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.
“I think she might,” he says, hope continuing to find its way into his gravely tenor voice. Except he wouldn’t be my father without saying what he says next. “Too bad you’re with that boy. Otherwise we could find out tonight.”
I try not to laugh, but I can’t help it. Papi knows Finn’s name. His remarks about “that boy” and his threats to hide “that boy’s body” aside, I think he likes Finn. Does he like how practically inseparable we’ve become, or how I’m staying at his place almost every night? Oh, hell no. He’s a Latino father who owns six machetes. But despite his traditional beliefs, he wants me happy. And he knows Finn makes me happy.
“Give Mami a kiss for me, and tell her I love her,” I whisper.
“I will. Be safe, mija,” he says.
I disconnect, but I’ll admit, I practically jump away from the cinderblock wall when the roar of the crowd belts down the hall as if in collective pain. I push open the door to Finn’s private changing area and rush back in. “What happened? I ask.
All of Finn’s brothers, and his sister, are gathered around the giant flat-screen fixed to the wall. Except for Killian and Seamus who are helping Finn warm up.
Finn is so focused on staying loose and hitting his targets, he doesn’t answer. But as his family pulls away from the screen, he doesn’t have to.
There is Conan McDavis, former heavyweight champ, now unconscious individual face-planted on the octagon’s floor. Sofia is the first to look away, crossing her arms as her stare bounces to Finn. “He’s not getting up,” she says quietly.
“He will,” Kill says, his voice tight. He’s not looking toward the T.V., and neither is Finn, but they know what happened. The commentators are losing their minds, screaming over the amped up and hollering crowd.
“Holy God,” Wren says. Gorgeous looks aside, she’s had her share of street fights and has witnessed more MMA matches than I have. But the way she’s staring at the screen, it’s like she’s never seen so much blood.
Like Killian says, Conan the heavy weight fighter who likely just fought his last professional fight does get up . . . albeit wobbly and walking into the fence rather than going around it. The ringside medics rush to him, hurrying to pat down what remains of his face.
Curran touches my arm, drawing my attention. As a cop, I know he’s seen his share of pummeled up bodies, and dealt with people freaking out. . . pretty similar to what I’m close to doing. I didn’t even notice him come to my side, just like I didn’t notice my mouth dangling to the floor until I force it closed.
“You all right?” he murmurs, leaning back and crossing his arms over his super-sized chest.
“Fine,” I say, or rather squeak. I glance over my shoulder at Finn, who’s bouncing around, swinging, elbowing, spinning into his back kicks, like nothing happened. Like that poor sap didn’t just suffer major head trauma and is likely screwed up for life.
Curran drags a hand through his buzzed blond hair. “You sure?” he asks. “You don’t look too good.”
“I’m a little hungry,” I answer, lying through my teeth, wondering how the hell I’m going to get through this match.
Wren fumbles through her purse and pulls out a candy bar. “Here, have some sugar,” she says.
“Thank you,” I tell her, not bothering to argue. I rip into that candy bar like a woman possessed―scratch that―like a cavewoman possessed on an island where her caveman lover is about to be eaten by a dinosaur.