Page 1 of Forget About Me

CHAPTER ONE

“You May Be Right” - Billy Joel

Lucy’s Keep on Truckin’ Mixtape, Song #3

BEN

Falling in love, killing a guy by accident and mortally wounding myself when it appears that my bride has taken her life is a lot. Doing it six times in four days is just too much. The addition of two weekend matinees to Shakespeare Boston’sRomeo and Julietschedule must be taking its toll. Still, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. This year—just like the past seven—began in Los Angeles, where modeling work has dominated my life, keeping me far from home and too busy to do theater. Six months into 1988, due to circumstances I never expected to face, I’m back in Boston performing for a live audience. It feeds my soul, so I don’t care if I’m exhausted.

I’m tired at the end of every weekend, but on this particular late-August Monday morning, I might be hallucinating. Adrenaline spiking, heart in my throat, it takes a few beats for me to figure out what just happened. My hands grip the railing that kept me from falling off my second-floor porch as I take in the lump I just tripped over on my way out the door.

It’s a mottled gray color, and I think that’s fur. Not moving, though. Wondering if it’s alive, I step closer. It makes a snuffling noise, unfolding itself, and I release the breath I’ve been holding. It’s not some weird package from a mega-fan; it’s a dog. With tufted brows and a whiskery muzzle, he looks like the dog in that movie when we were kids—Benji.

“Where the heck did you come from, little guy?”

Wheredidhe come from?

My heart takes off again, and I scan the backyard. Thankfully, no rabid fans or paparazzi seem to be lurking in the shadows. I’ve worked hard to keep this address a secret. I don’t want my dad or his neighbors to have to deal with that level of crazy. Habitually, I check one particular neighbor’s back yard, but as usual, it’s empty. No one at that house is a fan of mine, that’s for sure.

Eyes back on my visitor, I squat and hold out the back of my hand, just like Lucy taught me to do back when we were kids. He sniffs it, gives it a polite lick, then holds up his paw like he wants to shake hands. When I reach for it, though, he whimpers.

“It’s okay, buddy,” I say soothingly, but it actually looks like he's not okay. The paw is bleeding.

“Sorry, dude. I guess we should do something about that.” Looks like my run isn’t happening this morning. Maintaining a contractually mandated body- fat ratio and weight and muscle definition was way easier out in Los Angeles, where I had access to Callum Keen Enterprise’s in-house chefs and gym along with a daily routine full of go-sees, meetings and shoots. I could skip today’s workout, but that’s a slippery slope. Next thing you know, I’ll be eating steak and pasta.

Ah, pasta. I miss you so. Not as much as a certain former neighbor, but at least there’s a chance I’ll haveyouagain.

An image of a steaming plate of spaghetti and meatballs presented to me with the most beautiful smile I’ve ever known hovers in my mind for a few precious moments. A guy can dream. But right now, this guy needs to take care of a mutt.

“Come on in, buddy.”

The dog looks at me before limping over the threshold. I have a few first aid supplies, but I have no idea how to take care of a wound on an animal.

Three wasted Band-Aids later, I give up. “I think you need a vet.”

Seven summers ago, the love of my life worked at an animal hospital over in Somerville, Massachusetts—one of the many satellite towns surrounding Boston—and just a couple miles from my dad’s house here in Arlington. I gave her a ride to work most mornings. Spending that time together led to a whole series of incidents. Some are the sweetest memories I have.

Some still give me nightmares.

The dog lies down with a harrumph.

“I don’t even have anything to feed you. Unless you like brown rice?”

He rolls over on his side, his tail thump lacking enthusiasm.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.”

That vet’s office is the only one I know of. Lucy probably doesn’t work there anymore. I have no idea what she’s doing now.

I’d likely know everything about her—heck, I’d probably be married to her—if I wasn’t responsible for her brother’s death.

Half an hour later, I’m in an antiseptic waiting room, filling out forms on a clipboard. The dog is on the chair next to me. I’m not sure if that’s allowed, but nobody has told him to move. I’ve never actually been inside a vet’s office. I always just dropped Lucy off out front, and my dad and I never had a pet growing up. I would’ve loved a dog, but my dad always seemed to have enough on his plate with running a business and taking care of me.

It feels pretty much like being at a regular doctor’s office. The floor is linoleum instead of industrial carpet and the posters and artwork on the walls are of dogs and cats instead of humans, but the feel of nervous anticipation is pretty much the same.

I give up on the forms and go back to the middle-aged receptionist with the heavy Boston accent. “Since I just found him this morning, I don’t know the answer to any of these questions.”

She gives me a look like she doesn’t quite believe me and makes some sort of notation before sliding the papers into a folder. “Have a seat.”

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