Page 12 of Beautiful When He Breaks

“First thing, always keep one hand on her if she’s on a raised surface. Doesn’t matter if she’s tiny and can’t roll properly yet. You make the habit now, so later you don’t fuck up when she gets stronger.”

I nod even though my throat is too tight. “Okay.”

“Hand on her belly,” he says, and when I hesitate, he looks up at me. “You’re not gonna hurt her by touching her, Eli.”

“I know.”

He says nothing, and my jaw tightens because we both know I’m lying.

I place my palm gently on her stomach. She’s still crying, her tiny body flexing under my touch, and the vibration of it travels straight through my hand into my chest. She’s real. She’s real in this awful, loud, helpless way that makes my body want to move and freeze at the same time.

Julian pulls open the snaps of her sleeper. “These are stupid,” he mutters, working fast. “Whoever designed baby clothes with this many snaps needs to be dragged into the street.”

“That’s a lot of violence for duck pajamas,” I say, my voice unsteady.

“I’ve seen war, Eli. It looked like trying to dress my sister at two in the morning while she kicked me in the throat.”

“Jess did that?”

“Jessica came out personally offended by existence,” he says, but there’s softness in his voice when he says her name.

He opens the diaper and pauses for half a second. “Okay, wet. Not bad. No blowout. Blessed morning.”

“Blowout?” I ask.

He turns his head and gives me a look. “You sweet summer football idiot. A blowout is when shit escapes the diaper and gets everywhere.”

I feel my eyes widen. “Everywhere?”

“Back. Legs. Clothes. Soul.”

My stomach turns. “Jesus.”

“Jesus won’t save you from baby shit,” he says, tugging wipes free from the packet. “Now watch. Always wipe front to back, especially with girls. Fold the diaper under, clean her properly, give her a second because sometimes the cold air makes them pee again, and you don’t want to learn that lesson on your shirt.”

He says it all in a practical and calm way, like he’s explaining a play formation instead of how to change the diaper of a newborn who was dropped into my life by the girl who may have destroyed more than I can even look at yet.

That thought slides in, quick and ugly.

Celeste.

The baby’s tiny legs are kicking while Julian changes her, her face red from crying, her body made from something I can’t remember doing.

A cold sweat breaks across the back of my neck. I yank my gaze to the side and grip the edge of the dresser.

Julian catches it immediately. “Eli.”

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

The baby cries harder, and he goes back to the diaper, but his voice stays on me. “Look at me.”

“I said I’m fine.”

“Yeah, and I said bullshit. We can both repeat ourselves all morning, or you can look at me before you spiral so hard you fall over.”

I force my eyes back to him. His expression is steady, but not soft in the way that makes me feel pitied. I hate pity. He knows that. Jules has always known the difference between comforting me and making me feel small.