I think back to visiting the marine wildlife park as a kid, my mother holding my hand as dolphins leaped through hoops and seemed to smile at the audience as they twirled and waved, bribed by their instructors with handfuls of fish.
Swimming with dolphins had always felt like an unattainable fantasy—it was always so expensive and my overprotective mother always feared for my safety—but here, on Sunset Cay, it could actually happen.
For a brief moment, my excitement almost feels childlike again.
“Oh my gosh,” I reply. “I would absolutely love that!”
Timmy grins, leaning back in his chair like he’s the one who just made a childhood dream come true. “Yeah, I’ve done it before. A couple of years ago. It’s incredible being out there with them.”
His expression shifts slightly, taking on a nostalgic gleam. “I was with two of my female friends—twins.”
There’s something about the way he emphasizestwinsthat makes my stomach flip—not in a good way. He lingers on the word, drawing it out like it’s some kind of punchline. It’s undeniably pervy, and the warm excitement I felt seconds ago cools into something less pleasant.
Gross.
I shift in my seat, trying to mask my discomfort, but Timmy catches it. Of course he does. He always notices, and he never lets it go.
“Oh, relax,” he says, his tone dripping with smugness. “I didn’t fuck either of them or anything. They were just friends. It was a good memory.”
His words hang in the air, tainted by the bitterness in his tone. I don’t know what’s more irritating—the unnecessary vulgarity or the way he always manages to twist something sweet into something gross.
But then his expression darkens, his frown carving deeper lines into his face. “And fuck you for trying to mess with my memory.”
The accusation stings, but it’s familiar. I’ve been here before—caught in one of Timmy’s bizarre mental gymnastics routines, where he shifts from nostalgia to defensiveness to full-on hostility in a matter of seconds.
Too tired to argue, I let it go. It’s not worth the energy.
“Okay, Timmy,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even. I glance out at the horizon, focusing on the serene waves and thepossibility of a dolphin-filled adventure instead of the emotional landmine sitting across from me.
We grab our snorkel gear and drive to the beach, where pods of wild dolphins are known to hang out at this time of day.
I realize I forgot my fins, but I don’t think I’ll need them. The water looks calm, and I’m a decent swimmer.
Besides, Timmy seems confident, and his enthusiasm is infectious.
As we wade into the water, an older woman suddenly shouts at us from the shore, her voice shrill. “You know swimming with dolphins is going to be illegal soon, right?Illegal!” she repeats, glaring.
Great, I came to see dolphins and instead I found a Karen.
Timmy and I press on, the salty air and sound of the waves promising an adventure.
“Keep going,” Timmy says, his voice coaxing but firm. “Just a little further.”
The further out to sea we go, the more anxious I feel. The shoreline shrinks into the distance, and the water grows deeper. I’ve never been this far out. My snorkel and mask feel like my only tether to safety, allowing me to float and breathe steadily.
And then it happens.
Timmy swims up beside me and knocks my snorkel off. The tube detaches from my mask, and panic surges through me like electricity.
Disoriented, I spin around, flailing to grab it while gasping for air—and swallowing water instead.
Timmy laughs.
I finally grab the snorkel and try to reattach it, my hands trembling. I’m still treading water furiously, my heart racing.
Timmy, meanwhile, is swimming further out, oblivious. He doesn’t even look back.
The panic builds.