34. Atticus
ATTICUS
The water doesn’t ripple unless she tells it to.
That’s what I notice first. The silence, the control, the stillness of it.
It mirrors her now in a way it didn’t used to.
Weeks ago, the water was the threat. A looming reminder of what she’d lost and what she couldn’t reclaim.
Now, as she moves slowly through the shallows, waist-deep, steady and careful, it seems to recognize her as something sacred again.
She’s regaining her power. It’s a beautiful thing.
I sit nearby, but not too close. She told me once that proximity mattered—being near enough to catch her if she stumbled, but not so near that it felt like she was being watched for failure.
So I find a balance. A chair in the shade, coffee in hand, the edge of my shoe resting against the sun-warmed tile.
I haven’t turned a page in the book resting in my lap in ten minutes. My eyes are on her.
This is the furthest she’s made it. Her therapist says she might be ready to try full immersion next week. I wonder if she knows how much I dread that—how the idea of seeing her go under, even voluntarily, feels like testing fate.
But I keep that fear to myself. She deserves this moment. This progress.
She floats, arms stretched behind her, hair slicked back and glinting rose gold in the sunlight. Her face tilts skyward. Her eyes are closed. She’s so still that for a moment I panic—but then her lips part, and she exhales audibly, smiling.
She’s breathing.
I release the breath I’ve been holding, slow and careful.
She doesn’t know that thirty-one weeks is further than Serena ever made it. She doesn’t know that every day past that mark feels like playing chicken with my own grief. She shouldn’t have to know.
It’s mine to carry.
She laughs softly—just a quiet puff of joy—and my heart contracts. That sound. I didn’t realize how long it had been since I heard it without fear trailing after it like a shadow. That laugh is real. Whole. Untethered.
Colin told me about her breakdown in the nursery. How she bolted. How the sea-themed paint job triggered something in her so deeply embedded that it took her down with it. I wasn’t angry—not at him, not at her. Some trauma lives in muscle memory. It’s not rational. It just is.
He also told me how she came back. How she’s been reclaiming it one glance, one breath, one inch at a time.
That’s who she is. She does the terrifying thing even after it nearly broke her. She stays.
I respect that more than I can put into words. I love her for it. I am so happy that she’s the mother of our children. Her bravery is something that should be passed down.
The sliding doors open behind me. I don’t have to turn around to know it’s her parents—their voices are distinct and warm in that steady way people who’ve learned to live with isolation tend to be. Her mother carries two takeaway coffees. Her father has a tablet tucked under one arm.
They don’t speak right away. They just watch their daughter in the water. Cindy mutters, “She’s really doing it.”
I nod.
“That’s further than I ever thought she’d get,” her father murmurs. “We spent so long thinking she might never even touch a shoreline again.”
“She’s braver than anyone gives her credit for,” I say.
“She’s stubborn,” her mother corrects, but there’s affection in the word. “Even as a child. She’d refuse to leave the water, even when she was sunburned and wrinkled like a prune. She said the sea was the only place she ever felt at home.”
I glance back toward the pool. Thalassa turns in a lazy circle, gliding. Still smiling. Weightless.
Her mother follows my gaze. “That’s the smile we used to see. Before the storm.” Her voice catches on the last word, but she covers it with a sip of coffee. “I didn’t think we’d get her back,” she says. “And now here she is. Pregnant. Happy. In love.”
“You did the hard work,” I say. “We just showed up late and got lucky.”
Her father chuckles. “She’s not the kind to fall in love with luck. She falls in love with character.” His eyes sharpen slightly. “So make sure you keep earning it.”
“I intend to,” I say, with more certainty than I feel. “Every day.”
Her mother sighs, watching her daughter conquer her fears. Conquer me. Every second that Thalassa is in the water, I am in awe of her. Cindy quietly asks, “Do you know what Thalassa means?”
“Conqueror?”
She smiles at that. “It’s the Ancient Greek name for the goddess of the sea. The Mediterranean, to be exact, but that was the entire sea to them.” Her smile fades, her eyes still on her daughter. “After the storm, she said she hated me for naming her that.”
A spike wedges in my heart. If my child ever said anything like that to me… “She was scared?—”
“She was angry,” James says carefully. “I get it. After losing my arm, I was angry too, for a while. But the sea is in my blood, and my blood is in the sea. It’s a give and take, and when you’re a water guy, that doesn’t stop when something goes wrong.
It just takes time. Time to heal, time to make amends. ”
Cindy runs her finger along the edge of her mug. “Thank you for giving her the space for that, and for giving her the tools we couldn’t give her.”
I don’t know why, but a knot forms in my throat. “It’s an honor. Every moment with her is an honor. We will always do everything we can for her.”
She smiles again, but there’s a sharpness in her eyes. “You better.”
No threat said out loud, because there’s no need. It’s implied. And I don’t mind. I like that they’re protective of her.
So I smile too, then watch Thalassa make amends with the water. Sitting with her parents feels strangely natural. Like family.
I’ve always imagined this moment would be awkward, stilted.
Some undercurrent of male suspicion, overprotective stares, and “what are your intentions” tension.
But there’s none of that. Her parents don’t posture.
They don’t push. They just…exist here. As though we’ve all been part of each other’s stories much longer than the calendar says.
Maybe that’s what happens when love is real.
It makes time irrelevant. Ages too. I’m twenty years her senior, but I don’t feel it. I haven’t since the first day. Maybe that should concern me. It doesn’t. No one else brings it up much either.
I take a quiet breath. Then say, carefully, “Would your new facility be available for events?”
Her mother glances at me. “Events?”
