella’s probably dancing in her pajamas.
She stayed over last night, and it’s not the first time.
I doubt it’ll be the last. Dean’s probably already dressed like he’s heading into a board meeting.
Tic’s likely reading three newspapers at once and sipping black coffee.
I walk past the nursery and pause. Just for a second.
The lights are off, but I can still see the shimmer of the ceiling mural. The reef glows faintly in the sunlight spilling in from the hallway window. It still makes my chest ache, but not the way it used to. The ache doesn’t drown me now—it lingers, then lifts.
I press my hand to the doorframe. “Soon,” I whisper. “I’m coming soon.”
Then I turn toward the kitchen. Toward music. Toward cinnamon rolls. Toward family.
And I walk in, barefoot, still damp, belly round, heart full. I’m not all better. Trauma doesn’t heal with a single dip in the water. Therapy isn’t magic. It’s work. It takes dedication. But I feel better for what I’ve done. Peeled back a layer. Took the initial plunge.
That’s how I’ll get better. One wet step at a time.