Page 9 of Beautiful When He Breaks

He drags a hand through his dark hair, gripping at the roots. I hate that he’s doing it. I hate that I don’t know where to put my own hands because every instinct in me wants to grab him and hold him still until the shaking stops.

He looks toward the baby again, and his anger drains into horror.

“She’s so small,” he whispers. “And if she’s mine…”

His throat works, but he doesn’t finish as he stares at the baby with tears sliding silently down his face again. “If she’s mine, then something happened to me,” he says. He looks at me then, and the terror in his blue eyes changes shape, becoming more ashamed.

“I don’t know when, I don’t know how, and I don’t even… I don’t even know if it’s possible! I remember being with her. I remember drinking shit she gave me and getting tired. I remember waking up half-naked sometimes and feeling wrong. I remember asking her if anything happened, and she’d laugh at me.”

My hands curl at my sides.

For one clean second, I’m not in Eli’s bedroom. I’m in His office with my back to a locked door and a hand around my jaw, being told I pushed him this far. I’m in my own body with someone else’s anger on my skin. I know too much about the way people twist things until your own memory feels unreliable.

I swallow hard enough to hurt, but Eli doesn’t notice. Thank God.

“She used to get so mad when I said no and then tell me I was making her feel disgusting. She’d say other guys wanted her, and I was the only one acting like she was dirty for wanting her boyfriend. Then she’d get sweet after. So fucking sweet. She’d bring me drinks, sit on my lap, kiss my neck, tell me she was sorry for pushing. And then I’d get tired.” He laughs again, and this one scares me because it’s almost empty. “I thought I was stressed. I thought maybe I was the problem. I always thought I was the problem with her.”

“You weren’t,” I say. “You weren’t the fucking problem, Eli.”

He wipes at his face with the heel of his hand, but more tears come anyway. “What if she—” He stops, unable to say it.

My stomach turns.

I want to let him avoid the word. I want to keep him from having to hear it out loud. But that’s the same silence people use to bury things until the rot spreads. Eli deserves better than a room full of unspoken horror.

I move slowly, giving him every chance to step back, and when he doesn’t, I stop in front of him. “If she did something to you while you couldn’t consent, that’s rape,” I say, and I make my voice steady even though my blood is burning. “I’m not saying that to force it on you. I’m saying it because you don’t have to make it smaller just because she was your girlfriend.”

He covers his mouth, shaking his head, and the sound that comes out of him is so wrecked I nearly lose my mind.

“I’m a guy,” he whispers through his fingers.

“I know.”

“She’s a girl, and much smaller than I am.”

“I know.”

“I should’ve—”

“No.” I grab his wrists, hard enough to pull his hands from his face so he has to hear me. “No, Eli. Don’t finish that sentence. Don’t you dare put this on yourself because she knew which parts of you to use against you. Being stronger doesn’t stop someone from drugging you. Being a man doesn’t make your consent automatic, and dating someone doesn’t give them the right to your body. None of that shit changes because your parents raised you to blame yourself before anyone else gets a turn.”

His eyes are wet as he stares at me, lashes clumped, his face blotchy and ruined in a way he would hate anyone seeing. I want to kill every person who ever taught him his pain had to look neat before it deserved care.

His voice drops to almost nothing. “I don’t remember,” he whispers. “What if nobody believes me?”

“I do,” I say immediately, and he flinches. I keep hold of his wrists, thumbs brushing once over his pulse points before my hands find his. “I believe you.”

His breathing stutters. “You don’t even know what happened—”

“I know you,” I say, and that comes out rougher, too close to all the things I keep locked up. “I know when you’re lying, and I know when you’re scared of the truth. You’re not making this up.”

He looks down, shoulders folding inward. “I pushed you away for her.”

The subject change almost knocks the air out of me.

I glance toward the baby because it’s easier than looking at his face when he says things like that. She sleeps on, tiny lips pursed, unaware that her existence has dragged every old wound into the light.

“Yeah,” I say, because lying won’t help either of us. “You did.”