Page 54 of Beautiful When He Breaks

“How many?”

“Eli,” Julian says, already warning.

“No, because I need specifics right now.” I look back at Dr. Peters. “Two? Three? Are we talking about one in each leg? What exactly is the method here?”

Dr. Peters opens her mouth, stops very carefully, and does not look amused. “We follow standard pediatric immunization guidelines, and the nurse will walk you through exactly what she’s getting before we administer anything.”

“That’s still not a number.”

Julian laughs fully this time, the absolute traitor. “You need to calm down.”

“I am calm.”

Both of them look at me, and I hear it too late: I do not sound calm. I sound like a hostage negotiator who’s one minute away from a full breakdown.

Mila, sensitive to chaos, starts fussing.

“Oh, jeez,” I mutter, stepping forward automatically. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m sorry. Okay. Apparently, people are stabbing you today, but I am present and spiritually opposed.”

Dr. Peters finally gives up trying not to laugh. Julian hands Mila over to me, still grinning, and she settles against my chest almost immediately, the little traitor, as if I wasn’t just actively losing my mind about confirmed same-day vaccinations.

“Okay,” Dr. Peters says once she’s got herself under control. “First, the nurse will tell you exactly what she’s getting. Second, this is routine and important. Third, babies generally handle shots better than parents do.”

“I don’t believe that,” I retort flatly.

Julian pats my back once, unhelpfully. “I do.”

I turn to glare at him, but he has the nerve to look soothing. Worse, it works. Mila is warm and soft against me, and the ridiculousness of the situation starts to catch up with me all at once. I’m in a pastel exam room with my daughter tucked under my chin and my best friend beside me while I argue with a doctor about immunizations.

At some point, I realize my face must look increasingly unhinged because Julian shifts closer and takes the hand not supporting Mila.

That should not help as much as it does.

I don’t even look at him at first. I just feel his fingers wrap around mine, steady and warm and entirely matter-of-fact, like this is not a bizarre thing to do in front of a pediatrician, and this is just another extension of the way he’s been holding me together from the edges lately.

I finally glance at him, and the look on his face stops the rest of my protest. He’s not laughing now. He’s just there. Hazel eyes fixed on me in that direct, infuriating way he has when he’s already decided I’m not allowed to spin out any further than this.

“Breathe,” he murmurs.

The rest of the visit goes better after that, right up until the nurse returns with the vaccine tray and starts explaining exactly what Mila is getting. I hold Mila while Julian stands close enough that our shoulders touch, and by the time the nurse says we should keep her moving a little afterward to help soothe her, I’m one bad sentence away from offering to take the shots myself.

Then Mila actually gets them, and I discover a whole new layer of hell.

She screams.

Not her usual angry little squawk. Not her feed me now cry. She screams in this shocked, wounded way that goes straight through my ribcage and takes out every functioning thought on the way.

“I know, baby, I know, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, fuck, I know,” while bouncing her against my chest and trying not to start crying harder than she is.

Julian takes over the room without making a show of it. He gets the bottle ready and reminds me she’s breathing fine. He says she’s okay so steadily and so often that eventually I start believing him by force. The bottle and the warmth and the movement do their job, and Mila’s cries break down into angry hiccups and then wet, betrayed little snuffles.

Then, because the universe thinks I haven’t suffered enough, Mila rewards us with an absolutely catastrophic diaper while she’s still emotionally recovering from the shots. I don’t mean normal bad. I mean biblically bad. The kind of diaper that makes Julian say, “Fok my,” under his breath and reach for the wipes with military urgency while I stare at the changing table like it’s an active crime scene.

“How is that amount even legal?” I ask, horrified, opening a second wipe packet because the first one won’t survive this. “There shouldn’t be enough mass in her body for this.”

“There absolutely should not,” Julian agrees.

Mila kicks both heels in complete serenity, one sock already missing, because of course it is.