4. Eli #2
“She’ll have different cries. Hungry cry, wet cry, tired cry, pissed-off-because-life cry.”
“They all sound like screaming.”
“For now.” His mouth twitches. “You’ll get it.”
I don’t know how he can say that so easily. You’ll get it. As if there’s some future version of me who can wake up to that screaming and know what to do.
Now it’s morning, and sleep didn’t make me better; it just delayed the terror.
Julian pulls the bottle away for a second. “Slow down, little monster,” he murmurs. “You’re gonna puke on both of us, and honestly, I respect the chaos, but not before coffee.”
My chest tightens at the tenderness in his voice.
I forgot how good he was at taking care of babies.
When he was thirteen and his mother passed away a week after giving birth to Jess, he stepped in more than anyone else did.
Julian has always been good at taking care of people while pretending he doesn’t need anyone to take care of him.
He did it when we were kids, did it with his sisters, and did it with me, even when I didn’t deserve it.
The baby makes a soft choking sound around the bottle, and all my attention snaps back to her so fast my stomach drops.
“What was that?” I ask, stepping forward.
“She’s okay.” Julian lifts the bottle away and shifts her higher against his shoulder. “This is where we burp her. She got excited and swallowed air.”
He pats her back gently, not hard, just a steady little rhythm between her shoulder blades. Her face is turned toward me now, cheeks flushed, eyes still closed, mouth searching even though the bottle is gone.
“She looks pissed,” I whisper.
“She is. You’d be pissed too if someone interrupted breakfast to slap your back.”
“You’re not slapping her.”
“She doesn’t appreciate nuance yet.”
Then she lets out a tiny, ridiculous burp, and it shocks a laugh out of me. Not a happy one, exactly, but something real enough that Julian’s eyes flick to my face. His expression changes for half a second before he hides it again. It’s quick, but I see it. Relief, or maybe sadness.
“There,” he says, bringing the bottle back to her mouth. “Now she can finish.”
I lean against the dresser with my arms crossed tight over my chest because if I don’t hold myself together, something will shake loose. “She needs a name.”
Julian looks down at her. “Yeah.”
“I hate that she doesn’t have one.”
“I know.”
“Celeste didn’t even—” My voice cuts off, anger rising fast and hot. “She had her for a month and didn’t even give her a fucking name.”
Julian’s jaw tightens. “Celeste made a lot of choices.”
The carefulness in his voice tells me there are worse words underneath. I want them. I want him to say them because mine are too tangled up. I want him to hate her loudly enough that I can borrow some of it without feeling guilty.
Instead, he stays focused on the baby because one of us has to.
My eyes move to her again. She’s stopped sucking as hard, her tiny body relaxing against Julian’s arm. The bottle is half empty. Her lashes rest on her cheeks, dark little lines against pink skin. She has a crease between her brows. A stubborn one.
“I don’t know how to be someone’s dad,” I say, and the confession comes out before I can stop it.
“I still forget to switch my laundry. I ate cereal out of a mug last week because I didn’t want to wash a bowl.
I have practice and classes and games, and my parents still ask if I’m keeping up with Mass.
I don’t know how to do doctor appointments and custody hearings and daycare and fucking… swaddling.”
Julian’s mouth twitches as he checks the bottle for how much she’s taken. “Swaddling is just baby burrito engineering. You’ll survive.”
“I’m serious.”
“So am I. It’s a delicate art.”
I glare at him because it’s safer than crying again. He lets the humor fade, his gaze settling on me. “You don’t have to know all of it today.”
“That’s what everyone keeps saying.”
“Because it’s true.” He says it quietly, standing there with my baby in his arms, shirtless and tattooed and sleep-warm, looking at me with those soft hazel eyes that have seen me at my worst and stayed anyway.
The baby finishes the bottle and releases it with a soft little sigh. Julian sets it on the dresser and shifts her up again, patting her back. “Second burp. Sometimes they don’t give you one. Sometimes they puke down your spine and humble you.”
“You say all this so casually.”
“I survived Jessica. Nothing scares me.”
His eyes flick away the second he says it, and I know it’s a lie. It wouldn’t be obvious to anyone else. To me, it might as well be written across his throat.
Something does scare him. His bruises flash in my head—the yellow mark near his neck and the way he winced when I hugged him. The careful way he moved last night when everyone was distracted by the baby, and I was too overwhelmed to ask.
Before I can say anything, the baby lets out another small burp and melts against his shoulder.
Her whole body droops, one fist tucked near his collarbone.
Julian’s hand covers most of her back. The sight should be strange.
It should make jealousy twist in me because he knows what to do, and I don’t.
Instead, it makes my chest hurt in a way I can’t name.
“Come sit,” he says, and walks toward the bed with her. “Sit down, back against the headboard.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m putting her on you.”