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

But once more, it’s all I feel.

CHAPTER 2

Sol

“How did you do this weekend?” I ask.

Loretta nods her head, like I’m still talking, but I know she’s thinking through how best to answer. “Not great.”

I adjust my position on the couch we’re sitting on, trying to give the very false impression that I’m cool, confident, and refined, even though I’m anything but.

On paper, my achievements appear impressive. Come May, I’ll have my master’s degree in psychology. And once this internship finishes, I’ll have the clinical hours I need to continue working toward my doctorate. But I’ve learned quickly that the transition from the classroom to the counseling arena is hard!

I thought for sure I’d say all the right things, turn my clients around, and make everyone I encountered see the light. So far I haven’t. Not even a little bit. What I’ve learned in the lecture halls sounded great in theory. Yet I can’t be sure I’m applying those theories correctly. Who am I kidding? I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I’m just praying no one dies on my watch because of something I say or do―or worst,
don't
say or
don’t
do.

I’m at a loss around Loretta. She’s beautiful . . . as in otherworldly beautiful. Seriously, if she suddenly sprouted wings and pelted me with pixie dust, it wouldn’t shock me. The problem is, she doesn’t see it, and that makes me sad.

Loretta is sweet, and a genuinely good person. She has great things going for her, yet I don’t envy her life and fear for her future.

For years she’s been battling bulimia. She hates her appearance and doesn’t think she’s smart. She doesn’t believe there’s anything worthwhile about her. When she looks in the mirror, she doesn’t see the stunning girl I do, the one who has me brushing my hair and checking to make sure I don’t have food stuck in my teeth before we meet.

On my best day, I couldn’t match her on her worst. But despite my many imperfections, I like me. I only wish I could get her to like her.

Since I’m in Dr. Mason Shavis’s office, my direct supervisor during my internship, I tap into his inner awesomeness and feign that relaxed demeanor he always seems to have. “What wasn’t so great about it?” I ask.

“I came in second runner up in my pageant,” she admits.

“Second runner up for Miss Lehigh Valley? Loretta, that’s amazing!”

She shakes her slowly head, as if it’s the most horrible news in the world, probably because for her, it is. “Not when the judge told me afterward that I would have won had I scored higher in the bathing suit competition. He told me he deducted points based on the pounds he thought I needed to lose.”

“He said that?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“What an asshole,” I say before I can stop myself.

Cool, confident, and refined. Oh, yes. That’s me.

“Sorry,” I offer when her eyes pop out of her head.

“It’s okay,” she says slowly, like she can’t believe that out of all the peer counselors, I’m the one she’s stuck talking to.

Loretta was raised a little differently than me. Hmm. Maybe a lot differently. When she was attending prep school, I was sitting in the principal’s office answering to Sister Marguerite for punching Carolina Gonzales in the nose. In my defense, I was seven, she was ten, and she started it.

Loretta glances down at her hands, shutting down. But I can’t let her. She’s better than this. “You’re awesome,” I tell her.

“Excuse me?”

“You’re awesome,” I repeat. “People are going to say anything and everything to put you down, especially because of the business you’re a part of. You have to decide if you’re going to believe them or believe in yourself.” I lean a little closer when she simply blinks back at me, gathering my courage. “You came in second out of how many other young women, twenty? Take a step back, look at the others you beat, and be proud of it because you are fabulous, and talented, and kind. And because you are, you have to make a choice whether to embrace how well you did to advance further, or allow someone who makes a career of eyeing women and ripping them apart hold you back.”

The corners of her mouth curve into that “almost smile” she only allows herself. “Easier said than done.”

“You’re right,” I agree. “So what do you think we can do to get you to start believing it?”

What I say to Loretta isn’t textbook counseling. But maybe Loretta needs more than the theories I’ve been taught. Like me, she’s only twenty-four. And when you’re twenty-four, you’re at that weird stage in your life where you’ve taken a giant leap into adulthood, but are still hanging tight to all the craziness and insecurities of your youth. You don’t need a bunch of facts spewed verbatim. You want to feel like someone is listening, believe that you still matter, and that the great things in life have only just begun. I believe it, mostly because with everything going on in my life, I have to.

