Page 43 of Beautiful When He Breaks

Today, I tell my parents about my daughter.

13

Eli

I sit in the car for almost ten minutes before I make the call.

The engine is off. The late afternoon heat has bled out of the seats enough that the leather doesn’t burn my skin anymore. My gym bag is on the passenger seat where I dropped it after practice, half unzipped, damp towel inside, and my phone sits face down in my lap.

I know I have to do this. My parents need to know about Mila from me, not through some twisted version later, not through gossip, or through silence that gets uglier the longer I let it sit. I keep telling myself that, like it makes this feel less impossible.

It doesn’t.

The Sin Bin glows warm behind the windshield, all huge windows and stone and the kind of wealth none of us ever really stop noticing even though we live here. Killian said to do this with everyone present, but I can’t keep depending on them for everything. I have to do this alone.

Through the front windows, I can see movement in the living room. Julian appears in the frame with Mila in his arms, and the rest of the house fades. He tips his head down to look at her, and something about the sight hits me square in the middle of my chest.

That’s what steadies me, because it reminds me what’s real.

Mila is real.

She exists whether my parents bless her or not. She exists whether they understand how she got here or not. She exists whether they decide I’ve ruined my life or not. My daughter is in that house right now, warm and safe and held by people who already love her, and I am done letting fear of my parents decide what I can and cannot say out loud.

I unlock my phone and stare at my father’s name for a second too long.

Dad.

It has to be him. If I call my mother alone, she’ll panic first, then start crying, and by the time Dad gets on the line, he’ll already be angry that I put that on her before him. I know how my family works. If I’m going to detonate something, I at least owe the blast to the right person.

My thumb hovers. Then I hit call before I can talk myself out of it.

He answers on the third ring with the same tone he’s used my whole life when he wants to sound normal, and I’m already in trouble. “Elias.”

His voice is exactly the same as always. Controlled. Formal. Heavy with the assumption that when he answers, people get to the point quickly.

“Hey, Dad.”

There’s a pause long enough to make me feel twelve again. “You finally decide to answer your phone.”

Guilt pricks immediately—the reaction carved into me young and deep. I grip the steering wheel harder with my free hand. “Yeah. Sorry. Things have been—” I stop because there’s no word for this that doesn’t sound insane. “Busy.”

“Your mother’s worried.”

The way he says it means he’s worried too but would rather put the emotion on her where it feels softer and less exposing. I know the move. I’ve seen it my whole life. My eyes flick back to the front window. Julian is still there, shifting Mila a little higher on his shoulder. He turns slightly, and for one brief second, I can see her little hand poking out of the blanket.

I hold on to that.

“I know,” I say. “I’m sorry. That’s actually why I’m calling. I need to talk to you. To both of you.”

Another pause. “Your mother’s here.”

I hear a muffled sound on the other end, maybe him putting me on speaker, maybe just moving the phone. “Eli, what on earth is going on?” my Mom says, her voice tight with relief, irritation, and worry all tangled together. “Are you sick? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

The question almost makes me laugh, except there’s no humor in it because the answer is yes to one of those and maybe to all of them, depending on how you define trouble.

“I’m okay,” I say automatically, and I hate the lie the second it leaves my mouth. “I mean, I’m not hurt right now. I just… I need you to let me talk all the way through before you react.”

Then I say the words because once they’re out, at least I won’t have to keep rehearsing them in my head like a coward. “I have a daughter.”