Let Me (O'Brien Family, #2)(43)

I slow my movements, kissing her as I take my time finishing. When I finally stop and pull out, I realize she’s trembling like she’s scared, and Jesus Christ, doesn’t it just tear me in half. “What’s wrong?” I ask, reaching to cup her face.

She turns her head in the direction of the wall. “Nothing. It’s okay,” she says.

I lower my hands from her face, realizing I’m making her uncomfortable by staring at her. If anything that makes me feel more like shit.

“Did I hurt you?” I ask. We went at it pretty hard, but I thought she liked it. Now, I’m not so sure. “Sol, if I hurt you, you need to tell me.”

“You didn’t hurt me,” she says.

It’s what she claims, but she won’t look at me then. “Baby, tell me what I did wrong.”

She returns her focus on me, smiling softly despite that she seems upset. “You didn’t hurt me,” she says again. “I’m just in a lot of trouble.”

My stomach bottoms out. “Did you forget to take your pill?”

She surprises me by laughing. “No, it’s not that,” she says. She slides her hands along the tats on my arms, smoothing her palms across my shoulders until her hands link around my neck.

I adjust my weight above her, worried that I’m crushing her. “Then what is it, beautiful?” I ask.

I think it’s my “beautiful” comment that softens her eyes further. “I’m in love with you, Finn,” she tells me, her voice splintering. “I know that’s probably not what you want to hear, but I love you . . .”





CHAPTER 17


Sol



“Cool.” That’s what Finn said when I told him I loved him. He grinned and said, “Cool.”

I think it would have bothered another woman, and maybe even pissed her off. But it was such a “Finn” thing to say and do. I’m not sure if he’s heard it before, but I didn’t ask. If I’m being honest, I was more worried he’d said it to someone else.

Do I wish he felt the same? Of course I do. But when I think back to everything my mom is dealing with, in a way I’m glad he doesn’t.

Maybe I’m too screwed up to love.

“How’s Mami?” I ask my dad, plugging my other ear to drown out all the noise from the arena. Finn may not love me, but that doesn’t stop him from showering me with affection and wanting me with him. So here I am in Atlantic City, at the fight that can move him from his current rank at number seven to the next in line for the belt.

I crank the volume when I can’t make out what my father said. “Sorry, Papi. Can you say that again?”

“I said I think the new dosage is starting to work,” he repeats. “She was more alert today.”

“She was?” My attention veers in the direction of the welterweight and his camp as they pass me. He’s gushing blood from a deep cut on his forehead, his nose is visiting his right cheekbone, and there’s so much swelling in his face, his eyes are nothing more than slits.

And this poor bastard won!

I force a smile when he waves my way. He’s friendly with Finn and we had dinner with him and his girlfriend the other night. I’m not surprised he remembers me, we had a nice time together. I’m just shocked he can see me.

“Is she able to hold a conversation with you?” I ask my father. As I wait for his answer, I take a moment to pray up and down that Finn doesn’t end up the same way. Jesus, the guy is one giant bruise.

Yet as much as I’m scared for Finn, the fact that my father doesn’t respond right away causes that awful sense of dread to dig its way into my stomach and find its way into my voice. “Papi . . . what is it?” I ask.

“It’s probably nothing.”

I close my eyes, willing myself to stay calm. “If something’s wrong with Mami, you need to tell me.” As much as I wish I could be spared from what’s happening, it’s not a luxury my mother can afford.

He waits, as if debating what to tell me, adding to my mounting nervousness. “She talked to me about remodeling the kitchen,” he says.

It wasn’t what I was expecting to hear. Not so soon after her meds were adjusted. And while to anyone else it might not sound like a big deal, the news is actually huge. Fixing the kitchen is one of those things my parents used to discuss before my mother became really sick. It’s needed a major remodel for years. But lately my mother hasn’t noticed. She hasn’t noticed anything―unable to see things that are right in front of her―unable to live in the present or our reality. The fact that she’s starting to notice . . . that’s a good thing.

“Really?” I ask.

I can hear the hope in my father’s tone. “She was talking about new cabinets, and possibly replacing the counter with granite. I’m not sure if it’s something we can afford, but if it will help her―if it’s something she wants, I’ll try to do it for her.”

My eyes sting as I smile. That’s love for you, doing something for your partner just to make her happy. I want to believe that she’s better and that the mother I remember is coming back to me. So I ask the question perhaps I shouldn’t ask, “Do you think she’d know me?”

My voice is so soft I’m not sure he hears me. When he doesn’t respond right away, I’m sure that he didn’t, or worse yet, that his answer is no.