When I walk Loretta out about thirty min
utes later, she’s holding her head a little higher. It’s not a lot. But it’s a start, making me think there’s hope, for both of us.

“Has Miss Hemsworth yelled at you today?” she whispers when we’re almost to the lobby.

“No,” I say, laughing. “But the day is still young.”

Miss Hemsworth is our lovely receptionist. When I say lovely, I actually mean evil. The woman has hated me since the first time we met.

The heavy door to the lobby opens with a loud smack, drawing attention to those waiting to be seen. The counseling center is private and held in high regard. The majority of our clients come from money, but a few of our therapists work pro bono, counseling those from working class backgrounds similar to mine. Some are like Loretta, suffering from eating disorders and mild anxiety issues. But the majority are severely damaged individuals with suicidal tendencies. I catch sight of one of our more heartbreaking cases sitting in the corner beside his father. Poor kid, he can’t be more than fifteen. And there he waits with his wrists bandaged down to his elbows.

I want to walk over and give him and his dad a hug. Both look like they could use one. Those people on the street who offer free hugs to strangers? I’m one of them. I always have been.

Today though, I refrain, staying focused on Loretta. “Good job,” I tell her, knowing how hard she’s trying. “I’ll see you next week.”

“Sol?”

I turn my head. I know that voice. Loretta doesn’t bother with a goodbye, leaving me instead with a “Mm, yummy” when she sees who called to me.

“Yummy”. Yes, that about sums up Finn.

Finn O’Brien,
damn
. You know those cute guys . . . those really hot kind of cute guys? Finn blows them away. I’m not typically attracted to redheads, but I make the exception for Finn. Oh, and Jamie from
Outlander
.

Finn has the whole bad boy thing going on, tats crawling along his muscular arms, hair buzzed on the sides and short on top. A modern Mohawk, it think that’s what it’s called. Oh, and don’t get me started on that dimple on his right cheek that appears when he grins, just like he’s doing now.

“Hi, Finn,” I say. His brother is with him, the one that looks the most like him. He’s older by a few years, handsome, polished and perfect. Well, if you like that sort of thing. Me? Did I mention how sexy Finn is?

His light blue eyes sparkle as I pass Zorina, the poor girl trapped in her own world following a brutal assault on the train. She pretends to play instruments that aren’t there, reality slipping so far from her grasp, it’s almost out of her reach.

I tilt my head in the direction of Finn’s brother because by now it’s obvious I’m gawking at Finn. “You’re Seamus, right?” I ask.

“No, I’m Declan,” he answers in a deep voice.

Oh, right. The district attorney. “Sorry. I know that Finn has a few brothers,” I offer. I should be impressed seeing how Declan has made quite a name for himself in the political arena, and I am. But Finn is who lures my attention and keeps it, despite my best efforts to appear more relaxed. “What are you doing here?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Waiting for you.”

Declan sighs, moving away from us and reaching for his phone. I grin even though I’m sure Finn is feeding me a line. The last time I saw him was at my Cousin Sofia’s wedding. I’d brought my friend Alex as my date and Finn, well, he showed up with some girl with big breasts and very little clothes. And funny enough, I still had a hard time keeping my eyes off him.

“Really?” I ask.

“Yeah. Really,” he answers, leaning back on his heels and making a show of checking me out. “Don’t forget, you still owe me a kiss.”

I avert my gaze because he’s right. I do. But I’ll admit I’m surprised he remembers. After all, I’m not the only woman who’s ever noticed him. In fact, ever since his career in MMA took off
every
woman I know has noticed Finn. “Is that so?”

“Been waiting on it for the last few years.”

I adjust the folder I’m holding against my chest as I give his words some thought. “Hmmm,” I muse. “The way I hear it, you’ve had plenty of company to occupy your time.” I’m not making this up. He gets around.

“So is that a ‘no’?” Finn asks, keeping his smile and that dimple firmly in place.