“Small ones. Private.”
Her father raises a brow. “What kind of event?”
I keep my eyes on the water as I answer. “A wedding.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Her mother gasps softly. Then her father says, in a tone that brooks no uncertainty, “You don’t even have to ask.”
“She doesn’t know yet,” I say quickly. “Nothing’s official.”
Her mother’s smile widens. “It will be.”
I nod once. Then let myself smile too.
Later, I find myself standing in the nursery.
I didn’t intend to come in here. I was walking past, the way I usually do, intending to keep going. But something drew me in—maybe the way the sunlight hit the mural, the way the room smells faintly of lemongrass and baby detergent, or the quiet.
Colin’s handiwork is everywhere. He’s tried to keep the palette light and friendly, but there’s still so much ocean in this room that it almost hums like waves crashing.
Seashell mobiles hang in soft arcs above the cribs.
The curved bookshelf in the shape of a tide pool makes me smile, even now.
He did this with love, and he did it with imagination. A rare combination.
But I understand why she bolted when he first showed it to her. I see it in the shapes, in the reflections off the deep blues. The illusion of depth can be beautiful. Or it can be suffocating. Sometimes both.
I cross the room slowly. Press a hand to the mural along the wall—sunbeams filtering through painted water. It’s stunning. And still, I’d scrap the whole thing if she ever asked. But she hasn’t.
She’s been inching her way into this space. One breath at a time. Sometimes she leaves the door open now, just a crack. Sometimes she pauses, fingers brushing the frame.
Progress, like healing, is measured in inches.
I leave the room after a few minutes, moving quietly through the house. Colin’s in the kitchen, tapping through something on his tablet. Dean’s outside talking to the estate manager. I check my watch. It’s late afternoon.
I knock gently on her door.
“Come in,” she calls.
She’s lounging on the bed, belly cradled by three different pillows, wearing one of Dean’s T-shirts and a satin headwrap I don’t think I’ve seen before. She looks comfortable. Serene.
“You’re staring,” she says, a small smile playing on her lips.
“Just admiring.”
“You guys keep saying that, and I’m starting to think it’s a line.”
“Only when it’s true.” I sit beside her and rest a hand lightly on the slope of her belly. “How are they?”
“Kicking. A lot.” She shifts slightly. “I think they’re practicing for synchronized swimming.”
“Fitting.”
She laughs, and the sound fills the room like music. Then her smile softens, and her fingers find mine. “You okay?”
I nod, but slowly. “Can I tell you something?”
“Always.”
I watch the way her eyes hold mine—steady, unflinching. She doesn’t press. Just waits.
I had thought to keep all of this to myself. But thinking about her healing journey, I realize I might need one of my own.
“Serena didn’t make it this far,” I say. “Thirty weeks. That’s all we got.”
Her expression changes—not pity, but something deeper. Recognition. “You don’t talk about her much.”
“I think about her every day,” I admit. “But I haven’t spoken about her. Not really. Not until you.”
She tilts her head, her eyes searching. But she remains silent to let me speak.
“This is all new to me,” I continue. “Every day is a step into unknown territory. Every heartbeat, every kick from them, every time you laugh or complain about your back hurting…it’s more than I ever thought I’d get again.”
“You were scared.”
“I still am.”
She nods. “Me too.”
I reach for her hand. She lets me take it. “But I want to do this,” I say. “With you. With them. With Dean and Colin. All of it.” I pause. “There’s one other thing.”
“What?”
“The babies aren’t mine. Biologically. After I lost Serena, I had a vasectomy.”
She takes a deep breath. “That’s where you’re wrong.”
“No, I was there. I promise you, me and a bag of frozen peas were very intimate for a few days after that.”
She snorts a laugh. “Not that part. You said biologically, and logically is a part of biologically, and logically speaking, these kids are as much yours as they are Colin’s and Dean’s. We can do some DNA testing if you want?—”
“No. It’s not necessary.”
“Good. You were there when they were created, Tic. That’s all I care about, as far as paternity goes. Does it bother you?”
I swallow against the knot in my throat. “No. I just never thought I’d get a second chance like this one.”
She studies me for a long beat. “Second chances are good for everyone.”
“I’ve been thinking the same thing.” I scoot onto the bed, and she falls asleep curled against my chest.
It happens gradually, the way all the most meaningful things in life seem to—without ceremony, without warning, like breath leaving a windowpane in winter.
She’s talking, or half-talking, murmuring something about the babies and needing more cocoa butter, when her voice just trails off.
A sigh follows. Her arm tightens around my ribs.
Then silence. Her breaths come slower. Deeper.
I stare up at the ceiling, one arm around her, the other draped protectively across her belly, and wonder how I got here.
Safe. Warm. Within reach.
Serena comes to me sometimes in dreams. She never speaks. She just looks at me, and I wake up wondering what it means that she’s still there, even now.
But tonight I don’t think she’ll visit. Tonight, I don’t feel haunted. I feel…filled.
I shift slightly so I can kiss Thalassa’s temple, brushing her hair back from her forehead. She stirs a little but doesn’t wake. Her body fits against mine like she was carved there.
She trusts me. Not just with her safety, but with her story. Her fear. Her future. That is no small thing.
When I lost Serena, I made a vow—never again. I wouldn’t love that way again. Wouldn’t risk it. Wouldn’t drown in the ache of almosts and never agains.
But vows made in grief aren’t promises. They’re armor. And Thalassa has undone mine piece by piece, without ever asking me to take it off.
I exhale slowly, and my breath doesn’t catch this time. I let myself close my eyes. Let myself want. Let myself breathe.