Page 88 of Forget About Me

“I’m sorry,” my client says through gritted teeth. “I’m just so angry.”

I blow out a breath. This training session has been a challenge on so many fronts. “Let’s sit down for a minute.” I ease the leash from her shaking hand and guide her toward a park bench.

Once the puppy is settled at my side, I turn to face her. “How about we go over all your options here?”

She sits back and shakes her head slowly. “I just don’t know what they were thinking.”

I’m sure her children thought that giving their mom a puppy six months after their father died was a good idea, that she could use the companionship. But that’s not how it’s working out.

The six-month-old yellow lab whines and starts to get up. “Bear, shht.” I give him a sharp tug and release of the choke chain, and he eases back down to the ground with a grunt.

“You make it look so easy. But I just get frustrated with him so quickly, and he’s getting so big. If you hadn’t been here when he lunged at that other dog, I would’ve fallen! At my age, that can have serious consequences.” She looks up at the cloudy sky. “I’ve never had a dog. Why would they think I want one now?”

I’m not sure I have a solution for her other than to give the dog away, even though that feels like giving up. “You said they were worried about you being lonely?”

Her hand flies up as she shuts these ideas down. “He’s made things worse on that front! I’ve got neighbors complaining about the barking, and I’m trapped by this puppy’s schedule so I can’t even do things with my friends.” She turns to me. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t take this out on you.”

I shake my head. “It’s fine.” I look down at the dog, vibrating with the desire to move. “Look. He’s smart and trainable, but labs tend to stay very high energy for at least the first two years. Sometimes longer.”

The dismay on her face makes it easier to say the rest. “You two may be a bad match. Or you and any dog may be a bad match. The good news is he’ll be perfect for someone and he’s young enough that it’ll probably be easy to find another home for him.” I hesitate, hoping I’m not pushing her to do something she’ll later regret. “If that’s what you want.”

She slumps back into the bench, her relief palpable. “That is definitely what I want.”

We head to her Back Bay apartment—no backyard, a tough situation for such a high-energy dog—and I help her make plans. By the time I’ve said goodbye to them, I’m wrung out. Ever since the meeting with Dr. Morrissey and then finding out about the money, I’ve been on a rollercoaster of emotion. Thank goodness Mrs. Wiseman’s my last appointment of the day. I just need to get across town so I can crawl into bed.

This widow’s anger is completely understandable. Her kids saddled her with a huge responsibility she didn’t ask for.

What about my anger? The anger I’ve been lugging around since Tony died? The new brand of anger I’ve kept simmering on a back burner since I decided Ben didn’t “trust me”?

That shit I brought on myself.

Maybe the problem isn’t the anger itself—I had reason to be hurt and angry at Ben for leaving without telling me after Tony died. The problem is the way I held onto it, burying it while I played the role of a “good girl.”

And now? Being angry at him for sharing private things with other people, for not trusting me, that’s somewhat justified. But it doesn’t have to burn the whole relationship down.

The light turns green, and not a second later, the car behind me lays on the horn. I give the guy the finger in the rearview and shout, “Learn some patience, asshole!” Which feels good. Really fucking good. As does yelling “Fucking asshole” as loud as I can for good measure. Maybe this what cleansing anger is, because I’m suddenly hopeful.

Twenty minutes later, my car parks itself in front of Ben’s house. Full of all the feelings and too impatient to wait until I have my life in order, I trot up the stairs to his apartment and knock on the door to tell him that I love him and we’ll figure it out together.

No bark from Puck.

The van’s in the driveway, as is Mr. Porter’s sedan. The kitchen light in the house is on. Maybe they’re having dinner?

So what if I interrupt? This is important.

Moments after I knock on the back door, Mr. Porter peers through the curtains and then opens the door. “Lucy, this is a nice surprise. How are you?”

“I’m good. How are you?”

“Good, good.” He nods.

“Is Ben here?”

His brow crinkles. “He left for California a week ago. You’re… not in touch with him?”

“Oh my gosh. Wow, I didn’t realize…” Has it been that long since we had that fight? “I knew he had to go back, but I guess I??—?”

“Do you want to come in? I was about to have some coffee and kugel. Vera Rosen made it. Oh, and before I forget, she asked me to spread the word. She’s looking for a tenant for her upstairs apartment, so if you know a nice young woman who might be interested, please let her know.”

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