Let Me: An O'Brien Family Novel (The O'Brien Family Book 2) (28 page)

She wraps her arms around mine, and leads me away. Unlike the other changing areas we’re usually assigned to, those that are smaller and limited in space, tonight we’re in one of the newly constructed locker rooms. An hour ago it was packed with fighters warming up. Most are new, trying to make a name for themselves and dreaming of that main card lineup I’m a part of.

They’re gone now, either hanging in the lounge watching the remaining fights, or getting stitched up as a result of all the hits they took.

Sofia squeezes my arm. “Finn, I don’t want to tell you that you shouldn’t fight tonight.”

“Then don’t,” I answer. “Sofe, you’re seriously the only one I can still talk to. Don’t let me down by making me think I can’t.”

“I’m always here for you, Finn, and I’ll always listen. ”She lowers her hands, tilting her head to the side. “That doesn’t mean I’ll stay silent when I think you’re making a mistake. Right now, you’re not focused. I’m worried you’re going to get hurt.”

“Or hurt the other guy so bad he won’t get back up?” I question. Yeah. I’ve thought about that, too.

It’s what Killian did to his opponent following his breakup with Sofia all those years ago. He was so angry and lost without her, he made hamburger out of the champ’s face, earning him the win twenty-eight seconds into the first round. 

I want to say that Sol―with all this anger she unleashed when she dumped me―maybe did me a favor and gave me the advantage I need. I want to say that thanks to her, I possess the power and wrath to wipe the mat with Lopez and earn my title match. Except if I do, I’d be lying to myself even more than I have been.

I’m just as lost, just as angry, and just as vicious as Killian was. I didn’t understand what he was going through when it happened―couldn’t grasp how one woman could wreck him so bad and inflict so much pain. But now, I’m living and breathing that shit.

Ire is what I feel. But it’s not enough to win a match. It makes you sloppy, makes you take risks, so impatient you screw up. Can it make your swings harder? Yeah. If they connect. Yet as much as I know this, and that I need to get past it, I’m so far deep into that rage, there’s no coming back. Not anymore. So I take a breath and say a silent prayer that when I do unleash tonight, the ref will be smart and quick enough to save Lopez in time.

“Finn . . .” she says, shaking her head like she wishes she could somehow ease all the agony slapping me around.

Yet she can’t, and because I’m not feeling shitty enough, I ask something I shouldn’t. “How is she?” I huff when she just looks at me. “Just tell me.”

I expect her to lie, or at least water down the truth. But she doesn’t, laying it all out there. “She’s not well because she’s not with you.”

Killian and Curran march forward as I square my shoulders. Even though I’m the one who asked, I’m shocked by Sofia’s brutal honesty. But if she’s telling me this, it’s because she’s worried about Sol and probably scared for her, too.

Sofia knows my brothers are behind her, but continues, speaking quietly like she’s already regretting what she has to say. “She needs you, Finn. And I think you need her, too.”

“Finn, time to go,” Killian says, trying to talk over her.

Sofia speaks fast, albeit in that gentle way of hers. “But she needs you to be healthy, and that’s something you’re not right now.”

Killian places his hands on Sofia’s shoulders, trying to silence her, but she continues, rushing to finish. “Finn, you have to keep it together out there―”

I stomp past her. “Tell her I love her.”

“What?” she calls, hurrying behind me.

I whip around. “Tell her I love her . . . and that I need her, too.”

It’s like her heart breaks right in front of me, but I don’t wait for a response. I yank on the T-shirt Wren tosses me and head out, not waiting to see if anyone will follow.

My girl is hurting. Maybe not in the same way I am, but in a way that still counts and matters to me. Sofia wouldn’t be telling me as much if it wasn’t true. But me getting better like she needs me, too . . . Christ, I have no idea how to do that or what it’s going to take to get me there.

The cameraman backs away as I storm forward. I don’t know what he sees in my face, but it’s enough to keep him further back than usual. Killian and Curran rush to reach me, flanking my sides and joining my camp. The rest of my family must be scrambling to get to their seats, but for now all I see is the entrance to the arena.

