Page 8 of Beautiful When He Breaks

He tries to turn away, but I close the distance in three strides and catch him before he can get farther than half a step.

My arms go around him on instinct, one high across his back and shoulders, the other circling his waist and hauling him in hard against me. He comes without resistance and just collapses. Big football player, strong and stubborn as hell, and he breaks right into my chest.

“Hey,” I murmur, tightening my hold when he starts shaking. “Hey, hey. It’s okay. Breathe. I’ve got you.”

He shakes his head violently against me, fingers knotting in the back of my shirt so hard I feel the tug of the seams. He ducks his head, forehead hitting my shoulder, and then the sobs come for real. Still half-muted, still fought down, but there now—rougher and uglier than the silent tears.

It wrecks me so fast that I nearly stop breathing. I haven’t held him in months. Not really, not like this.

We’ve gone so stiff and awkward with each other that most days I’m careful about where I stand in a room to avoid accidentally brushing his shoulder. I’ve spent the better part of a year pretending I’m fine with the distance because the alternative is admitting how much it fucking hurts.

Admitting that I miss him every day, even when he’s standing right there. Admitting that watching him choose Celeste over and over, even when she was treating him like shit, didn’t just piss me off because I knew she was bad news. It gutted me because he stopped trusting me, and I lost him a piece at a time while smiling through it.

Now he’s in my arms again, crying so hard he can barely stay upright, and I hate the reason for it with a force that makes my teeth ache.

“It’s okay,” I tell him softly, because I need to give him something solid even if the words aren’t enough. I smooth a hand up and down his back, slow and steady, the way I used to do with my nieces when they got overwhelmed and couldn’t calm their breathing. “Breathe for me. You’re alright. She’s alright. We’re going to get through the next part, one thing at a time.”

He shakes his head against my shoulder so hard it brushes damp heat through my shirt. “No,” he says, the word torn up by crying. “No, no, no.”

“Talk to me,” I say. “Tell me what’s going on in your head.”

That was always my mistake with Eli, even before this whole Celeste disaster. I’d assume I knew. Assume I saw enough on his face to understand the whole shape of the hurt, then come at him too hard while trying to fix what he hadn’t actually said out loud yet. Right now, I force myself to stay still and keep my voice low.

“It’s not fine,” he says hoarsely. “Jules, it’s not fucking fine. My parents are going to fucking hate me.”

The words come out raw, and there it is—the real center of one part of his panic is ugly, childlike, and deeply rooted. I knew it was coming. I’ve known his family long enough to hear them in his voice even when he’s not repeating their exact words.

Catholic, strict, image-conscious, convinced that shame is a teaching tool and fear is a kind of discipline. Everything has rules, and everything has consequences. Everything goes through the filter of what people will think, what God will think, and how you could allow this to happen.

I hate them a little in this moment, and I don’t even care if that makes me unfair.

“They are not the first problem,” I say.

“They are in my head,” he shoots back, voice breaking again. He steps away from me and swipes at his face with the heel of his hand, even when it does nothing. “They’re the only thing in my fucking head, Julian. My mom is gonna lose her mind. She’s gonna cry and pray and ask me how I could let this happen, then call Father Michael before she calls a fucking doctor. My dad’s gonna tell me I dragged the whole family name through mud. He’ll ask me what kind of man I am. He’ll ask me why I didn’t control myself. And what the hell am I supposed to say? I don’t even know what fucking happened!”

He laughs once, but it’s ripped and awful.

I stay quiet because he’s not finished. I know Eli when a dam breaks. The first rush is never the whole flood.

He points toward the bed with a shaky hand. “That’s a baby, Jules. That’s a real baby. She needs things. She needs food and diapers and a crib and doctor visits and insurance and someone who knows what the fuck they’re doing, and I don’t even know what to write on a form if they ask for her mother’s contact details.” His voice drops and his face twists. “I don’t know if I’m allowed to love her yet.”

That one hits me square in the chest. I take a step closer to him. “You are.” His eyes flash to mine, but I hold his stare and don’t soften it. “Blood test, paperwork, courts, Celeste, her parents, your parents—none of that changes what happened downstairs. You looked at that little girl and loved her. Nobody gets to take that second from you.”

His mouth trembles. He turns away fast, but I see it, and I see him.

God, I’ve always seen him.

He presses both hands to the edge of his desk and bows his head. His back rises and falls too fast under his shirt, muscles tense, shoulders straining.

“I never had sex with her,” he says again. “I keep saying it because it sounds insane every time, but I didn’t. I know I didn’t.”

I keep my expression steady with effort, even though I know what he’s been implying this entire time. “Okay.”

He whirls on me, almost angry now, because fear needs somewhere to go. “No, it’s not okay. That’s the fucking problem. I know what sex is, Jules. I know what counts. I know what happened and what didn’t. I’m not confused because I’m some repressed church kid who thinks touching over clothes gets someone pregnant.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I know,” he says, and his voice breaks again. “I know you didn’t. I’m just—fuck.”