My smile dwindles. If we were anywhere else: a coffee shop, a bookstore, even
church
, I’d talk to him a little longer. But we’re here: A place where those who hurt seek help, and those who hurt for others like me, try to make things better. 

“It’s a bad time for me, Finn,” I confess, but I don’t tell him why. “And if you’re here, it’s probably a bad time for you, too.”

“But maybe we can make it a good time for both of us,” he says, losing his smile in a way that breaks my heart.

I glance down. “I wish it was true.”

“Miss
Marieles
!” the lovely Miss Hemsworth yells at me from behind her desk.

Okay. Here we go.

“This is your internship, not a social hour,” she squawks.

“One moment please, Miss Hemsworth,” I sing.

“Internship?” Finn asks me.

I don’t mean to blush, but the fact that Finn sounds impressed has me doing just that. “I’m graduating with my master’s degree in May. I’m interning here as part of my final requirements―”

“Miss
Marieles
!” Miss Hemsworth snaps yet again.

I glance over my shoulder and smile. “I’m coming, Miss Hemsworth. Sorry,” I whisper, leaning in close. “She hasn’t been the same since the last of her flying monkeys flew out of her ass.”

I turn as Finn busts out laughing. I want to wish him well and tell him that I hope he’s okay. But I don’t want to upset or embarrass him. He’s probably already going through enough.

My charting awaits, and I don’t have much time before I meet with my next client. But as I make my way back to the office, I pause beside Zorina, the little musician lost in her own world. Her elbows are up and out as she plays her make-believe cello.

I place my hand carefully against her shoulder, hoping to reach her if only for a moment. “Hey, sweetie. I know you love your pretty music, but we’re here in the office now. Can we talk about what you’re hearing inside?”

She slowly lowers her hands and nods. I’m not sure if it’s my voice that brings her back to reality, or my touch. I’m just glad she hears me and that she’s still with us to some extent. Her mother glances at me, offering me a sweet smile. “Thanks, Sol,” she says.

“You’re welcome,” I answer. Although I sat in on her daughter’s initial assessment, I’m surprised and maybe a little honored that she remembered my name.

I hurry back to the door leading to the rear offices, hoping Miss Hemsworth doesn’t give me a hard time and lets me in. Thankfully, she does, despite the scowl that warns me she’d like nothing more than for God to strike me dead.

As I reach for the door, I steal a glance Finn’s way. As easily as that he catches my stare and holds me in place. He looks . . . amazing, like always. I want to stay longer, but I meant what I said, neither of us are in a good place.

If I have any doubt, they’re quickly squashed by the text I receive on my way back to Mason’s office.

You need to come home. Your mother isn’t well.

CHAPTER 3

Sol

Your mother isn’t well
. That’s a hell of an understatement.

My mother wasn’t “well” when I was a child, became “sick” when I was a teen, and now . . . I’m not sure how she is. I only know I have to make her better. Somehow, I
have
to.

Mason, being the awesome supervisor that he is allows me to leave, assuring me that I can make up my hours later this week.

I promised to return this evening, but as I pull into my little neighborhood and focus onto our street, I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep my promise. Not with how all the elderly neighbors are standing around, gossiping about what “poor Flor” did now, and how “poor Flor” is holding up.

She’s not holding up. That’s the issue. But as much as they seem to fuss when my mother has an episode, I’m starting to think they’re actually entertained by her erratic actions.

I live on a cross street in Philly’s Fishtown district in a neighborhood packed with well-kept row houses that were erected in the 1960s, long before I was born. My street isn’t fabulous, and it’s not in the “nice” part of town. No lawyers or doctors reside anywhere close to here, and their children would never be allowed to visit. But to me it’s always been home.

Those so-called higher ups of society don’t see past the cracked sidewalks that line the street to the well-swept concrete steps. They skim over the metal railings coated with years of paint and only see the tiny porches. They don’t hear the conversations that take place around those little stoops: those that involve the Phil’s, the Eagles, and the best way to fry an
empanada
, nor do they see the happy faces of the neighborhood kids when they play stickball in the street. They don’t recognize the sense of family and community where residents distinguish their dwellings by painting their doors in alternating shades of black, red, and even green.