Page 40 of Forget About Me

“I think it’ll be simpler if you work it out with her directly.”

I give Bianca Lucy’s number, and we go over possible times and dates. She thanks me so many times and so effusively that it gets awkward. Celebrity is so weird. Any other actor in the show would probably love to have their picture splashed across the local paper. For me, it just creates problems.

When I hang up, Puck jumps off the couch with a yip and runs to the door. I follow, grabbing his leash. If dealing with PR helps Lucy and dogs like mine, it’s all worth it.

I scratch under his chin before heading outside for a walk. “That’s right. You’re my dog.”

LUCY

After I set the phone in the cradle on the kitchen wall, I just stand there staring at it, the conversation with Bianca Torres playing over in my mind. The theater company wants me to do an interview with theBoston Globe—theBoston Globe!—about training Puck.

She said I can also talk about animal rescue and training and how the two intersect. People give up animals all the time because of fixable problems—like that woman who came into the hospital today. Her cocker spaniel was having accidents all over the house whenever he was left alone, and her husband wanted to get rid of the dog. I gave the woman a list of strategies culled from journal articles I’ve read and other owners’ experiences—like crate training and walking the dog regularly—and some practices designed to desensitize him to her departures.

Ideas flip through my mind. I should figure out which rescue program could benefit most from the fundraiser the marketing person wants to use the interview to announce. I need to find statistics on the number of unadoptable pets that are put to sleep in Boston every year as well as what made those pets unadoptable and which of those behaviors could be managed with training.

I need to get these down before I forget them, so I hop up to scrabble through the junk drawer. I swear I saw a little notebook in there. Hopefully, there’s a pen that works too.

“What are you looking for, sweetie?” my dad asks from the kitchen doorway, his suitcoat over his arm, his tie already loosened. Home from another long day of selling restaurant supplies.

“Oh, just a notebook.” A spiral at the back of the drawer catches my eye. “Found one!”

I plop down at the kitchen table, find a blank page and start to write. The interview’s happening in just a day or two because they have a last-minute opening, so I have to get this research done yesterday. I’ll make a few calls after dinner to people who run rescue groups in town. I can contact the city shelter on a break tomorrow. Dr. Morrissey’ll probably have ideas too.

The chair next to me scrapes and my dad sits down.

I look up. “Don’t worry, dinner’s in the oven.”

He just smiles at me.

“What?” I rub my nose. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No.” He pats my arm. “It’s just good to see you happy. That’s all.”

Stupidly, this has me blinking away tears. I swallow them down. “I love you, Papa.”

“I love you too, sweetheart. And I’m grateful for you. Every day.” With a nod, he stands, squeezes my shoulder, and walks out the door. Moments later, the television clicks on and the sounds of the nightly news drift down the hall.

The kitchen timer dings. I hop up to check the pasta fagioli. It isn’t quite bubbly enough, so I set the timer for ten more minutes and get back to spilling my ideas onto the page.

BEN

Saturday morning, Lucy, Puck and I meet Marcia Landon at theGlobe’soffices. After a quick round of introductions, the reporter launches into her questions.

“I’d like to just address the elephant in the room. Readers—at least the readers in my section—want gossipy tidbits from your time in LA, Ben. Dirt on actresses you spent time with, inside intel on the CK Empire, that sort of thing. Why shouldn’t I do my job and try to squeeze you dry?”

My mouth drops open, and I just gape at the sweet, grandmotherly-looking woman sitting across from me. Before I can snap,Because I’m not interested in talking about that crap and it’s not what I agreed to, Lucy leans in.

“Marcia, anybody can get that kind of gossip. Or make it up. Don’t you think a more nuanced portrait would be more provocative? I mean, theGlobe’snot a tabloid.” She shoves me on the shoulder. “This guy? He’s not just a pretty face. If you saw him play Romeo, you know he’s the real deal. He’s an actor who can bring hundreds of people to tears. But what nobody knows—yet—is what a goofball he is.”

She sits back and snaps her fingers. Puck sits up and rests his chin on her knee. “And the world might never have known if not forthislittle guy.”

The reporter leans in, entranced, as Lucy weaves the tale of Puck showing up at my house and how because I didn’t just drop him at a shelter for someone else to deal with, I not only ended up with a new best friend, I got the idea to audition for a role that will reveal a whole different side of me.

I finally find my voice. “I can’t play the young lover forever.”

Marcia gives me the once over. “I don’t think you should be retiring that chest next week, young man.”

I cough out a laugh. “Well, I’m not. I still have a contract to fulfill.”

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