Killian starts muttering instructions over the blast of the Eminem song I picked, the roar from the crowd and the music making it hard to hear him. But all that noise doesn’t compare to the steady pound of my pulse beating in my ears as my rage surges and takes on a life of its own.

Sofia said what she did because she wants me to stay in control and focus. But how do you control a bloodthirsty beast who can’t be satisfied―who’s so crazed, so mindless, so fucking angry?

I tug off my shirt when I reach the cut man and pass it blindly to Curran, I think. Shit, I’m so irate I can’t keep still. I remember to open my mouth for my check, but with my skin feeling like it’s crawling away from my bones, I barely remember to lift my hands for inspection.

Maybe Lopez will get in a punch or two. But with everything I’m feeling, he won’t get much more than that.

“Finnie―
Finnie
,” someone yells.

The voice behind me is familiar. But I don’t care enough to look.

“
Fuck
, get him out of here,” Killian says, his odd tone cutting through the mayhem and forcing me to turn in that direction.

The hollers from the crowd, those that steadily build the moment I stepped out of the locker room and that vibrate the floor at my feet disappear. Like the flick of a switch, everyone is suddenly gone, everyone but Killian and old man Kessler . . . the father of the man who raped me.

As loud as thunder, the noise from arena returns in a deafening crash. My body trembles, my muscles twitching from the urge to start pulverizing. But despite the need, I don’t lurch forward. I stand there, frozen as all the hate and anger of my past collides with the agony of my present. 

Killian shoves his face in old man Kessler’s, crazed that he’s here. Curran while clearly pissed to see him, hauls Killian away from where Kessler is leaning over the railing. I feel hands smack against my chest―telling me to keep it together, to keep going. But by now, I’m breathing so damn fast, I’m hyperventilating.

Old man Kessler scowls as if confused, yelling at the top of his lungs in his thick Philly accent, “I just wanted to wish Finnie well―tell him I wish my boy could’ve turned out like him―that he could’ve made something of himself.”

It’s what he claims. What he doesn’t know is everything his son took from me, everything he
did
to me! More officials arrive, the press shoving their way forward. But I barely sense them, blindly slipping away and into the octagon.

I don’t feel my feet strike against the metal steps nor pass along the smooth surface of the mat as I make my way to my corner. I’m just suddenly there.

Killian is on the other side of the fence, yelling to me, “Finnie, Finnie. It’s okay, Finn. It’s okay.”

Curran is saying something, too, but his words are jumbled like he’s speaking another language.

I think I should raise my hand when my name is called, but I don’t. It’s only when the ref calls us over that the fog I’m in begins to lift. This is bad. Real bad. I know it then. Yet it’s when my opponent and I touch gloves that I realize my living hell has only just begun.

I stagger back and simply stand there, failing to notice Lopez charge. All I see is Norman, the guy all the little boys in the neighborhood knew we should stay away from, but no one knew exactly why.

You’re Little Finnie O’Brien, aren’t you?
his tenor voice asks.

I’m not aware my hands are down until Lopez nails me with a right hook that sends me flying against the cage. I bounce off, shaking as I fall onto my side. Lopez lands on top of me, nailing me repeatedly in the face.

It’s only from the hours and years of training that I respond. I roll away from the cage, going into defense mode before the ref can pull him off me and declare a knock-out.

My hand snatches Lopez’s wrist, grasping it tight before he locks me into a choke. Except as much as my body knows what to do, my head isn’t cooperating. It panics, just like I did that day.

Instead of positioning myself in full guard, I try to escape. He catches me with an elbow. The blow unlocking the next memory.

You like Legos, right? Killian says the ones from Star Wars are your favorite.

You know my brother
? I asked him.

I know all of them. Especially Killian.
He laughed again.
Didn’t they tell you we’re friends? Jeeze, you look just like them
.

I scramble to my feet and out of Lopez’s way. But instead of nailing him with a kick or a strike of my own, I back away like I’m fleeing for my life.

You like toys don’t you?

I have plenty of toys to play with.

Aw. Don’t hurt my feelings, little dude.

Come on, just come in for a little while . . .

The door slamming shut and locking behind me made me jump. I knew I was in trouble, just like I am now.

