Page 143 of Beautiful When He Breaks

His mouth curves. “That okay?”

I look at him, at the man who has been my best friend since I was too little to know the difference between rugby and football and too stubborn to admit I was wrong. The man who loved me through every version of myself, even the ugly ones. The man who held the worst evidence of my life so I didn’t have to see it, then held me while I found a way back into my own body.

Julian leans closer until his mouth is near my ear. “For the record, I think our epic love story is worth more than forty bucks.”

Despite myself, I laugh. “Shut up.”

“It’s at least worth sixty.”

I elbow him carefully because I’m still holding Mila. “Asshole.”

“Sweetheart.”

The word lands warm and easy this time, even in the middle of the kitchen, even with everyone around us. Maybe because everyone is around us. Maybe because there’s no hiding now and the world didn’t end.

Ryan lifts his coffee in our direction, having apparently escaped Luca again through sheer slipperiness. “To Eli and Julian,” he announces. “May their future sex noises be quieter or at least better scheduled.”

As mortified as I am, I can’t help but laugh at the fucker. I look around the kitchen, at the ridiculous collection of men who have somehow become the people standing between me and the worst parts of the world. They’re nosy, loud, emotionally intrusive bastards.

They also stayed.

They stayed through Mila’s arrival four and a half months ago, my parents’ rejection, Julian’s confession, Blakely, Celeste, Mara, all of it. And now they’re raising coffee mugs to something I didn’t know I’d ever get to have.

I look down at my daughter, then at Julian, then around at the people who stayed when my life became something broken.

Together is a small word for all of this. Too small, maybe. But it’s the one we have, and as Julian’s fingers lace with mine behind Mila’s back, I decide it’s enough for now.

Epilogue

Eli

Seven and a half months later, I stand in the backyard of the Sin Bin with frosting on my shirt and full legal custody of my daughter.

The backyard looks different than it did a year ago. The pool still gleams too blue under the late afternoon sun, and the patio still has expensive furniture that most of us are too sweaty and careless to deserve. The lawn is still stupidly perfect because Killian pays people who know how to make grass look like it has a trust fund.

But everything around the pool has changed because Mila exists now, and Mila existing means every sharp edge in this house has either been padded, blocked, locked, moved, labeled, or glared at into obedience by Mrs. Alvarez.

The pool is now gated off with a sleek black safety fence that Killian pretended to install because of “liability” and not because he watched one water-safety video, went silent for three terrifying minutes, and ordered the most secure babyproof pool barrier on the market before dinner.

No one calls him out on it anymore. Mostly because we enjoy living here.

There are yellow balloons tied to the patio posts, a duck-themed banner stretched across the pergola that says ONE HAPPY DUCK, since this family collectively decided my daughter’s entire brand was waterfowl. There’s even a cake on the outdoor table shaped like a rubber duck.

Mila’s presents are stacked in the shade, most of them wrapped badly since elite athletes have many skills and none of them include clean corners.

Meanwhile, my baby girl is in the massive playpen area on the grass, surrounded by soft mats, plush ducks, stacking cups, board books, and a tiny toy basketball Ryan keeps insisting is her favorite despite all available evidence suggesting her actual favorite object is any adult’s car keys.

She’s wearing a pale-yellow romper with white ducks on it, and a tiny birthday crown that lasted six full minutes on her head before she ripped it off and tried to chew the number one.

Her cheeks are flushed from the heat, her dark wisps of hair curling around her temples, and every time someone says her name, she looks around like yes, thank you, I am aware I’m the main event. She has four teeth, a dangerous amount of attitude, and the deep conviction that every phone exists solely to be chewed on.

She has no idea how many wars were fought to get her to this day. Maybe that’s the mercy of it.

I lean against the patio railing with a cold bottle of water in one hand and Julian’s fingers tucked casually into the back pocket of my shorts. He does that now. Touches me without asking the room for permission. Not in a possessive way that makes me feel displayed, but in the quiet, steady way he has always had when he wants me to know where he is. Here. Close. Yours, if you want me.

I don’t think he realizes how often his hand finds me. Shoulder, waist, back pocket, the nape of my neck when my thoughts start getting too loud. Or maybe he does know and just pretends not to because it lets me accept it without making a thing of it.

I tilt my head slightly toward him. “You know you’re going to stretch my pocket out.”