Page 112 of Beautiful When He Breaks

I listen to them bicker the rest of the way down the hall, and the normalcy of it settles some of the jagged pieces inside me back into place. By the time the athletics doors come into view, my pulse has finally slowed.

My statement is done. Blakely is one step closer to gone. Ryan is irritated but okay. Matteo Vieri is now a name I will absolutely remember and possibly worry over against my better judgment.

Ryan bumps his shoulder against mine, lighter than a shove, heavier than an accident. “Thanks,” he mutters, not looking at me.

I glance over. “For almost starting a scandal with an owner?”

“For giving a shit, asshole.”

I nod once, because anything more would make it weird and Ryan has already suffered enough emotional sincerity for one hallway. “Always.”

We are all fucked up in our own ways.

At least now we’re fucked up together.

34

Eli

I still have paint under one fingernail on Monday morning.

I noticed it in class first: this thin pale-yellow crescent caught at the edge of my thumb, and for some reason it nearly makes me smile right in the middle of a lecture on something I’m absolutely supposed to be paying attention to.

I scrape at it with the corner of my notebook, but it doesn’t really dislodge. Of course it doesn’t. That fucking paint got everywhere over the weekend, even though Julian insisted he knew what he was doing, and I insisted I wasn’t incompetent with a roller. It lasted about fourteen minutes before I managed to get a streak across my forearm, a drip on my shoe, and a line of yellow on Julian’s jaw because he leaned too close, and I decided that was his problem.

He’d looked at me like I’d started a war.

Then, very maturely, he’d painted the tip of my nose in retaliation while standing in my daughter’s partially painted nursery with his shirt damp against his chest and his curls shoved back under a backward cap he’d stolen from me years ago and never returned.

No parents. No court dates. No Celeste. No Blakely. Just Julian’s hands on me, the smell of paint, bright sunlight coming through the nursery window, and the soft yellow walls starting to become something warm enough for Mila.

We kept losing track of actual productivity because one of us would say something dumb or brush too close or reach for the same roller, and suddenly we’d be kissing against a wall that very much needed a second coat. There are places near the doorframe that probably have fingerprints under the paint. Mine, or maybe his. I didn’t fix them, and I don’t want to.

Sunday, we finished the second coat and argued about where the crib should go, which turned into Julian measuring the wall three separate times while I accused him of having an emotional attachment to symmetry.

I keep thinking about the weekend while I walk across campus after my last morning class, backpack slung over one shoulder, phone in hand with a text from Julian still open.

Jules: Tell me if you’re going near the bookstore. I need another notebook.

Me: You own nine unused notebooks.

Jules: Those are emotionally unavailable.

Me: You need help.

Jules: You knew that before you kissed me.

The campus feels brighter than it has in months, though I don’t trust that feeling completely. I’ve learned better than to trust good days like they’re permanent. I should probably head straight to the athletics building because we’ve got film later, but my feet take me the long way past the student center and toward the bookstore because Julian does need another notebook, no matter how much I plan to call him dramatic about it.

“Eli?”

I’m halfway across the brick plaza when someone calls out to me. The voice is female, hesitant, and close enough that I stop and turn before my brain catches up to why my body already feels wrong.

She’s standing a few feet away near one of the planter boxes, clutching the strap of a canvas tote bag with both hands. Dark blonde hair pulled back in a messy low ponytail, oversized sweatshirt, leggings, and face pale..

“You probably don’t remember me,” she murmurs.

“I’m sorry,” I answer, because lying would make this weirder. “I know I’ve seen you around.”