Lopez catches me with a kick that sends the air shooting through my lungs in a pained rush. More blows, more kicks, pain pouring out of me, just like it did that day.

Lopez is on me again. He’s not letting go.

And neither did Norman.

Something in me snaps. It’s not rage. It’s not misery. It’s not fear. It’s vengeance.

And I take it all out on Lopez.

CHAPTER 29

Sol

I hurry into my dark house, flicking on the light in the hall, my hands shaking with nervousness. Tonight is Finn’s fight. And, against my better judgment, I’m going to watch. I’m only hoping that the late hour doesn’t mean I already missed it.

The keys make a little clinking sound as I drop them on the tiny end table. I’m glad my father is at work. If he was here, the match would be that much harder to watch.

It’s not that Papi hates Finn, actually that couldn’t be further from the truth. It’s more like I’d be proving to him how much I miss Finn.

Papi . . . he’s been asking a lot about Finn lately. But it’s what he told me yesterday morning that really touched my heart. “You lost your smile when you lost that boy,” he said.

I can’t deny that’s true. That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t keep my distance. God, I’m so messed up. In accepting that my mother will never recover, I tore open wounds bred from guilt, sadness, and everything I managed to suppress all those years I lived in denial.

“You’re mourning the loss of your mother,” Mason explained to me during this afternoon’s therapy session (after I admitted there are days I can’t seem to stop crying). “You know she’s gone, and that she’s not coming back . . .”

No, she’s not.

I shrug out of my coat and hang it in our tiny closet, trying not to think about the tears that hard truth brought, or how difficult it was to function in the hours that followed. Acceptance is supposed to be a path toward healing, but that’s not where it feels I’m headed. Everything hurts so much more: my mother’s rapid decline, watching my father say goodbye to the woman he loves, and every ounce of pain I’ve felt being without Finn.

The epiphany Mason helped me realize triggered so much more than just my mother’s loss. It triggered the sense of loss I felt when I walked away from Finn, the man I’m still crazy in love with. 

I find the remote beside an old photo of my mother, set to the right of our T.V.. I slump onto our old couch and flick on the tiny flat screen, trying to find Fox Sports One, and not focus too much on the picture of my mother. This is Finn’s moment, so for the time being, I want to keep my mind on him.

I’m sure I’m being masochistic, but I can’t
not
watch tonight. This match will determine who’ll meet the reigning Lightweight champion and Finn has worked so hard to get here. I know what this can mean for him. Watching is my small way of sharing this moment with him.

My body gives a little bounce when I find the right channel. I don’t see much, just an overhead shot of the octagon before the program cuts to commercial break. My heart sinks a little. I didn’t even get a small glance at Finn. It’s pathetic, I know, but I miss his face.

My phone beeps in my purse, announcing that I have a text. I rummage through it, hoping Finn is performing well. I know he’s not attending counseling, even though Sofia told me his family has urged him to return. That doesn’t stop me from hoping he’ll change his mind, especially now that I’m interning at the center again.

Based on my past work performance, Mason convinced his partners to make it a paid internship. That was generous, especially since it’s the only way I’m making money. Come fall, I’ll need every dollar I can spare to pay for the costs of grad school not covered by my grants and scholarship. Mason, being the awesome boss he is, sweetened the opportunity by providing me with pro bono therapy sessions once a week.

I can’t say these sessions are easy. But I also can’t deny I need them.

I scroll through my messages. One is from Tía, telling me she made
tamales
and that they’re in the fridge. Three are from my girlfriends, begging me to go out with them tomorrow night, and a few are from Sofia.

It’s the ones from Sofia that hold me in place.

If you’re there please call me.

Are you there? Are you watching?

Call me. Please call me now.

My throat goes strangely dry. I don’t know what’s happened. I only know it’s happened to Finn. I tap the screen to call Sofia when the television cuts back to the fight and I catch my first look at him.

Every inch of his face is swollen and blood is pouring from a gash above his eye. But it’s his stare that makes him unrecognizable. There’s no familiar intensity, no warmth I’ve known so well. He’s angry. Yet there’s something there that goes beyond rage, and Jesus Christ in heaven, the fear it stirs threatens to stop my heart.